It's me again! Little me, back again, updating you all on this blog. Once a year is like, plenty enough, for anyone isn't it? That's what SJP says!
Well, Darryl and Jordan got together with each other and I got feeling a bit left out, so I started seeing Marcus again, and he didn't like sharing the bed with me and Darryl and Jordan, which I so didn't get, as I was lovely and toasty-warm and there was always someone to cuddle, so the next thing I know he's saying that someone has to sleep on the couch.
How the hell did that someone end up being me? I slept there one night, with my Buffy slippers and my Jersey Shore dressing gown and this fleecy blanket thing that Ethel brought back from some third-world country she visited (oh God, I mean, Ethel. Like you would!) and I woke up all cold and stiff and unloved and I decided enough was enough, so I moved back in with Mummy for a week. Mummy was just back from touring in an aquavan so she was all like Cher in Mermaids and she and I just drank Limoncello all week and had a great time.
But then on Thursday Mummy sobered up a little and went down to the house in the country to feed the dogs or something, and said that when she came back she wanted to see that I'd done something productive. Like, totes not going to happen! I nearly had a job once, working in some miserable little council office where they implement government housing policies or something, and I remember distinctly this woman there with a bad perm and brown teeth who kept making everyone feel bad about themselves, and like, there's just no way I could have a job after that. I mean, her dress clashed with her boots, and I'm sure that if I'd seen her bra and knickers I'd have taken my own straight off and given them to her as a spontaneous act of charity.
But Mummy's insistent, and she pointed out that I had this little blogette and said she wanted to see me adding an entry to it.
"The kitchen's empty," she said. "We sent the cook off with the children when Social Services picked them up to make sure that they wouldn't be undernourished in some council estate somewhere, so it's not even like the last one where she just died in there and no-one noticed for a week." (I remember that, that was the week I was on my toast-and-cigarettes diet, and when I finally got to the toast part I found the cook face down in the dirty dish-water in the sink.) "Go and cook something and then write about it. You're really good with words and verbs and things, so show me. Make me proud."
So like, anyway, she's totes so, like, correct about me and words. I've got verbiage coming right out of my fingers! So I went and had a look at the kitchen.
So there was this dried pasta stuff, long, thin, brittle, and there was some red sauce stuff in a jar, and I thought, people eat pasta when they've got no money don't they? And I realised then that I could add human interest to this blog by cooking for like, poor people, like the gardener and the pool boy and his deaf sister and people like that. So I thought, let's give it a try.
So, I put the brittle pasta stuff in a glass dish and put it in the oven to bake it. I put the sauce, Tabby-cat or Tabsi-Cola or something like that – it was just a little bottle but I thought that the pasta was supposed to be the main ingredient so it didn't matter – in a pan to boil, and then I realised that I should pick out a wine to go with it.
Then I remembered that Mummy has a Sommelier to pick out wines, so I found him in the wine cellar, crying for some reason, and showed him what I was cooking. And you know, it was amazing! One minute he's really upset about something, and then when he realises what a wonderful person I am, cooking for poor people, he really cheers up and ever starts laughing, though there might still have been some tears there as well. I invited him to dinner, but he said that he's just had his stomach stapled and can't eat for a week. What a good idea!
I got the gardener and the pool boy in and got the baked pasta out of the oven, but it didn't look very different to me, and poured the boiling sauce over it, and there really wasn't all that much of it. I served it up, and they looked up at me with this look in their eyes that I couldn't interpret at first, and then I realised that it must be gratitude, which I never see from people like Edith. It actually made me want to cry a little then, so I encouraged them to eat up and went out in the hall to have a little cry and be impressed with how... noble I am.
When I came back in they'd eaten it all up and were already back at work. They're dedicated, saintly people, and I have decided that I shall cook lunch for them everyday now.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Think of the children
The Blonde wanted to go out and celebrate. I had just put on some Argyll socks that her mother had sent me for Christmas and put my feet up. I looked up, trying not to rustle the newspaper angrily and asked her what we were celebrating.
"Did you forget my birthday?" she cried, her eyes opening wide and a recently-manicured hand flying to her mouth.
"No," I said. "It's in two months time, just before we go to... somewhere."
"Oh." I could tell she was put out that the ruse had failed because she ask where I was going to take her for her birthday.
