I get the lamb shoulder out of the oven. It’s perfect. To my dismay, I see the trivet in places has burnt. No matter, my usual A-Team combination of secret ingredients should save the day.
I open the fridge, and discover the crucial element to counteract the slight tart, singed taste is missing; its place in the fridge door ominously vacant. Condiment down.
I panic and do the culinary equivalent of picking up the Bat Phone: “Gravy SOS” is all the text reads.
Moments later she calls. A few minutes of expertise and debate on the merits of including various jams, honey or sweet chili sauce and the day is saved.
I may be about to turn thirty, but you’re never too old to phone your mum when your struggling with your gravy game.
Inane Whitterings 