Page 38 of Mistaken Impression

“Sure.” I do as she says, bringing them both back to the countertop.

She takes the lamb from me, and I watch as she removes the meat from its bag, putting it into the pan.

“We’re going to use the same lamb for both dishes,” she says. “So you’ll only need to do this once.”

“Okay.” The atmosphere between us isn’t as easy-going as it was first thing this morning, and while I want to feel more relaxed, it’s impossible when I’m waiting for the next bolt of sarcasm to hit me.

She reaches out, picking up a small-bladed knife, which she holds out, showing it to me. “This is called a paring knife, and it’s used for peeling and slicing smaller vegetables and fruits. In this case, though, because it has a really sharp point and blade, we’re going to use it to make holes in the lamb.”

“Holes?”

“Yes.” She demonstrates, sticking the knife into the lamb’s flesh, about an inch or so deep before she repeats the process several times and then turns to me. “You try it.”

I pick up the same knife from my own set and copy her actions. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, just don’t go too deep.”

She’s a little snappy, but I ignore her tone and focus on what I’m doing, and on keeping my incisions more shallow, until the lamb leg is pitted all the way across.

“Now we’re going to prepare some garlic.” She reaches over, taking a few more cloves from the bulb she broke up earlier, and this time she peels them, rather than crushing them. “You won’t need to do any of this,” she says, and rather than giving me a chance to try, she gets on with it, until she’s done three large cloves. “This time we’re going to slice them, but again, I’ll do it for you because most of this will have been prepared in advance, so you’ll just need to finish it.”

“Okay.”

I watch while she thinly slices the garlic, forming a neat pile of slithers, and then she picks one up and stuffs it into one of the holes in the leg of lamb. “You’ll have a leg which has been almost completely studded with garlic,” she says, as she continues her work. “All you’ll have to do is put in the last one or two, while you do your piece to camera, explaining the process.”

“That doesn’t seem too difficult.”

“It’s not.”

She hands me a slice of garlic and I stick it into the last hole.

“Does it go into the oven now?”

“Not quite. We need to rub it with olive oil. Again, that’s something you’ll have to do, because it can’t be done until all the garlic has been inserted… so…” She grabs the oil bottle and holds it up. “You’ll need to drizzle the oil, like this.” She places her thumb over the top of the bottle, letting just a small trickle out as she tips it, and then hands it to me. I copy her, and although a little more seeps through, I manage okay. Once she’s happy with the amount of oil, she rubs it in with her hands. “Your turn,” she says, stepping back slightly, and I finish the job.

“Now I’m guessing we wash our hands again?”

She nods her head and we go over to the sink. I let her wash up first, and then clean my hands, drying them off on a towel.

“Ordinarily, we’d season the lamb with salt and pepper, but we don’t have any, so I’ll have to show you that next time around.”

“Okay.”

“So, if you imagine we’ve done that, you can put the lamb into the oven as well.”

I do as she says, opening the oven door, to the delicious aroma of roasting spiced vegetables. “That smells incredible,” I say as I close the door again and turn to face her.

She looks up at me, like she’s waiting for something. I raise my eyebrows, expecting her to tell me I’ve done something wrong, and she opens her mouth and whispers, “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t expecting that and I frown down at her. “Aren’t you going to ask what for?” she says, after the silence has stretched for a little too long.

“I was waiting for the insult that usually follows your apologies.”

She blushes. “There isn’t one. Not this time.”

“In that case, why are you apologising?”

“Because I think I might have sounded a little sarcastic earlier… and because I know I’m being tetchy.”

“Is there a reason for that?” There’s no point in telling her she isn’t, when we both know she is.

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