"Well, it's our five-year anniversary."
"Not for another four months," I said, raising the newspaper again and relaxing. "It's the day after Bonfire Night."
"You seem to know these dates awfully well," she said, the tone of doubt in her voice warning me to slacken my grip on the paper. She whisked it out of hands, and peered at my lap, looking for the calendar, smart-phone or PDA she suspected I was using, and found nothing but my paint-splashed jogging pants. "You can't go out wearing them!"
"I wasn't going to go out at all," I said. "I was going to read my newspaper and wear these socks your mother sent me."
"But we're celebrating!"
"What are we celebrating?"
"My... my period!"
I considered telling her that I knew her schedule as well because I'd synchronised the mortgage payments with it, but I could see that she was determined that we were going to go out and celebrate something. So I smiled and said,
"Is that such good news, dear?" and left her worrying about me wanting children while I got changed.
*
We arrived at I Bambini Grigi slightly later than I like to visit restaurants at, and stopped at the front door. I frowned, and the eight-year-old child in the ill-fitting tuxedo with a thin, wasted face frowned back.
"We have a reservation," I said, though in fact I was acquiring more the more I looked at him. "For nine."
"There's only two of you!" he said and giggled as though this was the funniest joke ever. I smiled as politely as rictus will allow, but the Blonde tittered a little too, and nudged me to tell me I should be laughing. I allowed a mirthless "Ha. Ha." to escape my lips.
"This way, Sir and... Ma-dame," he said sounding forty years older than he looked all of sudden.
We were seated, and a waitress brought the menu. Behind her lipstick and ill-applied make-up she could only have been six, and she was in a wheelchair. I tried not to stare, and the Blonde asked her if she'd mind if she gave her some make-up tips. As the girls got it on, I checked the menu, and noticed immediately that all the dishes on there were either invalid food or involved very young animals: week-old lamb, veal blanc, duck foetus. I flagged down another waiter, this one being probably twelve and looking like a heroin addict and asked him to send me the manager.
*
"And what seems to be the problem?" said the manager unctuously. His name-badge said he was Oliver, and he at least seemed to be an adult, if only just.
"Your staff," I said. "Have you ever heard of child-labour laws? Oh, and the menu too. This food is disgusting, and that's before I try eating it!"
"We're not breaching child-labour laws," said Oliver smiling. "None of these children are actually employed. All of them have expressed a wish to the Make-a-plea foundation to work in a restaurant before they die. They're all terminally ill."
"Right," I said. "Right. All terminally ill. That doesn't include the chefs, does it?"
"But of course! Children wish to cook as well, they watch Nigella and Jamie and Gordon--"
"I hope these kids don't watch Gordon! I have enough swearing at home, without going out for some more."
"They cook. Which, to some extent, explains the menu, they cook what they're used to."
"Duck foetus?"
"We had a shipment, we can't afford to waste food."
"Look," I said, "this is ridiculous. You might have got round the child-labour laws, but there are food hygiene laws too!"
"We're completely kosher," said Oliver quickly.
"Leprosy," I said. "Where do you put the lepers? And the kids with infectious diseases?"
"The salads and the cloakroom," said Oliver. "Hang on, what's the difference between a leper and a caper?"
*
We left without eating, and without paying, since Oliver wasn't paying any of his staff. On the way home, as the Blonde was choosing between Burger King and KFC, I made a few notes. After all, if I write it up, it becomes a work expense.
"Did you forget my birthday?" she cried, her eyes opening wide and a recently-manicured hand flying to her mouth.
"No," I said. "It's in two months time, just before we go to... somewhere."
"Oh." I could tell she was put out that the ruse had failed because she ask where I was going to take her for her birthday.
"Well, it's our five-year anniversary."
"Not for another four months," I said, raising the newspaper again and relaxing. "It's the day after Bonfire Night."
"You seem to know these dates awfully well," she said, the tone of doubt in her voice warning me to slacken my grip on the paper. She whisked it out of hands, and peered at my lap, looking for the calendar, smart-phone or PDA she suspected I was using, and found nothing but my paint-splashed jogging pants. "You can't go out wearing them!"
"I wasn't going to go out at all," I said. "I was going to read my newspaper and wear these socks your mother sent me."
"But we're celebrating!"
"What are we celebrating?"
"My... my period!"
