A 4.30am alarm call soon saw me scrabbling about in the moonlight and mist down the bottom of the garden. Eventually I managed to coax the dew soaked firewood to burn. Now attention could be turned to lifting the oily deer onto the recently finished spit. Not that easy but a complete doddle compared to plastering it in dough. This kept stretching and great wads of it would fall off onto the drive and then become studded with chippings. Time was going on... "Its not working'! I blurted...
Isabelle came up with the idea of using aluminium foil so I rushed off and bought the entire stock at the local shop. Once the foil covered the whole beast the appearance was more of a space age cooking process or the treatment of a hypothermia victim.
Now this was real adventure cooking as there was some doubt as to whether it would ever get even remotely warm inside the foil. The guests could arrive with suitable appetites and witness the foil removed to reveal practically raw meat.
Needless to say this was another textbook case in the long running battle against overt pessimism; by 3pm the meat proved to be juicy, succulent and worthy of any praise heaped upon it.
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