Julie and Julia arrived today. My second copy. Ssh don’t tell Pete. I left the other at my mum’s and I could stand the idea of being without it. It’s my thrill, watching this movie. Just watching the food and cookery excites me. And I do adore French food. The sauces, the meat, the intricacy of pastry, and art of the bread making. It’s just to die for, to quote my mum’s friend Pam. It explains why I’m such a misery. I have such an affinity with the grumpy nation.
This doesn’t mean that I can bring myself to cook very much from the book of inspiration for this movie. It is completely brilliant. It’s like Last of the Summer Wine or something. It takes you back to a different time, a simpler world. Except it’s all deception. The gorgeous language she uses hides a dark secret. It’s completely exhausting to cook it as it takes bloody hours. The servantless cook does not work it would transpire.
Work was infuriating. I went down to court for five minutes to introduce a client to a barrister. Of course, reality came in and bit me on the arse. I ended up covering a solicitorless case for a colleague who was at a course and didn’t get out the building for about three and a half hours. Thank heavens for leftovers, I didn’t even need to leave the office again to get lunch. A quick nip to Costa for what I will always confirm to be the best hot chocolate in Sheffield, and I was done.
Talking of leftovers, look at what I’m going to have for lunch tomorrow
Tonight was Chicken, Mushroom and Chorizo Pie. And here is the thing, it’s inspired and mildly lead by the Chicken Pot Pie from Nigella Express. Except it was adapted due to the fact the bacon in the fridge will go through another week but the chorizo wouldn’t. It transpired that it was a revelation. Just that little subtle bit of heat in the creamy subtle sauce. Loved it.
My favourite thing about the pie, other than the fact it was gorgeous, is the pie dish. A vision in duck egg blue.
See? It’s lovely. Le Creuset of course. And how homely does it look on a flour streaked board. This is where I should allow the fiction to continue. The world where the working wounded come home following a day in the office and they make pastry from scratch. Maybe they do, but I’m not one of those people. I buy it ready to roll from Sainsburys. The flour is from the rolling of course. I thoroughly agree with Nigella on this point. Some people in France train for years to be a pastry chef, as if I could would ever be able to master this in the miserable amount of time I get to devote to my culinary passion on a daily basis. Instead I will defer to the fact that for just over one pound you can buy it. And it works.
And above was the result. Pete wasn’t feeling very well, so he ate with less fervour than normal, but even he had to admit, very tasty.
Right, I’m going to try and sleep soon. Firstly, I need to pop next door and ask the student to stop playing Green Day so loudly. He obviously can’t appreciate that our party walls are paper thin. Here goes. If I blog again from the Northern General with a broken nose, you will no doubt pick up on the fact whether or not our neighbours are particularly friendly this year. Surely they can’t be worse than those miserable girls last year. Fingers crossed anyway.
Student was lovely. Really lovely. Will put their bins out, so lovely!
And by the way, what magic was Nigella tonight? The trifle? The gnocchi-cum-roast potatoes? Who won’t try that?! The lamb? Heaven. Pure heaven. And she is hot. Hotter than hot. There is now a new category of hot, and it’s called Nigella Lawson. And we have the same chopping board. It’s synergy. J’adore. See, I can’t help it. Innately francais.
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