Trifling with the orgasmic

Hi everyone! Back from a nice little break in the Cotswolds. We stayed at a very nice lodge with four-poster bed and a hot tub. It also had a lovely view of a field where the owner put horses out to pasture each day. The only negatives were the potholes in the drive, which wasn’t great for your average car and took some careful negotiating. Also, hot tub on all the time, which meant that the vibration travelled through the lodge right into the bedroom and you could hear it all night. Such a pity as think that would stop me going there again. The sound was very annoying but also somewhat hysterical. As with many holiday places, the bathroom had an extractor fan, so we used the en suite and then crawled into bed. Ten minutes later, we look at each other and both say at about the same time, “Is that extractor ever going to go off?” Shortly after, we realise it’s not the fan, it’s the hot tub making that racket. We checked the instructions and sure enough, it’s constantly on, set for forty degrees and the filter operates every so often. I’ve always thought it would be fun to own a hot tub but the lid was heavy enough to deter me, let alone the cost of running it and the unexpected noise. Hmm…maybe once we get around to doing the bathroom, a spa bath will be on the cards after all.

We had a nice lunch and did a spot of shopping at Bourton on the Water, a quaint little village with a stream running through it spanned by several small bridges. I picked a few things up for the house…not that there isn’t enough in the house already, I admit, but spotted a few decorative bits for the living room, as well as practical bits for the kitchen. *g*

The next day we had an even better lunch at an inn where I spotted a painting by a local artist I wanted to tuck under my arm and bring home — the painting, not the artist that is. I restrained myself, although the price tag made it easier to disregard the temptation. I know I want payment for my creative efforts but books sell at smaller prices to many. The price tags on some of these works by local artists who may have wonderful talent but will likely never be famous does make one wonder if they ever sell any work. I sometimes think I should have concentrated on my art rather than the written word. The thought only flitters through my mind fleetingly. I’m a writer at heart.

In the evening, we went into Stratford upon Avon to the theatre but I’ll tell you more about that another day. The rest of the week mainly consisted of…um…shopping. Well, it is late in the season so there’s not a lot to do in the country. Did some walking, and some shopping, had some very nice meals including the dessert from heaven, which deserves a special mention. It was an Apple Cider Trifle with a Hot Cinnamon Doughnut. A friend told me that sounds disgusting. I have to admit that although we’d had a lovely main course the inn was only serving a choice of three desserts or ice cream.

I decided I wanted the Hot Cinnamon Doughnut so ignored the trifle part of the description. I don’t eat trifle. Actually, I don’t eat desserts. Whenever we go out to dinner if I have more than one course, which is rare, I’d be more inclined to have a starter and a main course. Fate intervened. I was obviously “meant” to encounter this dessert.

The cider part was actually sorbet. It was sharp and sweet, tangy, a little fizzy that disappeared on the tongue to smooth, intense flavours that is everything I like about an apple. Beneath this, freshly made real cream custard, flavoured with real vanilla pods. Below this, the trifle consisting of an apple jelly and delicate sponge so light it melted to water in your mouth but was so cool and refreshing it was better than a drink of cold water. The hot cinnamon doughnut came on the side, seasoned with spice and full of air, lightly sugared so as not to be overly sweet. And on top of it all this the thinnest slice of apple, somehow slightly caramelised. It was like eating an apple crisp at once reminiscent of a toffee apple but far too wispy for a real comparison.

I’m engrossed in this dessert. The room falls away. All the sounds cease to exist. I’m deaf, dumb, and blind to anything but the flavours bursting to life in my mouth. This is too good to ever be called trifle.

I sense someone watching me and look up at Dear Husband, who is staring straight at me, a slightly voyeuristic expression on his face. He asks me if the two of us would like to be alone. I laugh and say it’s really good. It’s one of the nicest desserts I’ve ever tasted. I mumbled something to part of his conversation and then….

I look up and DH is looking at me and damn if I haven’t done it again! I’ve zoned out, lost time, forgotten that there’s anyone else at the table. I’ve forgotten there’s a table, that there’s an inn, or that we’re on the planet.

DH doesn’t have to worry. My entanglement with the dessert is fleeting. All too soon, it’s gone. My spoon scrapes the bottom of the glass in the hope of some last trace of an orgasmic experience. The meal is over. It’s gone. It’s time to leave. I wave a fond farewell. Sniff!