When Jerome ate my cooking

On Friday, we were talking about cooking, and Jerome said that he had never eaten my cooking. This puzzled me. Surely, in our long and eventful relationship, Jerome has eaten my cooking at least once.

Then I remembered he has. Here' s the story.

A while ago, when I was living in Hobbiton, my friend Clare (that's Alexander Technique Clare) visited to celebrate her birthday. I asked her what she would like to do and she said that she would like to cook a meal at home, then go out to the pub at the top of the road. Everyone was happy with this except Jerome, who was determined to go to the Chinese in Buckleberry and have crispy duck and threw a bit of a strop, and sulked off to the Chinese anyway. Clare insisted, so we made the vegetarian lasagne anyway, two large dishes of it. We only managed to eat one, so I thought I'd leave the other one for my parents to enjoy.

We met Jerome later in the pub and had a fantastic evening. When I got up the next morning, the other lasagne (whose twin fed at least six, possibly eight people) had vanished. Jerome and Clare came back late from the pub and ate the entire thing.

So while Jerome can reasonably claim not to have eaten much of my cooking, the drunken version does like my vegetarian lasagne.