I'm a touch hungover after a much-needed night out in my highest heels. Anticipating a need for comfort food I bought the ingredients for a Greek dish that reminds me of visits to grandparents. In the memories I am seven or eight, crowded around the long dark table with cousins, aunts, uncles. The two Alsatian dogs are nuzzling young knees and everyone over the age of fifteen is smoking. My grandmother serves us meat and potatoes, slow cooked for six hours and still the only way I will ever eat lamb willingly.
We call it tavar. It probably isn't spelt like that. You put lamb chops or chicken thighs in a large casserole dish with peeled and chopped white potatoes, a couple of chopped onions and enough tins of tomatoes to cover the whole lot. I add half a tin of water and some bay leaves as well. The meat falls off the bones when its done. I bite the ends off and suck the marrow, a bad habit learnt from those smoke filled nights with family.
Really quite tired now but very content. Also content to not read the outbox on my phone. Cocktails not necessarily conducive to making any sense.