I considered telling her that I knew her schedule as well because I'd synchronised the mortgage payments with it, but I could see that she was determined that we were going to go out and celebrate something. So I smiled and said,
"Is that such good news, dear?" and left her worrying about me wanting children while I got changed.
We arrived at I Bambini Grigi slightly later than I like to visit restaurants at, and stopped at the front door. I frowned, and the eight-year-old child in the ill-fitting tuxedo with a thin, wasted face frowned back.
"We have a reservation," I said, though in fact I was acquiring more the more I looked at him. "For nine."
"There's only two of you!" he said and giggled as though this was the funniest joke ever. I smiled as politely as rictus will allow, but the Blonde tittered a little too, and nudged me to tell me I should be laughing. I allowed a mirthless "Ha. Ha." to escape my lips.
"This way, Sir and... Ma-dame," he said sounding forty years older than he looked all of sudden.
We were seated, and a waitress brought the menu. Behind her lipstick and ill-applied make-up she could only have been six, and she was in a wheelchair. I tried not to stare, and the Blonde asked her if she'd mind if she gave her some make-up tips. As the girls got it on, I checked the menu, and noticed immediately that all the dishes on there were either invalid food or involved very young animals: week-old lamb, veal blanc, duck foetus. I flagged down another waiter, this one being probably twelve and looking like a heroin addict and asked him to send me the manager.
"And what seems to be the problem?" said the manager unctuously. His name-badge said he was Oliver, and he at least seemed to be an adult, if only just.
"Your staff," I said. "Have you ever heard of child-labour laws? Oh, and the menu too. This food is disgusting, and that's before I try eating it!"
"We're not breaching child-labour laws," said Oliver smiling. "None of these children are actually employed. All of them have expressed a wish to the Make-a-plea foundation to work in a restaurant before they die. They're all terminally ill."
"Right," I said. "Right. All terminally ill. That doesn't include the chefs, does it?"
"But of course! Children wish to cook as well, they watch Nigella and Jamie and Gordon--"
"I hope these kids don't watch Gordon! I have enough swearing at home, without going out for some more."
"They cook. Which, to some extent, explains the menu, they cook what they're used to."
"Duck foetus?"
"We had a shipment, we can't afford to waste food."
"Look," I said, "this is ridiculous. You might have got round the child-labour laws, but there are food hygiene laws too!"
"We're completely kosher," said Oliver quickly.
"Leprosy," I said. "Where do you put the lepers? And the kids with infectious diseases?"
"The salads and the cloakroom," said Oliver. "Hang on, what's the difference between a leper and a caper?"
We left without eating, and without paying, since Oliver wasn't paying any of his staff. On the way home, as the Blonde was choosing between Burger King and KFC, I made a few notes. After all, if I write it up, it becomes a work expense.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Letrice
The barman tried to guess the Blonde's weight. You can, loyal readers, imagine how that went down. Anchors have slipped into the sea slower; hungry tigers in the lamed-wildebeest rehabilitation sanctuary have reacted slower and with less ferocity. And it didn't stop him.
Letrice is a small restaurant just off Greek Street that took us a ridiculous amount of time to find. The Blonde had insisted first on downloading a map and directions from the web and second on following them to the letter. Common sense was thrown overboard and her usual impeccable sense of direction jettisoned as she stared at her (slight tatty) piece of A4 paper with its grey-scale map and terse, enumerated instructions and attempted to follow them.
"Through here!" she insisted, pointing imperiously at the front-door of Brindisa after counting off the number of feet we'd travelled under her breath.
"It's a shop, I don't think we can go through," I remonstrated, and she waved her piece of paper in my face aggressively.
"The map says we go through here!"
The man behind the bar turned out to be someone I used to drink with until the early hours of the morning in Soho House when we were both younger, and he correctly interpreted my roll of the eyes as meaning that the Blonde was to be humoured, and so we stumbled through a stock-room fragrant with curing spice that reminded me of a summer in Morocco, out into a narrow back-yard, over a wall that reminded me how athletic the Blonde is when she's in the mood, and into a church-yard.
"This is the wrong place," she announced. "We have to go back and start again."
I took the map from her (gently) and looked at it myself. "This is a map of London from the 1940's," I said. "Things have changed a little since then."
