Get Stuffed

Ah, the leisurely meals, savouring every mouthful, stretching hours and hours into the night….. but not so with this particular meal. 6 o’clock was the appointment for dinner at the hostess’s house, time enough to eat then stroll down to the village hall for the first of our dance lessons. With predictable British punctuality, I arrived at 5.55pm clutching my bottle of red wine, mouth already watering as the thought of an appetising meal. The door swung open and my friend, already of a nervous disposition, grabbed the bottle, propelling me towards the kitchen table where the first course was already served. ‘The classes start at 6.30 not 8!’ she announced breathlessly, grappling laboriously with the proferred bottle and pouring it before I’d had a chance to say ‘White please’. I pulled up my chair glancing nervously at her husband and my dance partner for the evening, Frederico. Barely having finished the anti-pasti, the plates were whisked away and a large tureen of steaming pumpkin soup appeared. She ladled it sloppily into our bowls and we obediently followed her pace, eyes watering at the heat. She talk incessantly ‘…. first class… can’t be late… bad impression…’. ‘Mmm, that soup was….’ I started but didn’t have time to finish as she was already clearing away the bowls. Seconds would have been nice but the ravioli was demanding attention, large parcels packed with ricotta and spinach. Rather ambitiously, I helped myself to 2 but she had already added another 3. ‘Go on, go on, tuck in!’. I forced them all down, not wanting to offend her and waited for the inevitable palpitations…. more wine was poured…. Still chewing the last mouthful a large dish of potatoes and oversized turkey legs appeared as if by magic in front of us ‘mangia mangia!’ she implored, shooting a look at the clock on the mantelpiece. I tucked in, feeling a twinge of a stitch beginning, sweat breaking out on my forehead. She plonked salad onto our plates and pushed the bread basket towards me ‘try it, it’s home-made’ I smiled crookedly reaching for a piece, mouth already crammed with a Jurassic sized leg. Do turkeys really get this big… ‘Mmmm!’ I nodded unintelligibly by way of complimenting her cooking. Another glass of wine….The other 2 munched silently, heads bowed; clearly this was nothing new for them. A bowl of lentils, one of risotto and another of corn competed for our attention. At long last I sat back, my stomach protesting violently at the sudden onslaught of food. ‘Brava brava!’ she applauded noisily collecting the plates and bringing out 6 varieties of cakes/home-made biscuits/pancakes and strudel. The dance classes were no longer an enjoyable prospect. I merely wished to be sitting at home, preferably with the lights, off in peace. Another glass of vino…. ‘I’m stuffed!’ I announced clutching at my stomach in an exaggerated theatrical fashion. She picked up each plate in turn and held it inches away from my nose ‘Just try one, go on, go on…’. Not wishing to offend her, I did as she asked. Now I really needed to go to the toilet and not just numbers 1s….’Have a chocolate, they’re typical of the region!’ she trilled unwrapping three and holding them out to me. I merely nodded, the will to fight, and possibly to live, now long gone. My growling stomach startled us all. She produced the liqueurs ‘Cheers!’ we clanked glasses joylessly, then a refill, then the fruit…Would it be rude to ask for an Alka Setzer? I thought it best to wait till I got home, ditto the toilet visit. Finally, a mere half hour later, it was time for our class… lots of bouncing around, swirling and movement – a bit like my innards at that precise moment. And the dance classes? That’s another episode…