I write about food but as I get more and more jaded with food trends (local and seasonal, eat the whole pig, oh you’re making gourmet burgers, how unusual, everyone but probably not their dog are making them, and you say that you make your own bread, well that is wholesome yes yes yes, stab me now), I am becoming increasingly aware that I am not necessarily a great cook. Or host come to think of it. Read More
I haven’t had chicken with feet before. I even went as far as having a little nibble on the cartilaginous toes before giving up and reverting to breast with plenty of crispy skin.
“How many of you have ever thought about opening your own restaurant?” Read More
My doctor told me I had to stop throwing intimate dinner parties for four unless there are three other people – Orson Welles.
Food fads are never good. Sensible culinary countries such as Italy, France and Spain seem immune to our tabloid-fed paranoias about what to eat. It’s boring. And mostly funded by companies with a vested interest in selling us the food in the first place. Doh.
I say surf but really I lawnmow. Yep, that’s right: I don’t ride barrels, have no idea how to carve and rarely wipe-out. Instead I gently slide, belly on wood (behind neoprene) into shore with an occasional squeal, not unlike the action of cutting grass: arms outstretched, pushing forward. And that’s how I like it best.
What perverse culinary twist has turned lunchtime at work into the spurned lover of our daily meals? Keep her (or him) firmly under wraps, consume preferably under the pretence of doing something else and whatever you do, don’t acknowledge them for shame of being found out.