I think my cleaner judges me.
One day I came home to find my decorative papal rosary beads artfully arranged on my bedside table. Once she told me I was sick because I “didn’t have a husband”.
Another time, I had reason to call her because I couldn’t find a suit jacket. “It’s in your jacket closet Madam,” she answered with a sigh. When quizzed about said closet, she told me the location was in the guest bedroom and had been the “Jacket Closet” for at least six months.
It’s rare our paths cross. I usually come home to find she has been and gone, like a midget hurricane. But this week I came home to find her standing, bereft, in front of my fridge.
“Madam,” she said sharply. “Nothing in here but cheese. This is no good. You won’t find a husband with just cheese.”
I beg to differ. I also had wine in there. And a bottle of bubbly.
The offending cheese was of a goat variety – your traditional run of the mill chèvre by Sainte Maure. Even when the French go tres ordinarie, they still come up trumps. Creamy with just the right amount of bite, I served it warmed on a baguette with a drizzle of honey on some and some tomato chutney on the others.
Simple yet divine. It may not find me a husband, but it did find me a slice of happiness.