the couscous cure

When my dad died, I suspected that the neighbourhood was filled with frustrated caterers as casseroles, pies, salads, breads arrived in quantity.

Last night we had the French version when Fahtia and Miloud knocked on our door with couscous for Wendy, Becky, Lydia, Pavin, Rick and I in quantities large enough to feed at least two regiments of the French army.

They didn't stay. At least it gave me a chance to show Miloud how much I love his painting which is over my desk.