one thing i remember about two days after my birthday is that it was dirty, stinkin’ hot. it was about 11.40 when we left the park, and just before noon when we arrived at about life; i was slick with sweat, and the lenses in my sunglasses had steamed up from the heat coming off my cheeks. the kid was fresh as a daisy, perhaps only slightly wilted, because she’d been in the pram while i’d been pushing it up that god-damned hill. at least one of us looked presentable; it was like we were about to meet the queen.

all morning, maeve had been going through a list of what she might do when she met maggie. “i might dance for maggie,” she said, “and then i might sing a song for maggie, and then i might say hello…” we have “the cook and the chef” on every week, so maggie beer is like, i dunno, a familiar grand aunt? and she was at about life signing cookbooks that day, as well as launching her new range of fancy ice cream.

and amazingly, as i stood there in the doorway trying not to puddle on the floor, someone handed me a tiny cone of ice cream, and one to the kid as well. now that’s a welcome. a smooth and creamy welcome, with a rich vanilla flavour and… an intriguing tang. that something else, when i managed to read the label on a tub a little while later, is elderflower. i wish that i had had a moment longer to savour it slowly, for bang on twelve maggie appeared and began signing books for the handful of people who’d shown up punctually. i popped the rest of the cone into my mouth and grappled for the cookbook in my bag.

a couple weeks before, i had told the boy that if he bought a copy of “maggie’s harvest” for his mum’s birthday, that i’d take it to get signed. so there we were, inching forward towards the grand lady. “where’s maggie?” said maeve, and there. she. was.

“hello!” said maggie, brightly. but maeve was not singing, and not dancing, and not even saying hello. there was something very interesting on the floor just right of maggie’s feet. so i told maggie how excited we were about her ice cream, and she said that she was too, and we got through it in the end, and then it was time for lunch.

the salad display at about life is a wall of great big bowls bursting with colour and delight. it was extra delightful that day, because of a small platter of grilled lamb cutlets sitting unobtrusively to one side. it became very important to me that we should acquire a portion of these… but what constituted a portion? the counterstaff did not know, because it was a one-off special for the day, but they helpfully suggested that i tell them how many i wanted and they’d put it on a plate for me.

so i asked for two — one each for me and the kid — and some of the tomato and hand-torn mozzarella salad on the side. and some bread and butter, please. oh, and also that amazing strawberry tart in the cake cabinet.

and what showed up was a heaped platter of colour and delight: the lamb was well-marinated and tender, with just enough charred fatty bits on the edges; the tomatoes were big and juicy; the cheese tasted pure, of cream. the bread, after it had been put to good use soaking up lamb juice and olive oil… sigh…

but by that stage the kid had already moved on. swiftly and methodically she picked off the perfect glistening strawberries atop the tart, and started on the stewed rhubarb at the same cracking pace, until the intense sourness stopped her. mm! it was sour! but i ate it all, relishing the tartness. what didn’t get eaten (shock!) was most of the pastry. “pastry”. it looked lovely on the shelf, all dramatically misshapen and caramelised, but it was chewy and ultimately unyielding, a handful of seeds and grains pressed into a pie dish, and tasted like what i imagine those moulded birdseed things taste like. sigh. (this is a different sort of sigh from the one in the last paragraph: it is a healthy cake sigh.)

following the banoffee pie debacle of a couple months back — there were a couple thin slices of banana atop the cloud of cream, and i thought that there might be more banana hidden beneath, mingling with the caramel… but no, those were the only two whispers of banana in the whole thing, dried out from being baked. and the cream wasn’t cream; it was some sort of soft meringue, i think. and the biscuit base was too big a slab. and… and… well, it just wasn’t a very good banoffee experience (my first time!) and i would hope that it gets better from now on —

i guess i’m trying to say… well, i’m hesitant to put the kibosh on cake at about life, based on two out of two not quite stellar instances… but maybe go all out on the savoury stuff — the salads, the tapas plates, the wraps filled to bursting point and served with a handful of undressed rocket — and if there’s lamb lurking about the glass case, order it! and then buy a tub of maggie’s ice cream from the grocery department.

which, in case you are interested, also comes in quince and bitter almond, and burnt fig jam, honeycomb and caramel. on the way out, i bought a tub of the latter for the boy, and briefly considered having it autographed by maggie, but she was outside in the sunshine, eating a big plate of something delicious. we sidled past into the heat. “where’s maggie?” said maeve.