She was going to sulk, but luckily I thought to ask her where Greek Street was and she cheered up immediately, pointing without even looking in what would, of course, prove to the be right direction.
Finally in the restaurant the maître'd took our coats and the Blonde hung on to her handbag for dear life and we were directed to the bar because, despite being five minutes late, our table still wasn't ready. And so it was that we discovered that the barman had been a fairground barker in a previous life and had a death-wish.
"ROLL UP, ROLL UP, GUESS THE WEIGHT OF THE LADY!" he bellowed as I sat down and the Blonde headed back to the door. It took all of my (considerable) powers of persuasion to get her to sit down, which I now deeply regret. The barman served us a distinctly inferior champagne, and made a first guess at the Blonde's weight. She, in turn, took a first swing at his head.
We were seated only after an expensive bribe and reassurances for the Blonde that the barman would not be allowed near her, and assurances from her that she wouldn't go near the barman. The menu was brought, and I turned to the starters
"The crab ravioli sounds... well, it sounds banal, but I think I could write something interesting about it if it isn't awful," I said. "And look, there's a pâté forestiere if you're interested?"
There was silence. I ventured to peer over the menu hoping that she was engrossed in the wine-list. I was close; she was engrossed in constructing a Molotov cocktail from a napkin, the vase on the table that had contained a single orchid, and the remnants of her martini. I waved the waiter over and asked him to give me one of everything with crab in it and to bring it as a takeaway. He started to sniff dismissively, and then the Blonde launched her firebomb at the bar, just missing his head in the process. His sniff turned into a splutter, and then he and I were walking very quickly into the kitchen and away from the warzone.
The crab ravioli was definitely not worth writing about. Very banal.
Letrice is a small restaurant just off Greek Street that took us a ridiculous amount of time to find. The Blonde had insisted first on downloading a map and directions from the web and second on following them to the letter. Common sense was thrown overboard and her usual impeccable sense of direction jettisoned as she stared at her (slight tatty) piece of A4 paper with its grey-scale map and terse, enumerated instructions and attempted to follow them.
"Through here!" she insisted, pointing imperiously at the front-door of Brindisa after counting off the number of feet we'd travelled under her breath.
"It's a shop, I don't think we can go through," I remonstrated, and she waved her piece of paper in my face aggressively.
"The map says we go through here!"
The man behind the bar turned out to be someone I used to drink with until the early hours of the morning in Soho House when we were both younger, and he correctly interpreted my roll of the eyes as meaning that the Blonde was to be humoured, and so we stumbled through a stock-room fragrant with curing spice that reminded me of a summer in Morocco, out into a narrow back-yard, over a wall that reminded me how athletic the Blonde is when she's in the mood, and into a church-yard.
"This is the wrong place," she announced. "We have to go back and start again."
I took the map from her (gently) and looked at it myself. "This is a map of London from the 1940's," I said. "Things have changed a little since then."
She was going to sulk, but luckily I thought to ask her where Greek Street was and she cheered up immediately, pointing without even looking in what would, of course, prove to the be right direction.
Finally in the restaurant the maître'd took our coats and the Blonde hung on to her handbag for dear life and we were directed to the bar because, despite being five minutes late, our table still wasn't ready. And so it was that we discovered that the barman had been a fairground barker in a previous life and had a death-wish.
"ROLL UP, ROLL UP, GUESS THE WEIGHT OF THE LADY!" he bellowed as I sat down and the Blonde headed back to the door. It took all of my (considerable) powers of persuasion to get her to sit down, which I now deeply regret. The barman served us a distinctly inferior champagne, and made a first guess at the Blonde's weight. She, in turn, took a first swing at his head.
We were seated only after an expensive bribe and reassurances for the Blonde that the barman would not be allowed near her, and assurances from her that she wouldn't go near the barman. The menu was brought, and I turned to the starters
"The crab ravioli sounds... well, it sounds banal, but I think I could write something interesting about it if it isn't awful," I said. "And look, there's a pâté forestiere if you're interested?"
There was silence. I ventured to peer over the menu hoping that she was engrossed in the wine-list. I was close; she was engrossed in constructing a Molotov cocktail from a napkin, the vase on the table that had contained a single orchid, and the remnants of her martini. I waved the waiter over and asked him to give me one of everything with crab in it and to bring it as a takeaway. He started to sniff dismissively, and then the Blonde launched her firebomb at the bar, just missing his head in the process. His sniff turned into a splutter, and then he and I were walking very quickly into the kitchen and away from the warzone.
