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Mrs. Monk's Would-be Diary should have been written by Mrs. Monk, since she is the "Writer" in the family.
However, since she is a writer only in the conceptual sense, I have undertaken to fill these pages on her behalf
If not by her, these pages will certainly be about her, and other important matters of the day         Leslie Monk




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Meat Is Murder

  by  Monk  7 August 2011

Having chewed my way though some dodgy calamari, from Sainsbury’s, this lunch time, I am happy to report on Mrs. Monk’s feast of red meat, yesterday, 6th August 2011, a Saturday.

Morrisey was keen to point out that Meat Is Murder, so vegetarians should look away.

Mrs Monk laid a table in her own no-nonsense way, shoving her daily art works to one end of the kitchen table to make way for the feast of kings, at the business end of the table. 

The cow which gave up it’s life heroically, to salivate the pallet of the carnivorous Monks, came our way by Marks and Spencer, in exchange for 5 Pounds Stirling: enough steak for two English adults, or one eight year old Texan.

This would be a fine cut of sirloin, but then Mrs Monk added value to the animal by judicious  marination in liquor, vermouth to be particular, and the jus was also embellished with more of the same to provide a gravy to anoint the beast, but not before mushrooms were engorged with butter and wine and what remained from the poaching of fresh asparagus, and new potatoes roasted to melt sweetly.

I found myself making an agnostic prayer, while I was obliged to wait for Mrs Monk to join me at the dining  table, all the while tantalised by the resting of the cooked cow and the red wine, and the kitchen fresh cooking aroma.

At the right moment Mrs Monk joined me and  we began to consume the meal. Soon thereafter I made a claim that I had made before but on this occasion, I meant. “This is the finest dinner ever served.”

I found myself comparing this meal to two other red meat dinners in a lifetime, and this would be number one of three.

Number Two would be a a pepper steak served in an unpretentious restaurant in Boulogne, France, which itself surpassed other Michelin starred restaurants in the same town, and another memorable red meat dinner in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which served the finest steak,  but discounted by the failure of the restaurant to embellish the meal with vegetables, and magic.

As we progressed with the meal, I noticed Mrs Monk had the smaller share, I found myself sharing more of mine. That was the most difficult decision I made that evening.




The finest dinner ever served

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