7 p.m. Just returned from hideous middle-class Singleton guilt experience at supermarket, standing at checkout next to functional adults with children buying beans, fish fingers, alphabetti spaghetti, etc., when had the following in my trolley:
20 heads of garlic
tin of goose fat
bottle of Grand Marnier
8 tuna steaks
36 oranges
4 pints of double cream
4 vanilla beans at ?1.39 each.
Have to start preparations tonight as working tomorrow.
8 p.m. Ugh, do not feel like cooking. Especially dealing with grotesque bag of chicken carcasses: completely disgusting.
10 p.m. Have got chicken carcasses in pan now. Trouble is, Marco says am supposed to tie flavor-enhancing leek and celery together with string but only string have got is blue. Oh well, expect it will be OK.
11 p.m. God, stock took bloody ages to do but worth it as will end up with over 2 gallons, frozen in ice-cube form and only cost ?l.70. Mmm, confit of oranges will be delicious also. Now all have got to do is finely slice thirty-six oranges and grate zest. Shouldn't take too long.
1 a.m. Too tired to stay awake now but stock is supposed to cook for another two hours and oranges need another hour in oven. I know. Will leave the stock on v. low heat overnight, also oranges on lowest oven setting, so will become v. tender in manner of a stew.
8st 11 (nerves eat fat), alcohol units 9 (v. bad indeed), cigarettes 37 (v.v. bad), calories 3479 (and all disgusting).
9:30 a.m. Just opened pan. Hoped-for 2-gallon stock taste-explosion has turned into burnt chicken carcasses coated in jelly. Orange confit looks fantastic, though, just like in picture only darker. Must go to work. Am going to leave by four, then will think of answer to soup crisis.
5 p.m. Oh God. Entire day has turned into nightmare. Richard Finch gave me a real blowing-up at the morning meeting in front of everyone. 'Bridget, put that recipe book away for God's sake. Fireworks Burns Kids. I'm thinking maiming, I'm thinking happy family celebrations turned into nightmares. I'm thinking twenty years from now. What about that kid who had his penis burnt off by firecrackers in his pockets back in the sixties? Where is he now? Bridget, find me the Fireworks Kid with no Penis. Find me the Sixties Guy Fawkes Bobbit.'
Ugh. I was just grumpily making my forty-eighth phone call to find out if there was a burnt-off-penis victims' support group when my phone rang.
'Hello, darling, it's Mummy here.' She sounded unusually high-pitched and hysterical.
'Hi, Mum.'
'Hello, darling, just called to say 'bye before I go, and hope everything goes well.'
'Go? Go where?'
'Oh. Ahahahaha. I told you, Julio and I are popping over to Portugal for a couple of weeks, just to see the family and so on, get a bit of a suntan before Christmas.'
'You didn't tell me.'
'Oh, don't be a silly-willy, darling. Of course I told you. You must learn to listen. Anyway, do take care, won't you?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, darling, just one more thing.'
'What?'
'For some reason I've been so busy I forgot to order my travelers' checks from the bank.'
'Oh, don't worry, you can get them at the airport.'
'But the thing is, darling, I'm just on my way to the airport now, and I've forgotten my banker's card.'
I blinked at the phone.
'Such a nuisance. I was wondering . . . You couldn't possibly lend me some cash? I mean not much, just a couple of hundred quid or something so I can get some travelers' checks.'
The way she said it reminded me of the way winos ask for money for a cup of tea.
'I'm in the middle of work, Mum. Can't Julio lend you some money?'
She went all huffy. 'I can't believe you're being so mean, darling. After all I've done for you. I gave you the gift of life and you can't even loan your mother a few pounds for some travelers' checks.'
'But how am I going to get it to you? I'll have to go out to the cash machine and put it on a motorbike. Then it will be stolen and it'll all be ridiculous. Where are you?'
'Oooh. Well, actually, as luck would have it I'm ever so close, so if you just pop out to the NatWest opposite I'll meet you there in five minutes,' she gabbled. 'Super, darling. Byee!'
'Bridget, where the fuck are you off to?' yelled Richard as I tried to sneak out. 'You found the Banger Bobbit Boy yet?'
'Got a hot tip,' I said, tapping my nose, then made a dash for it. I was waiting for my money to come, freshly baked and piping hot, out of the cash machine, wondering how my mother was going to manage for two weeks in Portugal on two hundred pounds, when I spotted her scurrying towards me, wearing sunglasses, even though it was pissing with rain, and looking shiftily from side to side.
'Oh, there you are, darling. You are sweet. Thank you very much. Must dash, going to miss the plane. Byee!' she said, grabbing the banknotes from my hand.
'What's going on?' I said. 'What are you doing outside here when it's not on your way to the airport? How are you going to manage without your banker's card? Why can't Julio lend you the money? Why? What are you up to? What?'
For a second she looked frightened, as if she was going to cry, then, her eyes fixed on the middle distance, she adopted her wounded Princess Diana look.
'I'll be fine, darling.' She gave her special brave smile. 'Take care,' she said in a faltering voice, hugged me quickly then was off, waving the traffic to a standstill and tripping across the road.
7 p.m. Just got home. Right. Calm, calm. Inner poise. Soup will be absolutely fine. Will simply cook and puree vegetables as instructed and then-to give concentration of flavor-rinse blue jelly off chicken carcases and boil them up with cream in the soup.
8:30 p.m. All going marvelously. Guests are all in living room. Mark Darcy is being v. nice and brought champagne and a box of Belgian chocolates. Have not done main course yet apart from fondant potatoes but sure will be v. quick. Anyway, soup is first.
8:35 p.m. Oh my God. Just took lid off casserole to remove carcasses. Soup is bright blue.
9 p.m. Love the lovely friends. Were more than sporting about the blue soup, Mark Darcy and Tom even making lengthy argument for less color prejudice in the world of food. Why, after all, as Mark said – just because one cannot readily think of a blue vegetable – should one object to blue soup? Fish fingers, after all, are not naturally orange. (Truth is, after all the effort, soup just tasted like big bowl of boiled cream which Vile Richard rather unkindly pointed out. At which point Mark Darcy asked him what he did for a living, which was v. amusing because Vile Richard was sacked last week for fiddling his expenses.) Never mind, anyway. Main course will be v. tasty. Right, will start on veloute of cherry tomatoes.
9:15 p.m. Oh dear. Think there must have been something in the blender, e.g. washing-up liquid, as cherry tomato puree seems to be foaming and three times original volume. Also fondant potatoes were meant to be ready ten minutes ago and are hard as rock. Maybe should put in microwave. Aargh aargh. Just looked in fudge and tuna is not there. What has become of tuna? What? What?
9:30 p.m. Thank God. Jude and Mark Darcy came in kitchen and helped me make big omelette and mashed up half-done fondant potatoes and fried them in the frying pan in manner of hash browns, and put the recipe book on the table so we could all look at the pictures of what chargrilled tuna would have been like. At least orange confit will be good. Looks fantastic. Tom said not to bother with Grand Marnier Creme Anglaise but merely drink Grand Marnier.
10 p.m. V. sad. Looked expectantly round table as everyone took first mouthful of confit. There was an embarrassed silence.
'What's this, hon?' said Tom eventually. 'Is it marmalade?'
Horror-struck, took mouthful myself. It was, as he said, marmalade. Realize after all effort and expense have served my guests: