Wendyl Nissen: Wistful saucy Sunday

It was a decision I made on a Sunday. I should never make decisions on Sunday because little, mischievous intruders wander into my brain sensing a general relaxing of borders into my brains's creative side. They sneak past while my border guards are otherwise occupied reading the papers, drinking coffee, and consulting me on my top 10 must-read books for summer.

It was also a decision made while sitting in the Auckland Central library.

We had ended up there at 11am on a Sunday to avoid going home. At home were several hungover adult children, 12 recycling bins worth of empties, dead food, full ashtrays, three shocked hens and a dog, replete from the offerings to be found from the willing hands and hearts of 50 guests at a 21st party.

"Text when safe to come home," I sent to my daughter.

"Let's go to the library," suggested my bookish husband.

We had just been there a few days ago when I gave a little talk about my little book. We spied at least three people who enjoyed the free wine and whom we now believe to be living at the library. We discussed the most comfortable places to doss down. The Genealogy department is the most welcoming but then there's the seclusion of the Rare Books.

As I was sitting there, hoping no one would see us, thus reporting back that we too were living in the library, I decided that I would make my own Worcestershire sauce.

Within moments I had retrieved Digby Law's Pickle and Chutney Cookbook - A New Zealand Classic from the cookery section, noting a particularly comfortable aisle for a wee doze if I ever needed it, and had turned to page 98.

I read the recipe out to my husband, noting with astonishment that one of the main ingredients was a kilo of treacle.

"I thought it had anchovies in it," was all he said before shifting over a bit to let five German female backpackers squeeze in beside him while they waited for the free internet. They giggled; he smiled back tolerantly as if he squashed in next to hot young Germans every day of his life. "No problem," he simpered, channelling what he thought was his inner-cool.

I decided it was time to go home and promptly boiled up a huge batch of sauce.

It was still a good idea at the time, and one I credited to a woman at a Hawera market from whom I bought a bottle of her homemade Worcestershire sauce. Only she called it Worcester sauce.

"I was a bit worried about copyright and things, you know how those big companies can be very sensitive," she confided in me as I handed over $2.

"Oh yes," I agreed enthusiastically. "Even way down here in Hawera!"

She glared. Did I always have to be such an Aucklander? The sauce project became a bad idea when I wanted to skite about it, as I do every time I do anything remotely old-fashioned, like making bread, chutney, jam or collecting eggs; anything you might see on the cover of a magazine called Country Living or Hobby Farm Home. While engaged in the act of having a good skite, I found myself unable to find the correct pronunciation for Worcestershire and distinctly let the side down by mumbling something resembling "Worsechecheyer". I rang my mother.

"It's Wister," she said in her best posh voice. "I think you'll find that's how all the best people say it."

I put a call out on Twitter and Facebook and rather distressingly received a huge response within seconds, unlike my previous call-out to name a large woman who is sexy. (Oprah, Nigella Lawson and Dawn French was all they could manage.)

And most seem to prefer "wust-ter-shire", "woos-ter-sheer" or "woos-ter-sher" which, according to my husband who likes to be right, is what they recommend on the Lea & Perrin's website. They have made the stuff for more than 170 years.

After much thought I think I'll go with my Mum and call it "Wister". I would hate to think people thought I wasn't brung up good.