Saturday, 24 October 2015

Master Chef

I'm in the kitchen making risotto.

It's an easy dish to make (albeit difficult to master) - I'm making it after initially intending to have lentil bake for dinner, and then feeling the crushing disppointment brought on by not having any cheese to add to said lentils. Groping through the remaining dry goods, I chanced upon some rice. Risotto it is.

My housemate - the one who kept us awake by watching The Phantom Menace at maximum volume a few nights ago - enters and enquires as to what I'm making. He seems surprised when I say I'm making risotto, but that's nothing compared to my surprise that he's wearing a bomber jacket. I always thought bomber jackets were mythical.

I point out that he's wearing a coat - which I don't actually mean to do; I'd assume that he knows he is - and he assures me that he's on his way out to spend the night with a friend in South London, as his church is nearer that location than here, and he wants to go to church tomorrow morning. I talk for a little about my church, which is in a nice little purpose-built church building, and he tells me about his, and then some more about his, and then some more, and finally he hands me a leaflet showing some stock models of varying ethnicities and genders praising God together.

I thank him and wish him well for church tomorrow.

At which point I turn and throw some chopped spinach into the risotto, realising that I've just had this entire conversation while wearing a T-shirt.

20 minutes later and a teenage boy walks into the kitchen.

I'm still wearing it.

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