Lunch

Whatever Ruth sent too much of, which in October means squash and in June means peas.

Smoked in the yard on Tuesday, eaten by Saturday.

Yesterday’s shoulder, crumbed this morning. The most honest thing on the menu.

Off the bone at lunch, on it at dinner. Same fish, less ceremony.

The dinner dish at lunch size, which several people have told us is the right size.

The cut that rewards a sharp knife and a short rest. Medium rare or not at all.

The dinner pudding, smaller, because it is one o’clock.

One cut, one oatcake, one glass of something brown if you are not driving.