I broke one of our toilets on Friday. The cistern, to be precise. I lost my balance and sat a bit too heavily. The base of the cistern cracked and water spewed out everywhere. Obviously, the water kept flowing because the ball cock assumed it had to keep working. Foot deep in water, I managed to turn the water off.
Fortunately, we still have a workable toilet in the bathroom. Oh, and I’m uninjured. Anyway, Harald, Mr Fixit and repairer of things wrecked by Destructo Gaz, popped around this afternoon to ascertain what type of replacement cistern we’d need. He looked at the damage I’d caused, went “Oi, yoi, yoi,” in that very Swedish way, then took a few essential measurements.
Roger also visited in the morning. Emma let me know he’d arrived. He was there to paint the ends of the rafters on the shed ahead of the work recommencing on Wednesday. He wouldn’t be long, he said, when refusing the offer of a coffee. True to his word, he was gone in about half an hour.
Then, to round off our visitors, Jason turned up for dinner. That makes it sound like he wasn’t expected. He was and I cooked a special Turkish meal. It turned out to be one of his favourites. Of course, he didn’t know that until he’d eaten it.
The ‘favourite’ thing is a bit of a silly joke in our house. While Jason was staying in the stuga, Mirinda would say it regardless of the meal I put down in front of her (well, apart from frittata which is obviously the other end of her scale). Jason has always been complementary, but this was the first time he’d expressed that a meal was worthy of the favourite label.
The meal was güveçte piliçli bamyaa (chicken, okra and lemon casserole), a bit of a Turkish staple. Quite simple and simply delicious. If I do say so myself. We finished with some of the Turkish Delight I bought in the Grand Bazaar. It was something that Jason thought only came in chocolate, wrapped in a packet and manufactured by Fry’s. He now knows better.
I forgot to take a photo of dinner, but here’s one of my lunchtime salad instead.
This is probably the sort of thing I’ll be living on for the next few weeks while Mirinda is off, training around Europe and the UK. Not that I mind living on salad, I just can’t be bothered cooking for myself.
Mind you, I can always cook myself a frittata without having to apologise.
Well. In case you need a volonté et as an excuse to cook, I am always there to help. As long as you serve my favorite, of course…