Recipe test: Arancini (crispy risotto balls) from Jamie Magazine
So I’m pretty sure I’ve made these before, but seeing as they’re made with leftovers and we’re such utter pigs that there’s rarely any leftovers in our house, it was always going to take a while. Yesterday, though, I made a chicken, pea and spring onion risotto and made sure I made some extra so I could give this one a go.
First thoughts: it’s damned messy. I mean, I’m a messy cook at the best of times, but even I was shocked at how the kitchen looked like a high speed road accident when I’d finished. Also, it will induce you to swear. No really. Read on.
The recipe is in a section on risotto and recommends that you make arancini with risotto that’s either overcooked (what? It’s rice. Just eat it) or leftover. It didn’t, however, mention that it’s really bloody difficult to roll squishy rice into balls when there are large chunks of chicken and runaway peas in it. Take my advice and use plain risotto for this.
Anyhoo, take your leftover risotto (about 300g for 4 people), and roll into small balls (see above re: messy. I advise using very wet hands):
If I had read the recipe properly, I would have discovered that you’re supposed to push small squares of dolcelatte or mozzarella into the centre. I had neither, but seeing as mine were overflowing with extra ingredients anyway, I cracked on.
Next comes the really messy bit. You have to take your balls (stop it), roll them in flour, then in beaten egg, and then in breadcrumbs. Obviously you need to use a light touch here, otherwise your hands start to get bigger and bigger as they get coated with more flour, egg and breadcrumbs (Nigella calls it ‘goujon fingers’), but even with the lightest of touches I still ended up looking like I’d been tarred and feathered, well, breadcrumbed, by an angry mob.
Messy stuff over, Jamie recommends that you deep fry them, but obviously I’m far too accident prone to get involved in deep frying, and to prevent first degree burns and the embarrassment of having to ring Hubby and tell him I’d burnt the house down, I settled for generous shallow frying instead.
Be warned: this is really painful. The rice pops as it cooks, sending out scorching sprays of boiling hot oil (‘Mummy, stop saying ‘shit,’ *sigh*, you’re such a lady’). I really needed one of those flat, sieve-like things that my Mum’s got that you put over the frying pan to stop it spitting, but I didn’t have one so I just braved it and swore like a trooper instead.
The end result was, I have to admit, well worth the mess and the pain. The outsides of the balls are golden and crispy, and I can imagine that the addition of a gooey mozzarella centre would made them extra delicious. Obviously it’s a bit difficult to know what to serve with them, as more rice would be overkill, indeed, any kind of carbs seemed wrong, so I settled for some steamed veg and it made quite a nice light supper.
I’ll definitely make them again. And you’ll be pleased to know they’ve been nicknamed ‘swearballs’ after my potty-mouthed outburst. So much better than ‘arancini’ don’t you think?
(Jamie Magazine is out now (issue 6 Oct/Nov 09) and if you subscribe you get a free copy of Jamie’s America too.)
5 Reasons why I am a bad mother.
1. Saturday morning. I wake up to accusing looks from both offspring. It turns out that I forgot to go out and shut the chickens up last night, now two of them are missing. I am a bad mother. I go out to look for them and find mounds of brown feathers strewn all over the coop. It’s pretty obvious that a fox got to them. I sit on the patio step and dissolve into tears. Minnie pecks at my wedding ring. I push her away and continue to cry guiltily before it dawns on me that she is obviously not dead. Chilli is standing about ten feet away from me looking feathery and fine and not bald at all. She must be moulting. I give them both revolting smelly chickeny hugs and smile smugly at evil-eyed offspring.
2. Sunday morning. I am upstairs folding washing when all of a sudden a blood curdling scream chills me to the core. Hurdling the dog, whose first instinct is a hopeless attempt to try and force himself under the bed, I take the stairs four at a time to the kitchen where #1 is found to be the source of the screaming and is running around clutching his posterior. #2 is standing looking guilty. Turns out big brother wanted a hug from small brother who wasn’t too keen and shoved him a little too hard. He hurtled backwards into the corner of a door and sustained a nasty injury to: ‘MY ARSE! OW! MY ARSE!’, or more accurately, the base of his spine. Injured party is now running around, clutching aforementioned arse and squealing in a pitch so high that only dogs can hear him.