The crab ravioli was definitely not worth writing about. Very banal.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Still food blogging
I'm so hung-over. So very hung-over, and it's totes not my fault. Jenn came over, and she brought Darren with her, who brought his sister, who brought her best friend and her twin, and they all wanted to try Coddled Eggs in Wine just the way I described it in my first post. And at first they were all Ewww and then I remembered that the martinis had helped a bit the first time, and soon we were coddling eggs -- well, egg-nog -- and drinking martinis, and... and now I feel like I'm being punished for being such a good cook and host. Hostess.
The reason Jenn came over, and brought Darren with her, who brought -- hang on, I told you all about that in the first paragraph. I won't bore you and tell you again! (Well, not in the same post, anyway. Read more about it tomorrow!) is because I have to move house tomorrow. I mean today. So she was going to help me pack, and so was Darren, but we wanted to eat first, and that means I never actually got started on this packing thing. Well I did, before they all arrived, but then I had to unpack some stuff to find the martini-shaker and the egg-nog coddling thingy (saucepan! See, I told you I was hung-over), so I'm now less packed than I was before.
Oh lord, what would SJP do?
Right, that was clearly the right question to ask, as I realised I could just hire people to pack for me. They were a bit rude on the phone when I explained that I wanted them right now, but I pointed out that I was a government worker and they jumped to it after that. I'd like to think it's because people respect the work we do in government, but I overheard one of them saying it's because they thought I was going to go postal. Hah. Like I'd know what to do with any post, I have a secretary for that. I mean, a PA.
So, cooking was going to be a bit tricky today, so I thought I'd do a salad, and I'd forage for the leaves myself, a really green post. But when I went for a quick walk round the shops, there were no free plants anywhere, which was a bit disappointing. Finally I stopped and asked the cute server in Dean&DeLuca where the foraging department was, and he said that foraging was all about going out into the countryside and picking things there. I slapped him. Naturally. (And got his phone number, but more on that when the media're interested in my blog.)
Well fine, I saw a park on my way to a restaurant the other day, I can forage there. Only I get there and realise I've no idea what the plants look like. In the end, I pulled up some pretty flowers and grabbed some clean-looking leaves and ran like hell when the park wardens saw me. Some of them are good shots, good enough that I now need to petition for park wardens not to be allowed firearms.
So, today's dish was park salad, and I poured a pot of mayonnaise over it, sprinkled some green stuff from a jar over it, and gave it to my helpful movers. (About that jar... isn't taramasalata supposed to be pink?)
The reason Jenn came over, and brought Darren with her, who brought -- hang on, I told you all about that in the first paragraph. I won't bore you and tell you again! (Well, not in the same post, anyway. Read more about it tomorrow!) is because I have to move house tomorrow. I mean today. So she was going to help me pack, and so was Darren, but we wanted to eat first, and that means I never actually got started on this packing thing. Well I did, before they all arrived, but then I had to unpack some stuff to find the martini-shaker and the egg-nog coddling thingy (saucepan! See, I told you I was hung-over), so I'm now less packed than I was before.
Oh lord, what would SJP do?
Right, that was clearly the right question to ask, as I realised I could just hire people to pack for me. They were a bit rude on the phone when I explained that I wanted them right now, but I pointed out that I was a government worker and they jumped to it after that. I'd like to think it's because people respect the work we do in government, but I overheard one of them saying it's because they thought I was going to go postal. Hah. Like I'd know what to do with any post, I have a secretary for that. I mean, a PA.
So, cooking was going to be a bit tricky today, so I thought I'd do a salad, and I'd forage for the leaves myself, a really green post. But when I went for a quick walk round the shops, there were no free plants anywhere, which was a bit disappointing. Finally I stopped and asked the cute server in Dean&DeLuca where the foraging department was, and he said that foraging was all about going out into the countryside and picking things there. I slapped him. Naturally. (And got his phone number, but more on that when the media're interested in my blog.)
