Valerie King

Larder Lout

It didn't occur to me that I had any sort of problem until my husband asked if he could have a ham sandwich, please and could he have a dab of mustard on it, thank you?

Is it just me, or does everyone else have 17 varieties of mustard to hand?

My father had a friend who, in his later years, found himself popping out for this and that, but always coming back with tins of tomato soup. He would sit under a proscenium arch of Campbell's tins feverishly writing out the essentials on a fresh piece of paper, would then hurl himself at the local supermarket clutching his list and come home soon after to arrange the new tins in pleasing juxtaposition to the eight million or so he had previously sequestered.

Harmless enough in itself, I suppose, if a bit irritating for the people who actually wanted to buy tomato soup only to find it permanently out of stock, but maybe I'm turning into the condiment equivalent.

One of the jars at the back of the cupboard is pea-green for God's sake and no-one in their right mind would buy a jar of tarragon mustard that was that colour unless they were in a state of deepening psychosis.

I have, therefore, both for the sake of my mental health and the housekeeping budget performed a small audit of store-cupboard items to see where we stand.

To begin with we are not going to have to worry about running out of oil for some time, since we have seven varieties of olive oil and two of Argan, in addition to walnut, hazelnut, pistachio, sesame, macadamia and pumpkin seed - and just in case everything in the Middle East goes completely tonto there is also a four-litre container of sunflower oil which should keep both cars on the road for years to come. (I plead mitigating circumstances for this last, since it was purchased when we decided to buy a deep-fat fryer, had to return it when it was discovered not to work, could not exchange it for an identical fryer and therefore spent the refund in the adjacent PC World (obviously), which resulted in our coming home to look at half a gallon of inexpensive oil and some new IT peripherals and each getting a nervous tic in the process.)

Aargggh. Eighteen varieties of mustard. There's a Grey's Poupon lurking behind the flour. Damn.

What about rice? Let's see – there's Basmati, Jasmine, Nanking (I'm sure that's an adjective "Darling... Have we run out of nanking rice again?" – to which the answer, in this house will never be "Yes" evidently...) there's miniature Basmati, the grains so small they could be mistaken for cous cous but which tastes just like the regular sort, so must have been developed for very small appetites, there's Camargue red rice, Emperor green rice, several sorts of round-grain for risotto and lurking at the back is some wild rice, whingeing that it isn't actually a rice at all so what's it doing with all these commoners?

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, I now propose we examine the tea situation.

I am English. Naturally I like a nice cup of tea every now and then; it's hard-wired into the genes. And in case I'm ever allowed out again, my preference is for a well-brewed cup of good, bright Assam, thank you. Henrik hasn't drunk a cup of tea since I've known him. So why, for the love of Mike, have I got Earl Grey, Rose Pouchong, Broken Orange Pekoe, Darjeeling, Redcurrant - is that an errant tube of picnic mustard up there next to the Lady Grey? – Bright Penny, camomile and PG bloody Tips? There is a thin dividing line between being a gracious hostess having a pleasing variety of beverages to offer one's guests and making them stand in quiet rows without shuffling while I reel off the varieties available like one of those manic waiters in restaurants where it is considered amusing not to have menus.

I have checked out the coffee shelf. Let's not even go there. Let us also not discuss the countless different machines and coffee equipage that are within arm's reach, thank you. There are tics in each eye now and syncopated eyebrows that are thinking of getting an agent.

This wouldn't be quite so serious if the dementia didn't extend to cat food, of which I find myself in possession of more varieties than actually exist.

It's obviously an illness, there's no other explanation. I just hope I can get Moutarde de Meaux on prescription.

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