I can cook OK, but I can't take pictures of it for toffee. Or make toffee.
I'm having the leftovers of last weekend's tagine tonight, but I want to make a side dish and I've got a couple of hours this afternoon to kill now my enthusiasm for Safe on Netflix has waned, so how about dropping some stuff in a food processor and watching the blades spin round remorselessly until everything's dead.
I have had The Lads round. We spent Friday night playing poker, talking about which cars are the fastest cars and objectifying women. As a result on Saturday morning I have two rinded oranges left over from Old-Fashioneds. So now I need to find something to do with two oranges. Something that doesn’t involve autoerotic asphyxiation.
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 