I calm things down and fetch an ’arse pack’ from the freezer which causes me and the small one to dissolve into fits of hysteria and the large one to tell us to go away with words that would make his Grandmother blush, interspersed with ‘OW! MY ARSE!’ albeit in a slightly calmer tone.
3. Sunday Evening. Both offspring want to go down the boat road to watch the Pumpkin Festival fireworks. I don’t. I am a bad mother. It’s two against one and I seem to be losing. Happily, D-next-door comes to the rescue and offers to take them. Two hours later, happily snuggled on the sofa with red wine and chocolate, the back door slams and the high pitched ‘OW MY ARSE!’ dog-deafening resumes. Turns out instead of being sensible and representing the family and staying close to D as I had instructed, they’d messed about on an old rope swing down by the lough and #1 had fallen, yup you guessed it, straight onto the aforementioned injured bum again. I offer the arse pack. #2 and I collapse again. #1 stomps off to bed.
4. This morning. #2 is taking part in a sponsored walk with the school. I have forgotten that I promised to email his Grandparents and various aunties, uncles and friends. His sponsorship form is completely empty. Feeling that I am an incredibly bad mother I spend ten minutes inventing people and filling in his sponsorship form with fictional sponsors. He is not impressed. I am a bad mother.
5. #1 wishes to go up to Cavan with his mates and watch ‘The Vampire’s Assistant’ or some such. I’m not sure. Not only am I not sure whether he’ll be able to use his bus pass at half term, I’m also not sure that he should be in town on his own, even though he promises they’ll go straight to cinema and not hang around in one of those horrible teenage ‘gangs’ that make half term so unpleasant for us normal people. I ‘obviously don’t trust him’ and am a bad mother. I ask his Dad. His Dad says yes. Victorious child can barely keep smugness from his face as we drive to bus stop. I am tempted to enquire after the wellbeing of his arse but fight the urge. Smugness disappears instantly as he realises he’s left his bus pass at home.
Hurling the child from the still-moving car, I shout at him to hold the bus, execute a pretty impressive J-turn in the middle of the N3 and hurtle home to retrieve the bus pass. Just as I’m speeding back, he rings and tells me the bus is here. I assure him I’m two minutes away. He rings again. The bus driver couldn’t wait but allowed him to get on the bus as long as I catch up with them and give him the bus pass.
Cue ‘Benny Hill’ music as I drive like a woman posessed trying to catch up with the bus which is obviously being driven by Nigel Mansell. Half way to Cavan I manage to catch them up. As I hand over the bus pass, the bus driver gives me an ‘I am not impressed’ glare.
I give him an ‘oh piss off’ glare back and head home.
#1, however, sends me a text telling me that, on the contrary, I am a ‘legend’
I reply and tell him that he is a spanner.
I am a bad mother.
Moon’s amazing photo: next stop Photographer of the Year!
So I LOVED this winning photo from the 2009 Veolia Environmement wildlife photographer of the year:
Animal Portraits category winner:
The storybook wolf by José Luis Rodríguez (Spain):
But howsabout this shot of Moon’s? Next year, Moon, you’re in the running!:
Love this one too:
Restaurant Review: The Forge Restaurant, Pottlereagh, Carnaross
So here, finally, is the review of The Forge Restaurant where we celebrated English Grandma’s 70th. We went with open minds because (let’s face it, like most restaurants) some of our friends had had fabulous experiences, and others not so good - we’d also heard tales of being rushed through desserts to free up tables, but when I phoned I spoke to a very friendly waitress who assured me that we could take as long as we needed.
