Jacket potato day comes as something of a relief – little preparation needed, not too much clearing up afterwards, everyone loves them and it is an opportunity to use up odds and ends left over from other meals – a lump of gruyere, a few spring onions.  Some leaves from the garden too.  It does, however, feel like a small act of treason to be cooking large (gorgeous with red soil still sticking to them), Canarian potatoes when there are beautiful British new potatoes everywhere and to have the oven on for over an hour on a hot day.

I have a slight sense of trepidation about travelling to France with an eight month old.  Only about as much as I have about travelling anywhere with him I suppose.  Mealtimes being very messy affairs and, despite my resistance to blending foods this time, a child that sits, open-mouthed like a baby bird, waiting for mush to be spooned in as quickly as possible whilst holding finger food by way of a token effort.  We are going to be staying in a B&B.  I can’t take the blender.

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