Just call me Nigella

The way to a mans heart is through his stomach.

The Man is no exception to this rule. I can’t say that I amJ any whiz in the kitchen, but with my tried and tested handful of foolproof meals I managed to wing it into his heart. But I know how to take a hint when for the third year running I have been given a cookbook. This time with pages book-marked.

Really it is not for want of trying, I generally enjoy mixing up a random bowl of ingredients and proudly presenting it to my loved ones. While doing so, often being reminded of mixing up mud in the garden as a child. Maybe this distraction is the reason for my problems. I am now realising that although there is much love put into my recipes, sadly the love does not filter to the taste. If I stray from what I know, I am a poor cook. I admit it.

You see even with these so called recipe books by all these trendy chefs, I would like to know how many of them could improvise their talents in my kitchen. Yes, a workman never blames his tools, but note to self a workman would refuse to work if his tools were in such a confined space. Hence my problem, you couldn’t swing a cat in my kitchen let alone cook one.

I will persevere, for the love of my family.

I decide to bite the bullet and go for making something really fancy… I choose Wild Mushroom Risotto.. The picture resembles the mixing up mud memories so here goes.

After spending an extra half hour shopping for correct ingredients as well and spending an extra tenner on fancy fungus I head to my Kitchen to make my masterpiece.
After 40 mins I emerge from the kitchen to set the table, leaving risotto in oven for a bronzing off.

The phone rings so I sit to chat for five minutes.

Twenty minutes later my gossip is interrupted by burning smell.

Looks like mom’s going to Iceland.