But have you tried The Carey Mulligan Salad?

It's spoon-friendly, but also a metaphor...

My twin sister and I haven’t lived in the same city since we were 19. We’re about to turn 30. She’s now moving to Amsterdam to do her Master’s, and I’m not moving to Amsterdam (or doing my Master’s). I call her TJ. She calls me Bec. TJ sounds better than Bec, it’s okay if you agree.

We do cross paths though, like aeroplanes in the night, but with stopovers, valium and a shared bed. I always curl up to stay away from her, and get a sore neck. She knows she is a duvet hog.

Our routine comes back easily, it always does. I get up first to sip my three scoops of instant with full cream and go to the bathroom first. She goes later without coffee. TJ sleeps more, I wish I could. Maybe if I got more of the duvet and bed space.

This time we’re in London and she’s telling me about her experience in the Qantas business lounge. She was nice to a middle-aged woman who was unknowingly a member, so the woman invited her in as her guest. TJ had a shower, wine and helped herself to the bottomless couscous. Yet still, she wants a high-fibre bean salad for her touchdown dinner. Me too, I’d like to rely less on my instant.

We’re excited to walk around, point at pubs and revel in our inbred vacillation skills. We stare at cakes, wine lists, and bananas, wordlessly signalling whether or not it’s what we actually want. It feels nice to be back to experiencing decision paralysis together; it feels like home. The other always agrees.

Today, we shook our heads at a lemon drizzle loaf. “Too dry”. Exiting the bakery in silent agreement (and probably in step), a stranger asked if we were twins. We always forget when we’re in public.

While the outside is nice, we prefer the indoors. Dinnertime.

In telepathic synchronicity, one fills up drink bottles, sets up the show and TV condiment station (salt, pepper, vinegar and olive oil) and the other finishes dinner. Guess which. It’s usually in a bowl, and almost always with a spoon, especially if it’s The Carey Mulligan Salad.

This is the high-fibre bean meal we’d shaken hands over at the pub. We have no major affiliation with Carey Mulligan, but we do with butter beans. And she was backing these. So we stood in the gourmet bean aisle, clasping our chins in deliberative thought before giving in. If Carey Mulligan loves Bold Bean Co, we nodded that we might too.

I’m not typing the recipe, because this has less to do with what’s in The Carey Mulligan Salad, but more about what we’re doing when we eat The Carey Mulligan Salad. We’re always showered, wearing slippers and clothed in a tea-towel to protect our pyjamas. The TV is on, and the salt is coddled between us. We silently pass the pepper grinder between us as our spoons uncover a new layer of food. The only big interaction is to slightly raise an index finger to acknowledge that oh, Carey Mulligan is on the screen too.

We carry on eating, nodding and mm-ing, we like the beans.

We’ve become good at creating The Carey Mulligan Moment anywhere, coddled by fibre, and each other. It’s a safe and distilled recipe for instant contentment. It only requires salt, a spoon and slippers.

We train next to France together tomorrow where we will continue to Carey Mulligan. TJ is then off to Amsterdam. We’ll have to make decisions on our own again. That is, until she texts “The Carey Mulligan, please”, probably from the business lounge, with no sore neck and a large duvet.