Urgh I've got SO MUCH cooking to do. So MUCH. And I don't know why, but I don't want to do any of it. Even starting it feels like the biggest load of homework ever, or a tax return.
It's all my fault, too. I offered to do it all and now I don't want to do any of it. The most pressing and urgent thing is a beetroot soup I said I'd test for my friend James who is writing a cookery book and I've just completely failed to do it. Every time I go to the shops I forget to buy some key ingredients and then get home and think Oh God Oh God I haven't got the stuff. But I AM going to do it as I'm now ashamed of myself.
An equally pressing thing is a pork pie I've got to make as a thank you. Now's probably a good a time as any to tell you that those four days when I went missing just now I was in Miami. On holiday.
|Coral was very much the toenail varnish colour du jour out there|
I didn't say anything because I never want to know about anyone else's holiday, particularly not in winter.
I try to be nice when they want to tell me about their six weeks in Thailand. I say "Oh how lovely, how lovely - your own pool, really? Free, you say? Best food ever? And Bradley Cooper chatted you up at the bar, wow. That is one. Cool. Holiday!"
But in my head I am thinking FUCK YOU FUCK OFF WITH YOUR FUCKING HOLIDAY YOU A-HOLE.
But now there's a picture of me in Grazia at a party in Miami for this hotel so it seems weird to not mention it. It's like I've been presented with a picture of me being unfaithful and I'm just trying to ignore it. I look fat and sweaty anyway, and had to go to bed about half an hour after it was taken because I'm the biggest most pathetic person ever when it comes to jet lag.
We were there because my husband knows Nick Jones, who owns Soho House and Babington House and all those other houses and now Soho Beach House and we went to have a poke around and complain about the plumbing. But then you get home and you're, like: "What the hell do we get him to say thanks? His own personalised unicorn? A lapdance from Beyonce? This man owns EVERYTHING: he doesn't want dinner, he doesn't want champagne, he doesn't want a lapdance from someone else's wife. I mean... probably not."
So I thought I'd make him a pork pie. But I can't seem to get started. And now I've just found out that I put the lard I bought specially for it in the freezer (WHY?!?!?). So that's delayed that for another few hours. And God only knows where Nick is anyway, he could be half-way to China by now.
I've also got to make a giant chilli - but that's another story.
But I did get off my fat pregnant wheezy arse and make some buckwheat pancakes this morning, out of the really excellent new Leon Cookbook 2 (more of which, inevitably, later). They are wheat-free, for anyone doing a wheat-free thing and although they are not as bouncy and sinful as proper American diner pancakes they are pretty nice with butter, banana and a splosh of maple syrup of a morning. They are dense and nutty and a good alternative if you don't want to have a finely-milled white flour event in your kitchen.
So here we go - buckwheat pancakes.
125g buckwheat flour
pinch baking powder
1 large teaspoon runny honey
1 Sieve the flour into a bowl and add the baking powder, salt and honey. Separate the eggs and put the yolks in with the flour. Make sure the egg whites go into a large bowl because you're going to beat them - (or straight into a processor).
2 Mix the yolks into the flour and then add milk until you get a smooth batter - not too thick. Then beat the egg whites until they're stiff and fold them in. You can always add a bit of milk after the egg whites if that thickens the whole thing up too much.
3 Cook as normal. You can make the mixture the night before if you like.