“This hummus isn’t good”.
This was exactly the same recipe as I had made the day before, when she loved it.
Welsh mam dips her finger in, wrinkles her nose and says “Something wrong with it. Erm, not enough garlic I think”
“Not enough cumin maybe” Welsh mam tries again.
The last time she told me not to put too much cumin in.
The kid stomps up, joins in “Maaaaam, tell her it’s disgusting.”
“Maybe more lemon juice” I say.
“But I told the truth, and anyway I didn’t name her” I say.
“I’m feeling hurt, undermined”
“Some people can’t be trusted” he slurs. “Some people are spies, grasses”.
“Well never mind, this’ll be my last festival with you” I spit, hacking at the potatoes with spite.
“Ah, they’ve been tough on you haven’t they? They are all sheep you know. Terrified of [Welsh mam] and her horrible kid. My girlfriend’s the worst. A total suck up. That’s why nobody would talk to you.”
“I’m leaving” I say “this is no fun for me. I’m not enjoying this festival. I’m not getting drunk or wrecked. Nobody even likes my food.”
“You are kidding! They love it. You are the person keeping this going. Without you, there is nothing to sell. You write the shopping lists. You make the menus. You cook it all. Don’t go. We need you. Don’t mind them.”
“Everybody thinks I’m this snotty London cow” I sob “but I’m not. I’m normal, have feelings like the rest of you.”
“Aw now, that’s not true” he says sweetly.