Feeding you is a chief pleasure of my life. Thus speaks the empowered woman. And I do it so seldom. Feed, you, I mean; I know I speak a lot. Thank you for fixing the table so that its one leaf can stand up now. I should invite some friends over for dinner. Maybe Constanza has time for dinner when she's here in May. I would like to feed more people more often. But we need a bigger place. They don't seem to mind, though...
I would like to feed your mother and sister and nephew. Do you think he would eat what I cook? Also it would be good to meet them. I'd like to feed my mother too. But she's even further away. But we will. Feed people. We will have a bigger table. This table's big but it creaks like a ship on the high seas: which reminds me that we still need to feed Eric and Mimi the Patrick O'Brian dinner cooked from the book. I guess we can't cook rats. Millers. Maybe at their place. Not rats, dinner.
Some day: I'd like a really, really big table. Where you work and cook and eat. That sort of table. Where maybe once a week, perhaps on a sad Sunday night, all friends come for dinner. I've always wanted that. Sunday suppers.
So we do need a bigger place. Not my place, not your place, our place. It's interesting being married and not having an our place, isnt it? Maybe we're lucky. Not taking for granted and all that. And there is a lot to look forward to.
But mostly, I would like to have breakfast with you. Perk the coffee, heat the milk, cuddle the cat, cook the pancetta and butter the toast. Sit in the creaking Heywood Wakefield chairs and eat at the creaking table with sunlight streaming in from the east.