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.

Stinks

I am going on a date. Whoop whoop.

He is tall, dark handsome and is also known as The Man.

As the festive season is now finally at a close I am looking forward to spending an evening just with the man, with not a child or an in-law in sight.

As we both come from divorced Parents, Christmas means various meals with different family members to keep everyone happy. Everyone being everyone but us - leaving me and the man spending little time actually sitting next to each other over Crimbo, let alone talking.

Inevitably by January I am always in this same state of negative mind about the extended family. I have at least four missed calls from one of the Parents now and I just cannot bring myself to be kind, polite and pleasant for much longer, therefore best avoided altogether.

Anyways, I now have to focus on something almost as frustrating and distressing as family. I have given up smoking. I am now a non - smoker. Yuk.

I honestly believe that the only reason I smoked in the first place was because of being told not to.. as the years have gone by and society has held smokers responsible for all that is wrong in the world just spurred me on too.. Just like the Smoking ban, I soldered on smoking in various freezing pub doorsteps and huts with my defiant self.

But it is time for me to stop rebelling against good, and accept that smoking is just filthy dirty and vile for your health.

I’m just finding it hard to accept that ciggies cannot be my friends anymore. They have been with me through thick and thin (not that I was thin for long) so I feel like I am losing a pal. Furthermore that pal enabled me to have a heated conversation without considering murdering the other person to resolve it. The same pal who would help me out of being in the doghouse now for having a paddy at the Man because my hairclip fell out.

I am told that the moodiness will pass.. I spend evening being in bad mood, only to cry at my moodiness halfway through dinner.

Might be better for my health - but not for the Man’s.