I'll be moving out soon, but no one will ever be able to say I never made a lasagne here.
There's a lockdown trend afoot: recreating fast food at home. You can imitate the meal, but there's no substitute for the shame.
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.
As my grandfather used to say, you can't griddle a chicken without humiliating a junior halal butcher.
I don't usually eat breakfast during the week, but at the weekend when I've got a bit more time I'll do something proper. So effectively all the breakfasts I eat are hangover breakfasts to varying degrees. The main ingredients are eggs and regret.
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.
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.