On Wednesday, I put on a brave face and cooked supper for four. This happens only once in a blue moon. The marrow was grown by brother-in-law Bill: plenty left still - it was enormous.
The mince ended up rather too dry and too salty; but our guests - Robin and Felicity Littlewood - were too polite to say so. The pears in red wine weren't cooked enough, on the other hand. Better the next night, when Thibaud de Saint-Quentin was staying; but cooking for a Frenchman is not something I feel up to.