Midweek Supper

Mr R has had another of his hare-brained ideas. This time we are to host an informal midweek supper for some of his closest friends. He requests that I mark the date in my diary (Wednesday night at 8.00 pm) and proposes a simple repast of lamb casserole and a dessert of my choosing. Not that he will be involved in any aspect of the preparation or cooking of the meal of course. Time has taught Wine Goose that it is necessary to give in to some of his ridiculous schemes in order to have the power of veto over the bulk of them, therefore I don't bother to point out that most weekday evenings at 8.00 pm he is to be found either working in his office or drinking pints in a Dublin pub.

Timing is everything, and in order for the food to be at its freshest and tastiest, Wine Goose must not only forgo her weekly Bodypump class, but also do all the food shopping accompanied by our son. This results in an unfit wife filling a supermarket trolley with lots of non-nutritious but cleverly-marketed food items in order to avoid potential tantrums in front of all the other perfectly behaved suburban children and their perfectly groomed mothers. These extra items also mean that the household budget is blown and wine will have to be very carefully chosen, or substituted with cartons of sticky juice, of which we by now have plenty. Feeling more than a little resentful as she pulls out of the supermarket car park, Wine Goose makes an unscheduled stop at a local deli and splurges on a 'homemade' raspberry panna cotta, beautifully presented in a pottery dish. 'How clever of you, Wine Goose' whispers a little voice in my head, 'and while you're at it why not nip into to the wine shop next door?' And so I risk destroying the place by letting our by now sugared-up and hyperactive son loose while I peruse the merchandise. I pick out enough wine to serve at least twice as many people as we are expecting, expertly key in my credit card pin number while looking in the opposite direction, and scrunch up the receipt.

The afternoon is taken up by chopping and peeling. The children help by setting the table. Table mats are piled high with a jumble of plates, napkins and cutlery; condiments are arranged symmetrically along the length of the table; a bottle of mineral water is placed at each end. Our daughter writes out names and decides on the seating plan. She includes the herself and her brother in the party. We are segregated, with the girls sitting at one end of the table and the boys at the other. Long may that last.

We pop the casserole into the oven and head upstairs to get ready. The children are cajoled into pyjamas and dressing gowns and Wine Goose settles on last season's mummy uniform of a wrap dress and boots. Make-up is quickly applied and we head back downstairs to ready the house for the arrival of the guests. Wine Goose pours herself a glass of Louis Latour Chablis 2006 (€20.00), "the ultimate expression of what the noble Chardonnay grape is capable of on the region’s famous kimmeridgian limestone slopes. The wine is perfumed, lively, clean and steely-tasting with a crisp finish." So goes the website description, and I couldn't have put it better.

The guests arrive and accept our offer of a glass of white wine to whet their appetites. The children pass around the nibbles, with plates held at dangerous angles so that most of the contents end up on the floor. Quite endearing we all agree. We chat amicably and soon it is time to pass to the table. I manage to dish out the meal and we are seated. The children dominate the conversation and I ignore the few curious glances that pass my way - yes I am aware that it's late for them to be up but I'll put them to bed when they're tired out and more likely to fall asleep. With the lamb casserole I have chosen a Poggio Teo Chianti Classico 2003 from the Valiano Estate in Tuscany (€15.99). A beautifully structured wine I point out, full-bodied, with a pretty core of ripe fruit, fine tannins and a creamy, fruity finish. It will also match nicely with the cheeseboard, reducing Wine Goose's workload. Compliments abound, then there is the sound of a key turning in the front door. I shrug apologetically. 'Unavoidably detained in the office' explains Mr R as he takes his place at the head of the table.