The Sunday Strawberry Tart Experience.

by Michelle
(San Pedro de Alcantara)

Paint and preserving jars,lemons and children.

All sorts of concoctions that are fraught with danger.
A table covered with a new cloth,
And pastels and posters appearing with glee.
" Get that cloth off the table",from upstairs shouts me.

The husband to-ing and fro-ing between a tagine or a roast
To which nobody really cares as long as it's not toast.
A friend who has run over her sons foot pops round to borrow a pair of crutches,
Whilst we at her disaster laugh with stomach doubling clutches.

The man of the house decides today is the day for the preserving of lemons,and is turning the kitchen inside out for a Kilner jar and In I swan and open a cupboard,"ta da" I pronounce to his obvious dismay,
That although I rarely cook these days,I still know where everything stays.

The children decided at a quarter to four to have a bath and finally get dressed,
and leave the table in a paint strewn mess.
They'll come as usual to half help clear a bit,and then bugger off again leaving me the silly old twit.
As they play and shout from above I know no bath is being run,and decide it is time to sit in the sun.

The continual noise hurts my head and I can't think, and as fb would know HWTPB has started to drink.
The Grand Prix is on with continuous roars and everybody is shirking what should be their chores.

The terrace table is still an abounding mess,and I am not in the mood for stress.
So I take myself outside by the pool,thinking fresh air and peace would calm it all.
Ah! What bliss birdsong and breeze,then I hear the eternal call "Mum please",
so off I trot to make sandwiches for two. Tuna and sweet corn,not too much to do.

So now I return to the pool outside,and feel slightly detached from the process occurring indoors.
The making of the fabled strawberry tart. The recipe has been found and read.
This is when I came out and said,"I'm not feeling quite me today,so I'm off to sleep and dream of Bombay".
Oh dear I must have slept too long for now I hear the siren song of Leah,
Her of the foghorn voice,telling me it's time to eat some of their special treat.
I fumble about to get up off the bed,the body not quite working yet with the head.

Dinner has been lovingly prepared whilst I have floated through sleep upstairs.
A beautiful chicken and lemon tagine,from the great cook that is HWPTB.
And during this time,both children have made part of the tart that is this Sundays parade.
A thing of beauty made by many hands,overseen unusually by a man.

The eldest made the pate de sucre,and impressed I am with her pastry skills.
The youngest made the set mousse filling,which ain't too dusty for an eight year old and HWPTB put it all together you see.
Then the children lovingly sliced and iced,with strawberries and all things nice.
A tart the was a beauty to behold,and of its composition a story to be told.