When I woke this morning Graham was up and about, fixing himself damson jam toast for his breakfast. The aroma filled the kitchen with that delicious early morning smell of breakfast and, for a moment, I thought he was frying himself some tomatoes. Not so.
“Well, you’ve done it now,” I said. ”I need cooked breakfast and I need it bad.”
“What shall you have?”
“Fried tomatoes, fried eggs and fried bread…”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“…all done in that beef dripping I saved day before yesterday.”
“Oh, yuck. I’m going to find something to do in the garage. You be sure to clean up properly after yourself.”
When he came back in, the clean up was well under way, and all that was left was the delicate aroma of a good old-fashioned fry-up.
“You know what,” he said. ”That smells really good. Don’t suppose…”
“Sorry. I used all the dripping up. I can do you a fry-up in oil and butter if you like?”
“No. Wouldn’t be the same. Next time you have dripping we’ll share.”
“Deal. I shall even do bacon to go with it.”
The ventilator fan for the cooking hob goes to the side of the house, and I saw our next door neighbour sniffing the air with great appreciation.
“Fry-up morning, John?” he asked when I went out to empty the rubbish bin.
“Yup.”
“I don’t suppose…”
“No. Sorry. There was only a spoonful of dripping and I used it all up.”
“Dripping? You used real dripping?”
“Too right. I’m a cardiac event waiting to happen,” I smiled.
“Damn fine way to go,” he said.