First things first, then, it’s in an absolutely beautiful spot. Nestled in quite a rural location, but only about 5 minutes off the N3 (the main road between Kells and Cavan) and just 4 miles north of Kells. I’d guestimate that it’s probably just over an hour’s drive from Dublin. It’s a beautiful old stone building with plenty of parking, and we were given a very warm welcome by owner Irene, who was reassuringly present in the restaurant all evening, and the lovely smiley waitresses.
Obviously the first thing we did was order some wine and we weren’t disappointed with our South African Lookout Ridge Chenin Blanc ’08, which was fresh and zingy. The dinner menu (we booked at 7pm) is small but lovingly chosen, and Irene was more than happy to chat about the decisions behind the menu, their suppliers, where their seafood comes from, etc.
We got an amazing platter of warm home made bread while we were waiting, with some lovely spicy fruity walnut bread being my particular favourite. The fellas all chose a mussel casserole as a starter. The mussels were small and deliciously sweet, swimming in a generous broth of cream, white wine and onion (which was a bit too creamy for their tastes, but I thought was lovely – maybe in need of a bit more reduction, although I’m no expert):
Grandma and I both chose the smoked haddock fishcakes, which were exactly as promised: with chunks of soft smokey fish and a lovely crisp coating:
Everything was beautifully presented and absolutely scrummy.
For mains, Hubby and I both chose salmon with a crab Creole sauce, #2 went for a rib eye steak and #1 chose a rack of lamb. I can’t remember what Grandma chose (I blame the Chenin Blanc). Again, every meal was painstakingly decorated and lovingly presented: the lamb expertly cooked and just pink in the middle:
… the salmon moist and delicate (what? I stole some chips, okay?), nestled on the Creole crab which was amazingly sweet and warmly spiced:
… and the steak (what was left of it by the time we got a photo) huge, meltingly tender and perfectly cooked:
The side orders were beautiful, and generous: big fat chips, lovely creamy dauphinoise potatoes and fresh crisp vegetables. Most importantly, they were included in the price of the meal – it really annoys me when restaurants charge you 6 quid for a teeny plate of veg.
On to desserts, then. And although we were all feeling a bit like overstuffed cushions, the menu was so tempting that we had to go for it. Hubby and I shared a Baileys and mixed nut parfait in a hazelnut tuille with fruits of the forest coulis, which was first class. The parfait had an amazing texture and creamy flavour, and the tuille was light and crisp. Yum:
#2 naturally went for a big slab of squidgy chocolate roulade, complemented by a lovely sorbet (can’t remember what flavour but it was zingy and fruity and fabulously countered the richness of the chocolate roulade):
…and even the birthday girl managed to squeeze in a bit of sorbet:
All in all we were delighted. It’s not a cheap meal, but the care and attention taken with the sourcing, cooking and decorating of each plate of food means that you feel that you get proper value for money. The staff and owners are friendly and welcoming (even to little English boys with very loud, squeaky voices) and passionate about their product, the setting is divine and the restaurant is homely, warm and inviting. If you live in Ireland, do try and make the effort to head north and try out this absolute gem of a place, and if not, then next time you’re in Ireland, you must visit. In fact, you can pop in to English Towers and say hi at the same time.
The Forge Restaurant
Pottlereagh
Carnaross
Kells
Co. Meath
Tel: 046 924 5003
Fax: 046 924 5917
Random conversations: political correctness for beginners
I am baking (I know, what a shocker). Well Hubby is away and I’m missing him badly (I have nobody to annoy, and it’s really depressing to talk during a television programme and not be told to shush), so it’s either brownies or vodka, and it’s 4pm, so brownies it is. #2 is doing his homework at the kitchen table. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: ‘What are you doing?’
#2: ‘I’m writing a recipe for witch’s brew. It’s really cool. I’m doing it in my best writing ‘cos it’s going up on the wall’
Me: ‘Excellent! What have you got so far?’
He starts to read out his recipe. It contains the usual suspects: ‘one newt’s eye, one lizard’s tongue, one tarantula, one disabled person…’
Me: ‘WHOAH! One what?!’
#2: ‘one disabled person’
Holy shit.
