The old git doesn't get in until after eleven. He's been thrashing out his servant at 'The Lyric', Hammersmith.
The first half of 'The Three Sisters' is not good, the second half better. By the time he gets home he has endured one half that's not as good as the other whilst wearing a crash helmet and having to hang around in the wings until he makes an entrance.
His dear agent, young and generous, left him a bottle of champagne in his dressing room. Just the thing for an old retainer with a crash helmet under his arm.
So rather than leaving him pizzas and pasties which are no good late at night, actually there not that good early in the evening, however, rather than pack him up with stodge I make soup.
Sometimes its a thick vegetable soup with chopped veg, cooked in another pan with a little butter and white wine, which is then tossed over the top. Sometimes its a deep red beetroot soup, Borsht, sometimes its a green soup with courgettes, cabbage and lettuce. Tonight its a yellow ochre colour. The onion and garlic sweated in butter and olive oil first. I thought that cinnamon looks good with yellow so I tossed in cinnamon and white pepper, a broadside of salt and then a chopped sweet potato and three little butternut squashes.
Cooked in veg stock for 30 minutes, blended with my blender then placed on the table with a pitta bread.
The yellow soup looked appetising, a perfect winter warmer, and just the thing for a Chekhovian retainer wearing a crash helmet, although he took it off to eat because he kept catching his spoon on his visor.
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