My most long-term fridge resident, the jar of Tesco Finest garlic chutney, has finally moved on to better things.
I am happy to announce that I have invented what I call the "stir" "fry", a meal composed entirely of – and this is the clever bit – things you have fried while stirring. The stirring is key, because otherwise the things will burn.
I have never to my knowledge eaten any Nigerian food, but it sounds like it involves big piles of chicken and rice, which is very much in my wheelhouse. I decide to eat some.
All food bets are off around the Christmas period: a lawless time when it feels reasonable to have fudge for breakfast and you can drink Hofmeister at 10am without anyone raising an eyebrow. So as going to the effort of making one burger seems a waste of energy, I'm going to have two.
I ended the year as I lived it: doing something to a standard that was acceptable but ultimately fell short of its potential.
As my grandfather used to say, you can't griddle a chicken without humiliating a junior halal butcher.
I’m heading home doing a mental fridge/cupboard inventory, and I’ve got all this stuff to use up. An onion on its last legs. Two rashers of bacon that I’m not wholly convinced haven’t gone off. Massive reserves of pasta and frozen peas. I Google a recipe. All I need is to score some soured cream on the way home. I can do that. I can do anything.