What friends do
A friend dropped round earlier this evening. I won’t mention his name. That’s not important. And it would only embarrass him anyway.
It was a fleeting visit. Brief as it sometimes is, it’s always nice. Sometimes, we gather around the kitchen table and natter all night. Other times, we’ll chat briefly and then go our separate ways. Either way it’s a nice feeling. Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt. It promotes a sense of family. Our friend is a member of our family.
This evening, he brought homemade pizza. Not what you see pictured, I hasten to add nowhere near as good. There was no time to photograph it.
We knew it was good the moment we pushed our noses underneath the Tupperware lid. It looked good too. Crispy Parma ham poked out from under a simple tomato base. Roughly chopped garlic mingled with cheese strewn all over the topping. Was there sausage there too? Onions?
An hour later and I’m climbing out of the bath. The oven is on. The pizza is in. Ten minutes later and I’m drying behind my ears with a towel and staring down at the pizza on the plate.
It looked better than anything store bought. It smelt better than I could have made (it always does when someone else makes it). And even though we could have easily made ourselves our own supper, there was something incredibly indulgent about settling down with he a bit of a treat made a few miles up the road and delivered in a Tupperware box an hour earlier.
A simple gesture. Someone else’s handiwork. The product of the pleasure someone else derived from cooking. Love carefully placed in a box and transported across South East London.
A shining example of how real life friendship – the kind built up over time – is vital to our very existence.