Supper: soup, sandwiches, quiche, yoghurt; cooked breakfast

I have been reading up on writing and running a good food blog, because if I do a thing I like to do it well 👼 – or, more accurately, with the obsessive focus to the exclusion of anything else that is typical of my brand of neurospiciness.

One of the tips was to maintain a regular schedule of posting, so followers know when to expect new content. That one is clearly a work in progress because there was no review of supper last night, although I talked about it over on Facebook – if you don’t yet follow me there, please do, as it’s where I share a lot of my random musings.

So firstly, because it will become relevant in a moment, a quick review of my supper:

Carrot and courgette soup, with a hint of curry quality in scent and taste that I’m guessing came from the inclusion of coriander seed (carrot and coriander being a classic soup pairing). There was also a background flavour of something slightly astringent (although not unpleasantly so) that I couldn’t quite place – and still can’t – despite far too long spent swilling soup around my mouth thinking “I know I know what this is…” (I’m very glad supper is taken in the privacy of residents’ rooms and no-one could see me doing this!).

A finger of quiche (or ‘flan’ as the HCA on trolley duty called it, to my private delight as that’s what my family calls it and I’ve never previously met anyone else who does the same): the HCA couldn’t remember what flavour it was and, having eaten it, I couldn’t tell you either. Egg, and underseasoned egg at that, was all I could say with confidence. A lovely bit of shortcrust pastry, though – beautifully light and crunchy.

Sandwiches, one each of corned beef, tuna and cucumber, and egg mayo, the last of which again reminding me that I really should eat egg sandwiches more often, because they’re really very delicious. Then an unripe pear, from my rapidly shrinking private collection, and an apricot and mango yoghurt, and a half hour battle with my social anxiety before hunger won and I rang my bell and begged another round of sandwiches:

And so to where this becomes relevant this morning: I mentioned to today’s duty HCA that I’m finding I’m still hungry after the rather small suppers offered – proof, I guess, that I really am putting all my effort into my physio sessions – and apparently there are hot options available and I should have been given a menu when I arrived. I will get this week’s menu when it’s distributed later, so hooray for no more Oliver Twist moments (“please sir ( / madam / whatever the gender neutral equivalent is), may I have some more?” 🥺).

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And finally, because I think I’ve rambled on enough for one morning, the twice-weekly (Sunday and Wednesday) treat of a hot cooked breakfast.

A generous portion, as you can see – typical of the Isle of Wight, where cooks like to see their diners well-stuffed after a meal. Scrambled eggs, served very firm – I prefer a softer scramble, typically, but that’s not really possible unless you’re cooking it yourself and can go straight from pan to plate to mouth without a trip between buildings and up in a lift in between; bacon – so salty I’m still trying to dilute it with water two hours later; baked beans, which were… well, baked bean-y. 🤷‍♂️

Wholemeal toast, served – hooray! – unbuttered so I could do it myself: still cold and floppy from its journey from the kitchen, though. I genuinely daydream of hot, crunchy toast.

And the titular unexpected – but entirely welcome – banana, because someone somewhere has seemingly taken note of my odd predilection for fresh fruit and the HCA delivering breakfast “thought it looked like a good banana”. They were right, too – it was a very good banana. 👌

Scores:

• Supper: 6/10 – everything was good (except the quiche, which I’ll give 4/10 for lacking in any kind of distinguishing flavour) but just not enough for someone burning energy rebuilding their body.
• Breakfast: 8/10 – I’m feeling generous, and the addition of a piece of fruit really (genuinely) helped.

See y’all at lunchtime for a Sunday roast – chicken, apparently, for which I might brave the dining room and the company of other humans. 😧