The guilty party

Guilt arrives from the strangest directions.  A few days ago I had agreed with my wife that she would make dinner on Tuesday  - Thai pork curry with pineapple - and I even phoned her from work to make sure it was still ok before I left to come home.  She is anyway better at these things than I am (too heavy handed with the Thai red curry paste) but I also felt it would be nice to have a break from cooking  (usually my preserve because I come home first and I usually do enjoy it).  Ironically it coincided with a grotty day at work and I was doubly grateful that she said she would make dinner.  But the guilt, oh the guilt crept in swiftly and at several times I found myself in the kitchen wondering if I should at least do some prep for her, chop something, wash the rice perhaps.  I resisted stoutly (because I can sometimes interfere by way of being helpful when she is making something in the kitchen) and thoroughly enjoyed the meal when it was served.  As the food vanished mouthful by delicious mouthful, the guilt dissipated too.  Tonight however I made sure to have dinner ready when she walked through the door (pork chops with lemon and roasted sweet potatoes with peppers, served with buttered spinach).   No guilt, no angst of any kind, unless you include the slight twinge of self-reproach that followed nibbling first on Stilton cheese and crackers and then Christmas cake with coffee. But hey, food is one of life's major pleasures.  I hate the phrase 'guilty pleasure'.  Why should so many of the things we enjoy - food, wine, sex - often carry with them the sobriquet 'guilty pleasures'?  I blame St. Augustus, more of whom later.