Monday, 8 November 2010

Gunpowder, Seasoning and Plot.

I love, love, LOVE playing with fire - always have. And now I'm all grown-up I don't have to hide under the dining room table table with a box of matches. Or hide in the shed blackening fallen apples with a candle flame. Or hide in the woods at the bottom of the rec with an illicit fag lighter.

It's all pukka now! Family fireworks!

And then after the sparklers we had this:

Nourishment and nostalgia in one great big steaming pot. I can still remember the comfort of tucking into my great granny's version decades ago - when all the cooking was slow, there was a cobbler on the corner by the church and the shops shut on Wednesday afternoons.

And there's another good reason for indulging in the art of slow cuisine: Mummy is less likely to burn this when she's cooking up a brand new romance. She forgets to check and stir when her mind is drifting off to imposing doorsteps and the man that opens the door. Green eyes or blue? Dark or fair? Will his house smell of beeswax or burnt toast. Or both? Or of orange blossom, sun-baked sea shells and pimenton?

I'm plotting. Oh yes, it's ALL good ...