Just had a weekend visit from Mummy, who was on her way from her own mum in Yorkshire. These visits and the attendant wide eyes and hungry cutlery attending cauliflower that isn't soggy and starches that aren't yorkshire puddings or boiled potatoes make me realize how good the food is here. Too good. So good. If ever I truly become a Belgian, I'll be a'bulgin, and if you don't appreciate the quality of that pun I don't care - I'm too full of food and beer.

During the weekend much family gossip was heard by me. My family gossip has taken a turn for the gross and melodramatic. The details aren't bloggable, but neither are they actually illegal, so just let me say this: I am a caker, and proud of it. Maybe I can eat pig's feet without gagging, maybe I can spend time in the sun without burning, maybe I've spent more time in Italy than most of my generation, maybe I've had more carnal relationships with Italians than have my family members who are actually legally Italian, and maybe there's a whole litany of things that pisses me off about cakers.

None of that changes the fact that I'm a caker through and through: that I'd probably join the Freemasons if they let ladies past the auxiliary; that sometimes I just plain like boiled potatoes, as long as they're dirt fresh spring ones done with a little mint; that I will always take the comfy shoes over the pretty shoes; and that there are some things which are simply not said or done, blush, harumph, let's talk about the weather and just let people live their bloody lives, please.

This is the long way to say that I've always been really, really glad Mummy is my mum, and that I don't have a Mamma, and with this new onslaught of gossip I'm even more so.