My mother cooks

Late, and writing anyway.

A wedding. Three courses I could not face, a table of people who noticed, and a very kind waiter who boxed it up without saying a word.

Sunday lunch at my grandmother's. Small plate, long afternoon, no drama, and she was happy.

Starters as a main course, permanently. No explanation offered, none requested.

Somebody asked what my secret was and I froze completely. Still working out what I want to say to that.

Coffee now.