Scotch has never really been my cup of tea. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, being Irish. When I do pick up a bottle of whiskey, which generally only happens when the weather turns and there’s a threat of flu on the horizon, it’s always Jameson. And even then, it’s hot, with ginger or not at all.
Here I am on the brink of thirty and still, at least every few months, I have one of those weeks (or two) where I simply cannot adult. I am struck with a sudden incapacity to prepare a meal, put away the washing or water the plants and the feeling of failure that follows lulls me into a rut.
The first thing I learned to cook was scrambled eggs.
This month I’ve been slowly but surely chipping away at the non-fiction beast that is Sapiens A Brief History of Humankind but I also managed to finish off two slightly more compact books, both of which happen to be rooted in the kitchen.
Kicking off the new year with a new weekly incentive to put metaphorical pen to paper and what better place to start than with those New Years Resolutions…
I have zero knife skills. I have never attempted a consomme. Soufflés are beyond me. But when it comes to lasagne, man I can lasagne with the pros. And by pros, I mean my mum. Continue reading “When life is like a bad lasagne”