“Danda,” said I, one day. “I have just discovered frittatas. They are fabulous and so tasty. I like to cook for people. I would like to make you a frittata.”
Danda, looking uncertain, asked “Will I like it? What’s in it?”
“You will love it,” I declared. “I will make an extra tasty one, I promise.”
He decided to trust me and I got to work. In went the potatoes, some mushrooms, some ham, a bit of onion and garlic, seasoning. I fried it all for a few minutes then poured whisked egg over the top. I let it cook for a bit before putting the whole thing under the grill to finish.
Ta da! A beautiful frittata. I got plates and cutlery and took it to Danda. The kitchen was cold that day so Danda had decided to eat in the front room.
I put the pan onto the footrest thingy and cut Danda a slice of the frittata. I put it on a plate and presented it to him.
“This looks great. Thanks so much,” said Danda, leaning back onto the chair and putting his feet up onto the footrest…..
Frittata on footrest….. Foot on footrest…. Frittata on floor…..
There was a moment of silence as he looked at me in fear. I tried to stifle my laughter so as not to encourage this kicking-food-on-the-floor habit. It didn’t work. Hysterics gripped us both as we scooped the sad little frittata back into the pan and tried to decide if we could apply the 3 second rule.