making the pasta by hand too, a reluctant concession to the fact that she didn’t own a pasta machine. Eyeing the box of ready-made bolognese in the fridge, she resolutely approached the butcher’s counter to buy minced beef and pancetta.
Just heading for that counter at all was a bit of a first; meat generally came pre-packed into Honey’s shopping basket, most often already prepared or cooked. And carrots? Who put carrots into bolognese? Not the man from Dolmio, surely. She’d never spotted carrots in her bolognese, but then she’d never eaten bolognese that wasn’t produced in a mass-market kitchen by people in white hairnets. Throwing carrots into her basket, she added celery and bay leaves, smiling benignly at another woman as if this was just her regular weekend shop.
Wine was next on the list. Thank God, something she understood. Hal had insisted she was to buy something decent, which frankly seemed a waste on cooking, but all the same she added a mid-price rioja, and after a moment’s hesitation she went back and added a second bottle. If she didn’t drink it beforehand, she’d need more wine to recreate the bolognese for Robin on Friday anyway, so it wasn’t an extravagance.
Queuing at the checkout, Honey basked in a small glow of pride as she eyed her items. A wedge of parmesan, a bunch of bay leaves, fresh pasta. She felt practically cosmopolitan, which made a refreshing change from the mild embarrassment she experienced with her usual ruck of ready meals and tins. Maybe she should do this cooking lark more often. She dismissed the thought as fleetingly as it had surfaced; baby steps. She needed to make this bolognese first without burning the house down or being killed by her irritable neighbour if she failed to follow instructions.
‘Do you have an apron you can wear?’ Hal perched on a stool at her breakfast bar.
‘I don’t need an apron to warm soup up,’ Honey said. ‘But I’ve washed my hands, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Is your hair tied back?’
‘What is this, a military operation?’ she huffed. ‘Yes. It’s in two plaits.’
Hal raised one eyebrow over the top of his sunnies. ‘Like a milk maid?’
The off-hand, suggestive tone of his throwaway comment warmed her cheeks.
He’d been in her flat for a few minutes, and he was turning over the ingredients she’d bought in his hands. He brought the garlic close to his face and inhaled deeply.
‘Will it do?’ she asked, made nervous by his overwhelming presence in her small sanctuary. He looked like an exotic bird who’d landed in a common-or-garden budgie’s cage, out of place and temporary.
He nodded curtly. ‘Frying pan. Olive oil. Chop the onions.’
She bit her lip and grabbed the frying pan out from the drawer beneath the oven.
‘I’m no good at chopping things,’ she murmured, halving the onion and hacking it with inexperienced fingers into thick slices. Hal reached across and felt her handiwork then shook his head and scowled.
‘I said chop them, Honeysuckle. These are the size of fucking house bricks. Smaller.’
‘Have you been taking lessons from Gordon Ramsay?’
He didn’t laugh. ‘Smaller.’ He listened to her efforts for a few seconds. ‘Relax with the knife. Find your rhythm, and keep your fingers behind the blade and out of the way.’
Honey breathed out with relief when he accepted her second attempt with a curled lip, and reached for the garlic when instructed.
‘Break off three cloves and smash them with the blade of a knife,’ Hal said, and Honey turned the bulb over in her hands and stared at it. ‘How do I get to the cloves? It’s sealed up.’
Hal’s mouth opened and then closed, and he rubbed the palms of his hands slowly on his jeans. ‘You’re kidding, right? You just …’ he said, and then shook his head. ‘Give it to me.’
Honey handed him the bulb of garlic and watched as he turned it in his fingers then broke it open easily, feeling the cloves and snapping
Just heading for that counter at all was a bit of a first; meat generally came pre-packed into Honey’s shopping basket, most often already prepared or cooked. And carrots? Who put carrots into bolognese? Not the man from Dolmio, surely. She’d never spotted carrots in her bolognese, but then she’d never eaten bolognese that wasn’t produced in a mass-market kitchen by people in white hairnets. Throwing carrots into her basket, she added celery and bay leaves, smiling benignly at another woman as if this was just her regular weekend shop.
Wine was next on the list. Thank God, something she understood. Hal had insisted she was to buy something decent, which frankly seemed a waste on cooking, but all the same she added a mid-price rioja, and after a moment’s hesitation she went back and added a second bottle. If she didn’t drink it beforehand, she’d need more wine to recreate the bolognese for Robin on Friday anyway, so it wasn’t an extravagance.
Queuing at the checkout, Honey basked in a small glow of pride as she eyed her items. A wedge of parmesan, a bunch of bay leaves, fresh pasta. She felt practically cosmopolitan, which made a refreshing change from the mild embarrassment she experienced with her usual ruck of ready meals and tins. Maybe she should do this cooking lark more often. She dismissed the thought as fleetingly as it had surfaced; baby steps. She needed to make this bolognese first without burning the house down or being killed by her irritable neighbour if she failed to follow instructions.
‘Do you have an apron you can wear?’ Hal perched on a stool at her breakfast bar.
‘I don’t need an apron to warm soup up,’ Honey said. ‘But I’ve washed my hands, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Is your hair tied back?’
‘What is this, a military operation?’ she huffed. ‘Yes. It’s in two plaits.’
Hal raised one eyebrow over the top of his sunnies. ‘Like a milk maid?’
The off-hand, suggestive tone of his throwaway comment warmed her cheeks.
He’d been in her flat for a few minutes, and he was turning over the ingredients she’d bought in his hands. He brought the garlic close to his face and inhaled deeply.
‘Will it do?’ she asked, made nervous by his overwhelming presence in her small sanctuary. He looked like an exotic bird who’d landed in a common-or-garden budgie’s cage, out of place and temporary.
He nodded curtly. ‘Frying pan. Olive oil. Chop the onions.’
She bit her lip and grabbed the frying pan out from the drawer beneath the oven.
‘I’m no good at chopping things,’ she murmured, halving the onion and hacking it with inexperienced fingers into thick slices. Hal reached across and felt her handiwork then shook his head and scowled.
‘I said chop them, Honeysuckle. These are the size of fucking house bricks. Smaller.’
‘Have you been taking lessons from Gordon Ramsay?’
He didn’t laugh. ‘Smaller.’ He listened to her efforts for a few seconds. ‘Relax with the knife. Find your rhythm, and keep your fingers behind the blade and out of the way.’
Honey breathed out with relief when he accepted her second attempt with a curled lip, and reached for the garlic when instructed.
‘Break off three cloves and smash them with the blade of a knife,’ Hal said, and Honey turned the bulb over in her hands and stared at it. ‘How do I get to the cloves? It’s sealed up.’
Hal’s mouth opened and then closed, and he rubbed the palms of his hands slowly on his jeans. ‘You’re kidding, right? You just …’ he said, and then shook his head. ‘Give it to me.’
Honey handed him the bulb of garlic and watched as he turned it in his fingers then broke it open easily, feeling the cloves and snapping
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