Me: ‘Erm sweetheart, you can’t say that, it’s horrible’
#2: ‘It’s meant to be horrible, it’s witch’s brew’
Me: ‘No, I mean you really can’t say that. You’ll get into trouble. That’s terrible. You can’t.’
#2: ‘Why? It’s funny. Sean’s putting “one bulimic” in his’ *
Holy f*cking poo.
Me: ‘That is SO not funny. It’s not kind to make jokes about disabled people.’
#2: ‘I’m not making jokes about disabled people. I’m just putting one in a stew’
Somebody kill me. Please.
So we have the big long conversation about political correctness, about how somebody disabled would feel if they read it, how he would feel if somebody made fun of him or one of his disabled friends or family. It was a long, excruciating conversation, but I think he got the point.
I mean, how bloody hard is parenthood? When you’re wallowing like a whale in your parenting classes, chewing on your 7th marmite and peanut butter sandwich, nobody ever mentions that you’re going to have to explain what tampons are to a four year old who has fished one out of your bag and is now waving it in a restaurant shouting ‘can I have one of these sweeties?’, or why pointing out in a really loud voice that you’ve ‘got a stiffy’ in the middle of Tesco’s isn’t a good idea. Ohhhh no, it’s all cuteness and changing mats and baby powder and solids and all that. But disabled people in soup? Nope, not even a mention.
Have you ever thought about how you’d explain it, for goodness’ sake.
Me (in self important tone): So now do you see how important it is to be sensitive to other people’s feelings? Disability is no joke.’
#2: ‘Yes’
#2 (muttered): But you laugh at Andy in Little Britain.
*name changed to protect the incredibly guilty.
And in the spirit of even more political correctness, I’d like everybody to pop over to Belgian Waffle and read her Eat Your Words post. It’s quite the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my life. Ever.
English Grandma’s special spiced rum and raisin brownies
So English Grandma was visiting last week. It was her birthday and as usual here at English Towers, this meant that the birthday person had the honour of choosing their own cake. Except of course English Grandma didn’t really want a cake, in fact, didn’t really want to be reminded that she was 70 at all. It’s a great age, though, I reckon. It’s the same age as Raquel Welch (about whom the term ‘looks good for her age’ equates to calling the north pole ‘a bit nippy’) and Ralph Lauren, for goodness sake, who’s classier than Ralph?
Plus, there are so many bonuses to being 70: you can be as outspoken as you like, wear odd socks, shave your dog’s hair into weird patterns, use beer towels for curtains (Hubby actually had an aunt that did that) or walk around with your hair sticking up like Fr Jack out of Father Ted, because, let’s face it, who’s going to say anything to you about it? And even if they do, you can club them with your handbag and get away with it. Bonus.
Anyhoo, digressing. So I had to think of a nice dessert which would please the chisellers, who insist on cake at birthdays (what child doesn’t) and be unbirthdaycakey enough to please the mother. I know she likes rum and raisin and I toyed with the idea of rum and raisin ice cream, but then the cake-ish issue reared its ugly head again. ‘I know!’, said #2,’ birthday brownies!’. Fabulous. And for an added twist, I thought I’d get the rum and raisins in there too. Here goes, then:
3 tbsp rum (I used Morgan’s Spiced Rum)
Couple of handfuls (about 50g) raisins or sultanas
200g dark chocolate (this one was from Lidl and had a very pleasing ‘snap’ to it)
170g butter (salted is best with chocolate, or add a pinch of salt)
3 eggs
225g caster sugar
110g plain flour
1/2 tsp ground mixed spice
So first preheat the oven to 180/gas4 and plop the raisins into the rum to soak. Melt the butter and the chocolate in a bain-marie (yes, I know you know, but some people don’t, so I still have to point out that we’re talking about a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of simmering water, not touching the bottom of the bowl):
When the butter and chocolate start to melt, turn the heat off and let it melt gently using the residual heat. When it’s all melted together, put it to one side to cool slightly.
