There are times, and circumstances, when once the possibility of a certain type of food has lodged itself in your mind, nothing else will do. Last Sunday was such a time. Friends were up for the weekend from far and wide (London and Bolton to be precise) and the Saturday night had passed in a predictably booze-soaked fashion. After tipping enough Brown Ale and Jack Daniels down my throat to bring a medium-sized elephant to its knees I was, come Sunday, feeling somewhere on that spectrum that runs between still pissed and repentantly shit. Plans for the day were hatched and then slowly ditched as time passed, light faded and day became night. The need for some kind of food was plain. A few options were mooted and discounted before someone said "Lane 7?" and someone else said "Fucking right!" and that was that. With renewed purpose we shambled out.
Things have been awfully restaurant-centric on this blog of late. Not for no reason; the depths of winter are only for the most dedicated of gardener, and that is not us. However, even by my own half-arsed standards, a full month and a half without attending the plot once is the type of absence that makes the heart grow not just fonder, but almost forgetful of why we bother with all this in the first place. That being so, it was great, over the course of a few hours spent in nourishing sunshine today, to be reminded.