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How (Not) To Cook

For the most part, I don’t mind keeping Ned Stark as a husband. He’s earnest, genuine and mildly amusing company but at least once a week we have this conversation. A conversation which makes me want to harm him with kitchen tongs.

Me: What shall we have for dinner tonight?

Ned: Food….

Me: Well, what food…

Ned: Any food…

#FFS. Really? Cheers for the input. How about one of these, you wazzock.

Alas, food. Sodding food. So, you can read some of my thoughts on food/foodies here. In a nutshell, you can keep your kale and give me some spaghetti hoops but today’s blog is about me being one of the world’s most uninspired cooks. It’s inspired by a girl who I used to go school with, who is now the foodie star du jour. She’s got a new TV show, a café, a book…the whole shebang. I saw her cooking on Monday night, skipping around her loft kitchen extolling the virtues of coconut oil, looking modelly and vibrant. It made me realise how I am not her. At all.

In fact, that evening, I retreated into my kitchen; my kitchen which is falling apart and propped up by towers of washing up, 50% of which are made up of plastic IKEA cups and plates. I then scraped the remains of that night’s dinner into the dog’s bowl. Another failed pasta concoction rejected by the children. The furry fucker looked at that pasta curiously. You know they say dogs eat anything. Well, these dogs obviously haven't tried my cooking yet.