Occasionally Guido will get profound. It’s usually nothing serious or anything to worry about. I suppose it could be a lot worse. Imagine what this blog would read like if I was sleeping with Sigmund Freud.
“Life is like a dollop of mashed potato,” said Guido. He was standing in the café kitchen with a lump of it on the end of his wooden spoon. So apparently Forrest Gump got it wrong and life wasn’t like a box of candy after all. “Mashed potato should only ever contain three simple ingredients. Potatoes, butter and milk.”
Hang on a minute. That wasn’t the mashed potato recipe my mother used to whip up. Someone’s clearly omitted to tell her this important culinary fact. What had happened to the salt, the cream and the nutmeg? Perhaps this is where she used to go wrong and why it always ended up tasting so horrible. I made a mental note to let her know this important news flash the next time we spoke. For goodness sakes, will you drop the nutmeg?
“Like mashed potato there are really only three important ingredients in life. You’re born. You live. You die.” My brief but interesting life suddenly flashed before my eyes. Gosh Guido was being cheery today.
“I don’t remember being born,” I said. And what a relief that was. I never did much like the idea of dropping out head first from the bottom of anything. “And I don’t want to think about dying. But the “live” part? Well, that’s a whole different story. I feel I’ve got to break it down into manageable and bite sized chunks,” I said. Trust me with this one. I’d have to have a whole sub category just covering the period relating to my puberty. Let’s just be thankful I haven’t blogged about it yet, that’s all I’m saying.
You may be wondering why we were talking about life and death and mashed vegetables. Don’t be silly, it was obviously linked to our wedding plans. Which, by the way, were still non existent.
“You book a date to get married, you get married, and, then you are married,” Guido said matter of factly. He made it all sound so easy. He shrugged, “It’s that simple.”
Good grief. What was wrong with him? Did he still not realise the success of a wedding could be won or lost simply by just how good your fork and finger buffet was judged? I pushed pastel coloured suits to the recesses of my brain. But, I still couldn’t help think about my ever expanding guest list. It was getting frightening. Scarily it now included our postman, Mike.
“Okay cutie,” I said with my best John Wayne swagger. “If you’re going to take me down the mashed potato route then why don’t we talk treacle sponge pudding instead?”
This will impress you readers.
“Three things.” I raised one finger. “It’s awkward to prepare.” I raised a second finger. “It usually looks a complete mess.” I raised a final third finger, “And finally, it invariably never lives up to anyone’s expectations.”
In the end it probably didn’t matter which analogy we used. What ever way you looked at it, our wedding plans were stuck at either the unpeeled potato or an awkward and gooey preparation stage.
It feels like the latter.