Well fine, I saw a park on my way to a restaurant the other day, I can forage there. Only I get there and realise I've no idea what the plants look like. In the end, I pulled up some pretty flowers and grabbed some clean-looking leaves and ran like hell when the park wardens saw me. Some of them are good shots, good enough that I now need to petition for park wardens not to be allowed firearms.
So, today's dish was park salad, and I poured a pot of mayonnaise over it, sprinkled some green stuff from a jar over it, and gave it to my helpful movers. (About that jar... isn't taramasalata supposed to be pink?)
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Food blog
So, it seems I've just turned thirty and all my friends, who all watch old Buffy re-runs, Sex in the City re-runs and complain that the Jersey Shore makes them feel a little ridiculous now and then, tell me that I need to do something to stave off the mid-life crisis. What crisis! Lol. (Oh dear Lord, did I just write lol? Perhaps this crisis is happening faster than I thought. What would Sarah Jessica Parker(SJP) do?)
Right, crisis averted for the moment, as I remembered where I left the cocktail shaker (a gift from my father when he divorced my mother -- I'll go into that in more detail in a month when I can't stand to cook any more because it's all going horribly wrong, and because I'll have had a chance to attract media attention by then too. And they'll need something juicy to keep directing people to this blog!). Martinis all round. By which I mean, I'm surrounded now by martinis, and people, they don't keep. I am going to have to drink them all!
Ah, the martini is good, but I've just been back and counted all my exclamation marks and I think I've blown the budget for the month on them. So no more little pointy things with dots underneath! Except for that one.... Oh god, what would SJP do?
The plan for this blog (yes, yes I have a point you see) is to do something with my life. Something meaningful, something worthwhile, and something that will get me a book deal and my own tv show before I'm forty. Something like... a cross between Buffy and Sex in the City, only set on the Jersey Shore. With a bit of Desperate Housewives thrown in for good measure. But in order to get there I have to have a bit of a silly, but exacting, challenge. So I've picked a cookbook off the shelf (ok, it's the only one I own, and that's because Jenn gave it to me last year when I said I ought to blog about food), and I'm going to cook my way through it, every single recipe, in a month.
Ah, the book's called 1080 recipes. Probably not going to do that in a month then, not if I still want to watch TV, get manicures and swan round to the Devonshire to lord it over the girls! (Oops. That's not really an exclamation point, honest.) OK, well, we're going to cook all the recipes from there in a year, unless I get that book deal first. Which I hope I really do.
First recipe then, opening the book at random, is Coddled Eggs in Wine Sauce. No problem.
Well, I have no eggs, so I'm substituting egg nog, and I've drunk all the wine, so it's a martini instead, and... and... I can't see very clearly any more, so I'm going for a lie down. I'll blog about this when I wake up again. That's what SJP would do.
Right, crisis averted for the moment, as I remembered where I left the cocktail shaker (a gift from my father when he divorced my mother -- I'll go into that in more detail in a month when I can't stand to cook any more because it's all going horribly wrong, and because I'll have had a chance to attract media attention by then too. And they'll need something juicy to keep directing people to this blog!). Martinis all round. By which I mean, I'm surrounded now by martinis, and people, they don't keep. I am going to have to drink them all!
Ah, the martini is good, but I've just been back and counted all my exclamation marks and I think I've blown the budget for the month on them. So no more little pointy things with dots underneath! Except for that one.... Oh god, what would SJP do?
The plan for this blog (yes, yes I have a point you see) is to do something with my life. Something meaningful, something worthwhile, and something that will get me a book deal and my own tv show before I'm forty. Something like... a cross between Buffy and Sex in the City, only set on the Jersey Shore. With a bit of Desperate Housewives thrown in for good measure. But in order to get there I have to have a bit of a silly, but exacting, challenge. So I've picked a cookbook off the shelf (ok, it's the only one I own, and that's because Jenn gave it to me last year when I said I ought to blog about food), and I'm going to cook my way through it, every single recipe, in a month.
Ah, the book's called 1080 recipes. Probably not going to do that in a month then, not if I still want to watch TV, get manicures and swan round to the Devonshire to lord it over the girls! (Oops. That's not really an exclamation point, honest.) OK, well, we're going to cook all the recipes from there in a year, unless I get that book deal first. Which I hope I really do.
First recipe then, opening the book at random, is Coddled Eggs in Wine Sauce. No problem.
