One of my favourite indulgences is eating in bed. It’s something I have, for as long as I remember, always relished. Initially, it was reminiscent of recovery – tomato soup, warm bread roll and honey – the usual ‘getting better’ food. As I sashayed into adulthood it captured the lazy day off when nothing and nobody came between me, the radio, and my bed. Other than perhaps a long bath. The icing on the cake being the warm sunshine streaming through the window and gently stroking my face. In fact, afternoon eating in bed has become a feature of every stage of my life. These days it is something I love to indulge in with the wee one, and the other day we did just that.
Invariably, these moments are not planned which gives them an even more heightened sense of guilty pleasure, although it does also mean that the food in question can be a mish-mash of things we have in, rather than a gourmet dinner. And so it was that, on our most recent afternoon of indulgence, fruit loaf became our piece de resistance.
Toasted, obviously, and then lathered with butter, fruit loaf slices placed perfectly on a plate, the delight of taking it back upstairs, plumping the pillows, putting the cup of tea on the side ready for that mid meal slurp then turning up the radio, is indescribable. A moment worth savouring if only because of the heightened sense of anticipation it stokes.
We may not be in the South of France, in fact the sun may only be making a guest appearance, but my oh my do we know how to live. And if you’ve never tried this act of complete indulgence, may I suggest you do. Not for just breakfast, but in the middle of the afternoon when you know you should be doing something else, or at least out of bed. I tell you, there is absolutely nothing quite like it.