In which I compare spam commenters to Joyce, Nigella Lawson to Hamlet, and assert that Graham The Nasty Commenter eats flies. And in which I make vast quantities of pasta.
It’s been the sort of day where one arranges emergency therapy (blow me down, the NHS, you’re marvellous) and mutters “Good lord, good god, good god alMIGHTy” in between bursts […]
“The most enormous and beautiful pie in the world. It was covered all over, top, sides, and bottom, with rich golden pastry. I took a knife from beside the sink and cut out a wedge. I started to eat it in my fingers, standing up. It was a cold meat pie. The meat was pink and tender with no fat or gristle in it, and there were hard-boiled eggs buried like treasures in several different places. The taste was absolutely fabulous. When I had finished the first slide I cut another and ate that, too.”
I never had mac’n’cheese as a kid. I was offered it once at a friend’s house- pallid and gloopy-white- and immediately remembered that my mum wanted me home for my […]
My grandparents are dying and the world is teetering on the brink of what Twitter keeps calling World War Three and the anxiety is back, kicking and screaming WE TOLD […]
This crumble is either distressing because the idea of nectarines in a crumble is inherently wrong; or because it was written in a hospital waiting room. Really, though, like hospitals, nectarines in crumble are brilliant. This crumble has nectarines, and walnuts, and whiskey, and marzipan, and it may be the best thing I’ve ever invented.
She hears there’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt that carry but half sense. This, then, is a pie of half-sense, and of remembering. Bake it, and remember. I was all out of pansies, and I haven’t seen a columbine in years, and cooking with rue seemed foolish: but the other things are there, and they are very good.