Being Volunteered

This is the second time my best beloved has volunteered my services for a village event.

Last time, it was cooking for the Harvest Supper. (He, who has made me one meal of pasta and pesto sauce in the last decade, no doubt felt his culinary skills we not up to scratch.)

So, the deal is that everyone who has volunteered (or been volunteered by their husbands – not that I want to carp on about it,) gets the same recipe and we all make a batch.

It was Chicken Normandy – rather nice with apples, cider etc etc. I made it and to give it its due, it smelled rather delicious and tasted very nice too.

So, we set off for the Village Hall with the neighbours looking forward to our annual ‘bop’ and a good supper.

Well, the casseroles go in and plated servings come out. All I can say is that whoever made the casserole we ate, they had not done justice to the recipe – and whoever got mine, got a bloody good deal.

Still, as I said, there is the chance to dance to the very fine Band With No Name, made up of the postman, his wife who is handily, the postmistress, the Rev Ken from the Congregationalist Church and a bass player from the heady metropolis of Petersfield.

The best beloved and I decided to start proceedings because no one else was dancing. Whilst we were doing our best – not brilliant but giving it a shot as they say – someone came up to our neighbour who was trying hard to pretend she was nothing to do with us, and said, “Just who are those people?”

This time, I have been volunteered to run the bookstall at the village festivities.

I have a sneaking suspicion it might involve more work than the Chicken Normandy.

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