Have I given you my recipe for making chicken liver pâté before now?
Good grief, I must give it to you. It's very easy to make, is absolutely delicious and did I mention that the recipe is appearing in this years school cook book?
(I know I didn't mention it; I just wanted to!!)
Anyway, I will give you the recipe another time. Suffice it to say that I made a batch this week, as my it was my Mum's birthday this week and her and my Dad were coming over for lunch; I figured it would make a pretty tasty starter.
And so, as the wine began to flow (only my Dad and myself were drinking), M and the Grandmother's went off with the children to ooh and aah over this and that. This left my Dad and me at the table, discussing ...... stuff. We began talking about wine (as you do) and he looked over at my depleted stocks of vino.
"Is that all you have left?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in my general direction.
As I started to answer him, he jumped out of his chair and reached up to look at a bottle which, at a guess, hasn't moved for about 3 years.
"Yes, but I try not to ...... " (too late), "move them too much". My shoulders fell forwards and he realised his mistake. He'd picked it half out of it's permanent hidey hole.
"Oops. Sorry about that", he offered, as he gently lowered it back to it's original position.
"Don't worry Dad", I replied. "Stirring up any sediment will only add to the eventual flavour, I'm sure" (Sarcasm is a good friend to me).
As much as I would have preferred him not to have moved that bottle, it did open my Dad up to telling me a terrific story, one that I can't believe I haven't heard before now.
Of course, this won't mean nearly as much to you as it does to me but for the sake of prosperity, I simply have to make a note.
Actually, apart from myself, I know there will be some old work friends of mine who now live in Australia and New Zealand, who will enjoy reading this. They don't actually know my father either but this story coupled with a previous tale I told them will once and for all seal the lid on them thinking my Dad is a vicious lunatic.
Nothing could be further from the truth, however.
Apparently, my parents went to a party thrown by one of my Dad's workmates, many, many moons ago. The host of the party happened to be a real ale fan and as such, had a cask of real ale on offer at the party. I'm not sure I've ever seen my Dad drink real ale but anyways, he decided to help himself to a pint from this revered keg. Whether or not he was doing something wrong he doesn't know; all he knows is he couldn't get anything to come out of the tap. And so, in his wisdom, he tipped the keg up at one end to help things along.
*Our survey said? Uh - uuhhhhhhhhh!!!*
To be fair, as far as sediment goes in a keg of real ale, I can sit here comfortably in front of my PC and say "now, I do not believe you wanted to do that".
At a party, however, I reckon I might just have been trying to get something out of the damn thing, as was my Dad. Anyway, out of nowhere, the partner of the host (who had supplied the ale), came over and whacked my Dad round the head for breaking the cardinal rule about disturbing a cask of ale.
HOWEVER, she wasn't aware about the even greater cardinal sin of NOT whacking my Dad round the head, whatever the reason!
Now, my Pop isn't a violent man. He is below average height. He is slim. Quietly spoken. Man, he doesn't like rude words, for crying out loud. This is not a violent man.
Regardless of this though, upon being clouted round the noggin and in his "fury" (his word, not mine), he ran to find the host of the par-tay, grabbed him round the throat with one hand and lifted him up against the wall of his own house, all the while undoubtedly spouting some nonsense about not liking his head being touched!!
Naturally, word spread like wildfire ("did you hear? So-and-so grabbed such-and-such by the throat. Had him up against the wall. Yeah, that's right, the placid fella!")
And that, apparently, is how every single one of my Dad's workmates over the years have come to give him the nickname "Boston" (short for Boston Strangler).
So there you have it. The next time you meet a bloke for the first time and he fits the description above, try giving him a firm smack around his head. If he attacks you, it's quite possible that it's my Dad.
Don't say I didn't warn you!
Cheers Pops. That was a funny story.