#fff362

***

“Have some more broccoli, John,” my mother urges him.

He swallows thickly and looks at the almost grey bits of broccoli he is offered. I decide to rescue my poor boyfriend.

“I will have some,” I say, grip the porcelain bowl with the atrocities, and feign loosening my grip. With a spectacular crack, the bowl hits the tiled floor, spreading the disgusting vegetables far and wide, while the bowl only gets slightly chapped.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” 

“Apologies,” I mutter and sweep up the gooey mass with some thick kitchen roll.

I catch John’s eye when I seat myself again, and I must look away quickly lest I fall into a fit of giggles. He is obviously aware that it was all a ploy to save him and his dignity.

***

“Thank you for that, love,” John whispers when we’re tucked up in bed later.

“I did contemplate to let you suffer through it, but I want you in her good graces. She already adores you for putting up with me, but I have no idea how she will react if she gets wind of your true opinions about her cooking.”

John shudders by the mere thought; Mummy can be quite intimidating.

“I guess this explains your aversion to eat properly,” he muses. “If your childhood was filled with overcooked – “

“It was, John. Only Mycroft and Father’s cunning ways kept me from starving. I didn’t have broccoli for ages until Angelo persuaded me to taste his after I had told him about my abominable experience with it. He was outright scandalised when I told him Mummy boiled them for twenty minutes.”

“It shouldn’t be done like that!”

John laughs when I imitate Angelo’s voice and accent, and he ends up gasping for air when I continue.

“She thinks the vegetables are alive and need to be annihilated?”

“Oh my God,” John wheezes, “he didn’t know how funny that was, did he?”

“Of course not, John. Food is a very serious business for Angelo. I thought you knew that.”

John sobers a bit and clears his voice awkwardly.

“Well, yeah, I do. Remember when I told him how my mum used to make Carbonara?”

It is my time to start laughing.

“Cream, onions, and garlic, John. What was she thinking?”

“Dunno, but I’ve never been more grateful for my mum’s passing than I was then. He was very gracious about it afterwards.”

“Obviously. Family is also extremely important to the Italians. You can dine there for free on your own now, you know. He felt awful when you told him your mother had been dead for more than a decade.”

“And why would I go to Angelo’s without you, my darling? To quote our Italian friend: “It shouldn’t be done!”

“Quite right,” I agree.

***

The next morning, John rises early to beat Mummy to the kitchen. 

“Heaven knows what she is capable of doing to the scrambled eggs, not to mention the bacon,” he whispers when I complain about him leaving the bed - and more importantly me - in favour of cooking.

All that aside, the breakfast is a great success if my mother’s gushing is any indicator.

“How do you manage to get the eggs so fluffy but not runny, dear?”

“It’s fairly easy. You just finish them when they’re still a bit wet. The temperature in the eggs will ensure that the mass keeps cooking for a few more moments after they’re taken out of the pan. And then they’re perfect.”

“I will try to remember that. Or perhaps you can remind me, darling?” Mummy addresses Father, who makes just as perfectly scrambled eggs as John does.

My Father agrees vigorously, but his expression is somewhat sceptical. Mummy’s ability to forget domestic chores in a heartbeat is after all legendary.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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