A Midsummer’s Day Panic

 

It is Midsummer’s Day tomorrow and the weather promises dry and fair (hurrah!) so chez Damson Cottage a.k.a Much Malarkey Manor, we are having a Solstice picnic to celebrate. Do come along - invitations are in the post.

Now, in my mind, I live in Downton Abbey. Downstairs, I have a staff of excellent cooks (that’ll be me, then), who are happy to prepare wonderful food (not a UPF in sight) having discussed the proposed menu in depth avec moi a.k.a Lady Grantham. I have an experienced and unflappable butler and housekeeper (also both me) who have taken my wafty yet grandiose picnic ideas and turned them into a seamless and well-oiled timetable of events. I have planned my outfit with my ladies’ maid who will also manage my hair into some sort of witty and charming elegance, and all I need to do now is float around knowing that all will be just right and the picnic will be a social triumph, written about in the court circulars and known hereafter as ‘The Summer Solstice Picnic of 2026.’

In reality, what I have is me having a mild panic attack in Morrison’s at 7.30 this morning. 

Honestly, when did shopping become so, well, complicated? This is why I like Aldi, because choice is limited and I don’t have to think too much. It is what it is, and if I avoid the joys of the middle aisle tat, it is usually a very quick shopping experience. But make the mistake of heading into one of the more traditional places - Morrison’s, Tesco or Sainsbury’s - and you might as well remove your brain and addle it in a pan with some butter and chives. 

Too much choice. Of course, it would have helped if I’d made some sort of list rather than just winging it but not making a list is part of my decision to be more relaxed and less regimented about life. Modern day living is too regimented. Too many ‘experts’ telling us lesser mortals what and what not to do. Too much internet. Too many opinions. Too much media and political manipulation. Too many supermarket loyalty points at stake if I didn’t spend £55…

I was in the region of the delicatessen, looking at the stacks of UPFs in the guise of sophisticated summer treats and snacks, and I was listening to my poor brain arguing with itself: 

‘I could make those myself with proper ingredients for less than half the price which would be better for my health and my bank account…’

‘Yes, but it would take hours of my life I’d never get back. All that faff…

‘But I’d live longer anyway because my homemade versions would be healthier…’

‘But I’ve been cooking for other people since I was thirteen years old. That’s forty seven years of making decisions about food. FORTY SEVEN YEARS! I’m tired of it…’

‘I didn’t have to take on the chief cook role. I could have been like Lady Grantham and never so much as burned a piece of toast IN MY LIFE…’

‘Well, I’m hear now and I’m committed to a picnic. Just close my eyes and put those things in my trolley. Do NOT read the labels…’

I continued to wander around the supermarket in an increasingly aimless and panicked fashion, thinking how ridiculous this all is. I was overthinking picnic food, ffs. As I went through the checkout, I consoled myself that, of course, I WOULD make proper food - some suitable salady-type things and some nice sandwiches. And I had bought some strawberries and a watermelon to add to the homegrown (and organic) raspberries to make a lovely fruit platter. I wasn’t going to kill my nearest and dearest with UPF additives and preservatives because I was providing a balance. And I know I have, as always, bought too much but at least it means Lord M and I can live off leftovers for a few days afterwards. In my head, Mrs Patmore was telling me to get out of her kitchen and find the smelling salts. 

Life would be far simpler if I didn’t care about these things, I thought. How happy is the moron, he doesn’t give a damn and all that. But it’s a lifetime of habits I am trying to break here. 

The thing is, I grew up in a time where one would go to the butcher for the meat, the fishmonger for the fish, the greengrocer or farm shop for the fruit and veg, the baker for bread, the iron monger for non-comestibles, and the haberdasher’s for babies (that’s another story) because that’s what there was. Little shops with specific purposes. Supermarkets were small, nothing like the monstrosities we have nowadays. UPFs were only just becoming a ‘thing’ but my mother cooked from scratch (unlike HER mother who made her three daughters cook from scratch as soon as they could see over the top of the oven.) 

And that’s what I’ve known. A takeaway was a rare treat, and eating out even rarer. As a result, I am a good, but feeling obliged and responsible, cook.

 I am safely home now. I’ve had a bit of a cry, taken a few deep breaths, pushed the ‘overwhelm’ back in its stupid box, and promised myself a few episodes of ‘Downton Abbey’. I shall enjoy the picnic tomorrow because what really matters is a few sandwiches in a sunny garden in the company of those I love best, surrounded by flowers and trees, watching the Damson Cottage swallow parents and their five babies swooping across the fields…