I was sitting chatting to people in Zac's on Tuesday when one of our newish regulars came in and stood in front of me. 'You're not the only one who can cook,' he announced, before producing, from a carrier bag, 2 pies. Well, one and a half actually.
'Corned beef pie,' he said proudly. 'My mother taught me how to make pastry.'
'Oh, lovely,' says I. 'I love corned beef pie.'
At this, Kay, who was sitting near me, hissed between her teeth, 'Don't eat that!'
Now I probably would have eaten some without thinking; Kay is a little more streetwise. Looking at it and the chef, I could see her point: his personal hygiene was possibly not up to what we might consider a reasonable standard.
'I'll take them in the kitchen and ...' I left the end of the sentence dangling.
After the study we had birthdays to celebrate with cakes and biscuits so I put the pie in the oven 'to warm up' in the meantime.
When there was no excuse left I brought the pie out and offered it around (quietly mentioning who'd made it and leaving it to individuals to make their own choice). Strangely enough not one piece was eaten.
Which made me feel bad so ... I broke off a small corner of pastry so I could at least say I'd tasted it.
And then I discovered he'd left anyway!
But I survived to tell the tale with no ill effects. This time. I must think in future.