Meanwhile, take out your Very Special Anniversary KitchenAid (or a whisk and a bowl, if you’re not as lucky as me). Crack in the eggs (if you don’t have a small red chicken with an attitude problem who lays eggs that are approximately half her body weight, don’t worry, they sell eggs in Tesco too)…
…and whizz them together with the sugar until they’re nice and fluffy:
I’d just like to point out that this is a complete excuse to use the KitchenAid as I’ve actually just mixed the eggs and sugar with a fork before now, and it comes out exactly the same. Still…
Fold the flour and mixed spice in to the eggy sugary mixture - nice and gently because (altogether now): working the gluten in the flour too much will make the end result tough:
…and finally, stir in the melted chocolate and butter and the rum and raisins:
Put some bake-o-glide or greaseproof paper in the bottom of a lasagne tin, pour the mixture in:
… and bake for about 35 minutes until the top is all cracky and shiny, but the inside is still retaining a hint of gooeyness.
Leave to cool slightly.
Fight off children, reminding them that this recipe contains alcohol and is therefore for the over 18s only, and serve with a flourish, or some vanilla ice cream, to 70 (shhh) year old birthday girl.
Oh, and absolutely no singing of ‘happy birthday’, okay? She might hit you with her handbag.
Happy (belated) birthday, Mum!
If you can’t say anything nice…
I’m not a Boyzone fan. I mean, yes, I probably bought at least one of their CDs first time round, could sing along to the majority of their songs, but a fan? Nah.
I did, however, shed real tears over the death of Stephen Gately. Not as a fan, but as a human being who can see the tragedy in the loss of a 33 year old man, hear the moving tributes from his friends and bandmates, imagine as a parent how hard and confusing it must be to lose your grown up son, and witness the extraordinary scenes in Dublin today as he was buried.
Another thing I found hard to accept was the article by Jan Moir in the Daily Mail, originally entitled ‘Why there was nothing ‘natural’ about Stephen Gately’s death’. I’m not going to deconstruct it, as others have done it better than I could ever do, although even with my ‘O’ level English I can see that it was poorly constructed and sensationalist at best and innacurate and homophobic at worst. Being a keen Twitterer (Tweeter?) I gathered that several (thousand) other people felt the same. The Press Complaints Commission website crashed under the pressure. Did Jan Moir apologise? Well no, not really. She kind of made noises that the ‘heavily orchestrated internet campaign’ against her was ‘mischievous’ to suggest homophobic undertones to her piece..blah..blah and continued to stir her big wooden spoon by adding another snipe about how Gately and his husband were ‘intimate’ with the visitor in their apartment that night – as if that’s anything to do with, well, anything.
I just can’t understand it. Why would anyone write (and print) such an article? Didn’t Jan Moir’s mum teach her any respect? It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. If I could have five minutes with Jan Moir, I’d ask her the following:
How do you think Stephen’s parents and friends felt when they read in your article that his death was ‘sleazy‘, that he could ‘barely carry a tune in a Louis Vuitton trunk’? How do you think his Mum felt when you ridiculed her for believing that Stephen’s death was linked to a previously undetected heart condition? How do you think they took your speculation that ‘The sugar coating on this fatality is so saccharine-thick that it obscures whatever bitter truth lies beneath‘? How do you think they felt reading your obviously scientifically based claim that ‘healthy and fit 33-year-old men do not just climb into their pyjamas and go to sleep on the sofa, never to wake up again‘?
Horrible. Horrible, vile, unkind, unecessary and, frankly, spiteful.
I read somewhere about the Voltaire quote: ‘I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it’. Some might say that Ms Moir’s entitled to her opinion, that anything less would be a blow to free speech. I’m sorry. I don’t agree. It’s basic human kindness that we’re calling for here. Would she stand up at the funeral, in front of Stephen’s friends and family, and read that article? Of course she wouldn’t. She’s not only a bully, she’s a coward too.
My Mum always taught me that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Pity Jan Moir’s mum didn’t teach her the same thing.
