Monday night dinner

Coming home after a day spent with my old friend Mr Excel, I realised that the white lines dashed on the tarmac of the M25 were passing me by hypnotically and it was taking all my concentration (and a technique called subtitled listening) to stay focused on what TSM was saying to me. I thought: when I get home I'm just going to lie on the bed and close my eyes.

But in fact we pulled out some mushrooms and rice and a bottle of white wine and some slightly past its best salad and stood there stirring and cooking and talking as we listed to early Tom Waites; and over grated Parmesan, balsamic vinegar and tarragon our love and our cooking conquered fatigue and the hypnotic rhythm of the motorway was superseded by the fluid ebbing and flowing of a Monday night dinner that was just so lovely.

Forget the idea that the French bring romance to the kitchen; it's the Italians. The French put it in the tawdry world of restaurant seduction but the Italians keep love in the home where it belongs, where you can kiss someone's neck whilst they stir the rice with you. Maybe the Spanish too. And most definitely us ...