Oysters and sausages

Once we were able to prize Mr B out of bed (bless, he's been working hard) we were off to the market to buy ludicrously expensive cakes, lots of bread, olives and cheese and then home to eat it all for lunch. Mr B had spotted the seafood stall (it's not always there) so loaded up on oysters. With not enough ice in the house, they were propped up in my lentils (used as baking beans usually).

Lunch was outside as you can see and, despite the wasps, was quite delightful. Oysters were gobbled up (though I wasn't very happy about the wilful chucking of shells into my lettuce beds) and the sun shone down.

Once the rosé had worn off a little, there were logs to be sawn for the evening's cookout - though Mr B had to retire hurt after one log bounced back and nearly broke his kneecap. (With the rather dubious benefits of backblipping, I can report that it is still very sore three weeks later.)

With the wood pile deemed big enough, the fire was started (with Mr B's handy flint striking firestarter thingummy) though I think the boy scout in attendance was secretly a little disappointed that he wasn't rubbing sticks together. And Ray Mears advice that cotton wool makes good tinder material was put to good use too.

The kids put together a mini-Olympics opening ceremony, added to by our friends from Castres arriving with their kids in time for dinner. And so they all processed down the stairs with their national flags, L put on a rather spectacular dance show, and many Olympic torches were lit.

So, sausages (three types - how fancy is that), chicken, potatoes and cowboy beans were cooked - the chicken and potatoes in the oven to ensure thorough cooking - and our boy scout J added two rather delightful foodstuffs to our usual cook-out repertoire: bread on a stick and egg on a stick. No really, bread dough wrapped snake-like around the stick and cooked over the embers and an egg (raw) poked onto a thin stick and cooked that way. I wouldn't have believed the egg thing if I hadn't seen it but, even though a little white was lost in the transit from table to fire, the result was surprisingly tasty (and safely cooked!)

Later, in the dark, there were marshmallows and an impromptu game of name that tune with iPhones (or in Mr H's case with his fancy watch remote control gizmo thingummy). Still later, chat and foolishness continued in the kitchen. Late, too late.