The Jelly Monster’s Fantastic Foodie Quiz
Right then, back to some good ol’ fashioned fattening stuff. So fellow Cavan-dweller, the scrumptious Jelly Monster, has tagged me. I’m not really into memes and stuff, but this one’s so food-related it’s practically got my name on. Here goes, then:
1. What’s your #1 comfort food?
Brownies! There’s always a stash of some sort of brownie here at English Towers. My current favourite are rum and raisin (‘specially made for English Grandma’s birthday), peanut butter and dark chocolate, or the ridiculously indulgent double chocolate cookie dough brownie:
2. If you were stranded on a desert island what food would you want to have with you to survive on?
Stranded? On a desert island? I wouldn’t want food, I’d want a lifetime’s supply of barbecue coals and a nice Weber. Oh and a nice young man to get the fish out of the sea because I don’t think I can actually fish. And maybe some dill. Or fennel. Okay, I’ll shut up now.
3. What are your signature dishes? (What dishes are you known for making?)
Cakey buns! Anything with loads of sugar and chocolate and cream and gazillions of calories. Of course I make normal food too, but I don’t really advertise the fact.
4. It’s Friday night, you don’t know what to cook. You opt for?
Risotto. It’s our staple ‘what shall we have tonight?’ food at English Towers. There’s always Parmesan in the fridge, herbs in the garden, risotto rice and stock cubes in the cupboard and generally some other old leftover chicken or mushrooms in the fridge to bung in.
5. What’s your ultimate food weakness?
Cheese. Give me a lovely chunk of Wexford Cheddar with some ome crusty bread and a glass of wine, or a golden bubbling welsh rarebit… and I’m a happy hedgehog.
6. What food can you soooo not eat?
I’m not a big shellfish eater. I don’t mind the odd mussel or prawn, but I’m not big into oysters or clams. I don’t think there’s anything I really dislike, but I’d probably choose something else given the choice. Although the hand harvested Maine scallops with a pea, Pecorino, basil and mascarpone laced risotto at The Flying Fish Café at Walt Disney World were pretty darned lush (extra triffids too):
7. You need a drink, you grab a…?
Nice glass of white wine. A Chablis or a Sauvignon Blanc please, extra cold. Or maybe a frozen watermelon daiquiri. Or Champagne if I’m really celebrating.
8. What’s the most decadent dish you’ve ever had?
Our farewell dinner at Citricos at The Grand Floridian, Walt Disney World, Florida was probably the best meal I’ve ever had. My main course of braised short ribs (lusciously falling off the bone) with vanilla parsnip purée, sautéed mustard greens and blood orange demi-glace was just amazing.
9. What’s your favourite type of food?
Probably Indian. I’d eat it much more often if there was a decent Indian restaurant nearby. Apart from that, I’d have to be contentious here and say junk. For an occasional treat, I can’t think of anything I’d rather eat than a big fat burger from Eddie Rockets, or a huge pizza with everything on from Pizza Express. Slurp.
10. Favourite dish?
What, my ‘last meal on the planet’ type favourite? It would have to be chicken korma, pilau rice, peshwari naan and that yummy spinach and potato curry. Ooh, I’m salivating just thinking about it!
11. If you could go to any restaurant, where would you go?
I’d love to go to Matt Tebbutt’s The Foxhunter (the wondrous Sarah from Disney is a friend of Matt’s and STILL hasn’t arranged me a table. Tsk, some friend she is). I’ve always wanted to go to the Fat Duck too. Closer to home I love The Forge in Kells, County Meath (review – with pics! – coming up very soon),or Eatzen in Ashbourne.
12. Soup or Salad?
Salad, probably. Although it would have to be a nice warm one with some chicken or maybe a Caesar.
13. Buffet, take-out or sit down?
Sit down. You can’t beat the ceremony of going out to eat somewhere really nice.
14. What’s the most impressive meal you’ve ever made?
Probably last year’s Christmas dinner for 10. We had the best time and the turkey turned out really well.
15. Do you consider yourself a good cook?
Well, I’m certainly a food obsessive. I’m probably an okay home cook. (Note to Matt Tebbutt: don’t let me loose in a restaurant kitchen though).
