500g of mince

This was no ordinary shopping trolley. He had pushed plenty of those before retiring. The chromed frame was angled forward to reduce wind resistance. A push bar lowered to hip height and a set of wheels that belonged to Micky Johnstone’s race car. The front axles trailed the pivot point for improved steerage, allowing the silent spin of Teflon tyres on wheels with nickel chrome bearings.

 

He could not walk past it. There was a long wait in the pits, waiting for Aisle 3 at Woolworths to clear. Finally, the pensioners in the sauce section made their selection; and moved on. The tarmac was vacated for launch. Engaging both sneakers, he gathered pace with three long strides and cleared the push bar, to lay horizontally into the breeze. The mustards whizzed past and he had no chance to grab the special on “Dijons” before careering through “Worcestershire” and applying weight to the right wheel for correction. By the time he reached “Tom Yum” the rocket ship was red lining and it was time to apply the brakes. With both rubber soles firmly on the tiles, he smoked into the cold section and ran straight into Trouble.

She looked at him sternly, muttering “Child”.

His wife looked at the empty trolley and asked “Should we get the mince or the premium?”

It was a loaded question and every answer was wrong. If his response was the cheaper version she would seize a packet in a huff muttering “cheapskate” under her breath and walk away. But if he suggested premium, he would be submitted to a glowering scowl, reinforcing his reputation as a wastrel and, precluding any excursion to the chocolate aisle. Of course, he could demur to her better taste and let her to decide.

The trolley boy considered this as impatience mounted. He knew full well the wrath that would descend on him if he offered a dismissive shrug or even worse a smile. It was not an answer, but ;

“I have an idea for dinner and could pick up the mince and a few delicatessen items.”

She drew herself up and glowered, one eyebrow twitched. It was actually a tattoo, but this was not a good time to discuss it.

“Would you mind buying the milk?” he asked.

Another minefield of choices best to avoid. He made it to the checkout before her and most of the groceries were bagged, before adding the long life, low fat, soy and almond, pasteurised and homogenised organic milk (the one with the price reduction sticker on it).

Late in the afternoon, he unrolled the garden hose and started watering the vegetables at home. The 3-month-old, tomato bushes sagged against the trellis and bright red cherry shapes festooned in bunches. He thought about getting a bucket to put them in, but could not be bothered. So, pulling up the front of his shirt, he loaded them. About two dozen did the trick, as they were small. Heading towards the BBQ, he grabbed a handful of basil on the way. Starting charcoal can be an art, but it only needed a few chunks that quickly caught sitting on the gas .  The tomatoes tumbled on to the cutting board where they were cut length ways, laying them skin side down, before the salt and pepper grinders administered a generous dusting. The handful of basil was torn into strips and added to the cut tomatoes, with just a drizzle of olive oil. The smell of smoke wafted past, and he could not resist the first taste of juicy tomato, filling his mouth with the salty savour, a peppery bite and the hint of basil. A small sip of red wine completed the hors d’oeuvre.

The sopresso was a mixed veal and pork Italian version of salami, the sort with full pepper corns in it. He had asked the deli dude to cut it thick, about half an inch, expecting they had a knife. However, a comprehensive risk analysis had put an end to sharp implements like that. And the electric meat slicer could only be operated by a certified competent operator who informed him the maximum safe allowable setting was 12 mm (half an inch is 12.5mm), which would be ok.

After cubing the sopresso (using his own knife at home), he drizzled olive oil into the old black skillet, that was on a promise to be washed. The coals had enough flame to bubble the oil before tipping in the sopresso, letting it sizzle and brown, while the charcoal smoke swirled over it. Judging there was enough time, he bolted over to the young jalapeno bush proudly displaying the only chilli it could conjure up. Sliced thinly, seeds and all, it was added to the searing pan. A thick oil infused with chilli, was now ready for the tomatoes and they were placed with the savoury sopresso to simmer. The pasta was purchased in a paper packet. It was thin and looked standard, except for the logo declaring it was bronze extruded. A special effort by dedicated makers to provide an absorbent finish to the al dente rigatoni which was coming to a rolling boil, about half cooked.

He transferred it into the tomato pan to let it finish.

His wife arrived with a bottle of the 2020 Barbera, an Italian red wine grape, that was a momentary distraction while the cork was removed. Wearing “that” dress, from an evening neither one of them could forget, she poured. He returned to the sauce and stirred through the rigatoni.

The breakfast bowls were chipped from when their children dropped them years ago. But they were still used for outdoor meals and were now ladled with rich steaming sauce. As an afterthought, a French loaf was torn into chunks, soaking up any of the sauce that was left . Seated, they clinked glasses, admired the sunset, listened to the currawongs coming back up the mountain for the night.

He did not mention the mince.