Well, I have no eggs, so I'm substituting egg nog, and I've drunk all the wine, so it's a martini instead, and... and... I can't see very clearly any more, so I'm going for a lie down. I'll blog about this when I wake up again. That's what SJP would do.
Random snapshot
Blondie
The kind of thing that, after you've eaten a piece, makes you feel like next month is when your next meal should be. So very, very rich!
Dolly chasing a ball
Just a short video.
The kind of thing that, after you've eaten a piece, makes you feel like next month is when your next meal should be. So very, very rich!
Dolly chasing a ball
Just a short video.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Come dine with me: Monday
So, I've made it onto this reality television show. The premise is simple, there are five of us, and each day one of us hosts the rest for dinner. The rest judge them, awarding them points out of ten, and at the end of the week the person with the most points in the winner. There's some kind of prize involved, but frankly I don't much care about that. All I care about is winning.
My competition is: Alan Spackle, a mechanic who's got a workshop a couple of streets over from me; Carmina Alliatori who apparantly specialises in erotic merchandising; Melissa Holywell, a single mother of six; and Vince Treblizie, a musician I've seen perform a few times at the local Conservative Club. On the surface, there doesn't look like there'll be a lot of competition, but I'm not willing to take any chances. I shall be making sure that they don't beat me.
Carmina is going first, and she's invited us all over for six. According to the menu she'll be offering a starter of field mushroom salad with poached quail eggs, a main course of pheasant a la King, and for dessert there'll be erotic Sundaes. On the whole, this sounds quite impressive. The theme of the evening is to be discretely exotic.
I pop over to her house around twelve on a reconnaissance mission. She turns out to live in quite a nice little semi-detached that backs onto the golf-course making it easy enough to mug a golfer in the car-park, nick his clubs, and sneak into her back garden. I catch her leading the camera crew into the living room while her preparations in the kitchen are left for the moment.
She's left the back-door unlocked, so it's the work of just a few moments to slip in and tip half her jar of curry powder into the chocolate sauce that looks destined for the Sundaes. She sounds like she's trying to avoid questions about erotic merchandising so I take a chance and check the fridge. Bingo! there's the cream for the a la king sauce. I add a healthy squirt of tobasco, slip the lid back on and give it a quick shake.
I'm just about to leave when I spot what must be her outfit for this evening hanging on the back of the door. It's all silk and spangles, glittery, low cut at the neck and high cut at the leg. Very lady-of-the-night. I slip back to the spice rack, dip my fingers in the chili powder and rub it on the inside of the dress where I think it might chafe.
On the whole, I'd say this evening's just got a whole lot hotter.
My competition is: Alan Spackle, a mechanic who's got a workshop a couple of streets over from me; Carmina Alliatori who apparantly specialises in erotic merchandising; Melissa Holywell, a single mother of six; and Vince Treblizie, a musician I've seen perform a few times at the local Conservative Club. On the surface, there doesn't look like there'll be a lot of competition, but I'm not willing to take any chances. I shall be making sure that they don't beat me.
Carmina is going first, and she's invited us all over for six. According to the menu she'll be offering a starter of field mushroom salad with poached quail eggs, a main course of pheasant a la King, and for dessert there'll be erotic Sundaes. On the whole, this sounds quite impressive. The theme of the evening is to be discretely exotic.
I pop over to her house around twelve on a reconnaissance mission. She turns out to live in quite a nice little semi-detached that backs onto the golf-course making it easy enough to mug a golfer in the car-park, nick his clubs, and sneak into her back garden. I catch her leading the camera crew into the living room while her preparations in the kitchen are left for the moment.
She's left the back-door unlocked, so it's the work of just a few moments to slip in and tip half her jar of curry powder into the chocolate sauce that looks destined for the Sundaes. She sounds like she's trying to avoid questions about erotic merchandising so I take a chance and check the fridge. Bingo! there's the cream for the a la king sauce. I add a healthy squirt of tobasco, slip the lid back on and give it a quick shake.
I'm just about to leave when I spot what must be her outfit for this evening hanging on the back of the door. It's all silk and spangles, glittery, low cut at the neck and high cut at the leg. Very lady-of-the-night. I slip back to the spice rack, dip my fingers in the chili powder and rub it on the inside of the dress where I think it might chafe.
On the whole, I'd say this evening's just got a whole lot hotter.
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