16. Do you know what vichyssoise is?
Yes.
17. Who’s your favourite TV cook?
Matt Tebbutt. Love his style of cooking (and he’s rather easy on the eye too).
18. Can you name at least three famous cooking personalities?
God yes, I can name loads. Don’t get me started.
19. Homemade or homemade from a box?
Eh? Home made every time. Although I’m not sure what home made from a box is anyway.
20. Tag three more foodies…
I’ll throw this out to you lot. Answer one, answer them all, put it on Facebook, or just ignore me. See if I care.
Mickey needs you! Twin your Town with Disney
So this is cool. My lovely friends at Disney have asked me to tell you all about their new campaign to search for the very first UK town to win the honour of being twinned with Walt Disney World in Florida! This is the very first time that the British public have actually been able to get involved and nominate their town for consideration, before it gets judged by a panel.
But hang on, I hear you ask, what does the winning town get? Well, obviously they get to bang on endlessly about how their town is twinned with Walt Disney World and bore everyone in the pub senseless about it, but they will also have the honour of receiving an official sign acknowledging the friendship made especially for them by designed by Walt Disney Imagineering, which will be presented to them at an official ceremony in…wait for it…Walt Disney World next February.
One sign will then be placed on display for guests visiting the park in the UK pavilion at EPCOT, whilst the second can be displayed in their town in the UK. Even better, the person whose winning nomination is selected will also receive a holiday for 4 in Walt Disney World to attend the ceremony!
Sadly, I can’t enter Cavan as it has to be a UK town (I’m working on them, don’t worry), but if you want to nominate your lovely home town, just log on to www.waltdisneyworldtwinnedtown.co.uk and tell Mickey why your town deserves to win either with a short video, photos, poem or just a sentence!
So what are you waiting for? Get gone!
Oh, and I’m loving the speculation on Twitter about the name of the winning town: Cheddar, anyone? Or maybe ‘Ducksford’… ‘Bournemouse’…?
In which the YTPR comes to tea and talks me into being sociable
I am miserable.
I am also baking.
This is a bad mixture. At the best of times, I am the most spectacularly messy baker in the history of messy baking so I’m crashing stuff around, I have flour on my nose, every surface in the kitchen is covered in packets, bowls, utensils, half-chopped almonds and blobs of cookie dough… the mixer is going full pelt…
The doorbell rings and I yell at #2 to get the door.
It’s the YTPR, Craig. He obviously has the same amazing ability as Mr Lovely for sniffing out baking the moment it goes into the oven.
‘Hello!’, says the Rev, ‘I’m stalking you’.
‘Come in’, says I, ‘…and two emails and one blog comment don’t technically count as stalking. Cup of tea?’
‘Oh go on, then’, he says, ‘ooh, are you baking?’
We chat and drink tea as I continue to hurl things into the Very Special Anniversary KitchenAid. He threatens to tell Jen that I moaned that the whisk doesn’t get right to the edges.
He’s noticed, via my blog posts (that’s the way my life works) that I seem a bit down. We chat some more. He mentions that several of his female parisioners get together on a Tuesday for a few nibbles and a chat – nothing heavy or religious, just a bit of mutual support and a few cookies…
‘Whoah…’
[Cue sound of needle screeching across record]
‘I’m not very good at socialising’, says I. It’s true. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, really, as I’m quite friendly – but there’s something about socialising that scares the living crap out of me. I envisage a group of women all chatting and having fun. I walk in, and it goes all quiet like that scene in the pub in American Werewolf. I then continue to compound my awkward situation by uttering a string of increasingly absurd things. Eventually, they all throw their cookies at me and leave. Stupid, I know, but I can’t help it.
He reassures me that they’re all really friendly. His wife goes (I like his wife). One lady is a real foodie and does catering and makes chutneys and stuff…
‘What, like chutneys and chilli jam and stuff?’
‘Yeah, stuff like that’
‘Okay then, I’ll think about it. Biscuit?’
‘Oh go on, then.’
