I can cook OK, but I can't take pictures of it for toffee. Or make toffee.
This pork marinade usually suits pesto on the side, but a roast needs gravy, and it worries me that these flavours might be overcome by a gravy. I say "worries": it'd be a blow but I'd probably get over it.
I am eating some chaource cheese on corn thins for lunch when I notice that the rind is a bit blue-tasting for my liking. I hit upon a plan: what if I could throw it all into a saucepan with some other stuff this evening to deaden the flavour and still fulfil my weekend goal of stuffing a lot of cheese into my idiot face? It's not a very intricate plan admittedly but it's worth a bash.
A chicken thigh is an excellent host. It invites in herbs, oil and spices, greets them warmly and listens politely to their interminable stories about how their neighbours take too long to take the bins back in.
I thought I'd invented this, but then it turned out it was something I'd bastardised from another recipe years ago. I did come up with the idea of turning it into a bake, though, so effectively I invented the concept of putting a load of cheese on top of something and putting it in the oven. You can't take that away from me, BLAIR.
I plan to make these on Pancake Day but then on Pancake Day I instead have four pints and a burger and it is BRILLIANT. So I make them on Ash Wednesday, the holy day of Ashley Cole, who on this day rose from the dead and ascended to heaven.
Shove a Lemon Up It 