Food has always been a big part of my life (and for those who have seen the photos, the use of ‘big’ is pretty literal) In the beginning there was the Food War I, where I hated anything remotely nutritious. Then I suddenly realised that fruits and veggies were yummy, and food became a more interesting and less angst-ridden aspect to the day. So the food part of my life became bigger, and so did I- cue the Food War II. Since then I have found (well attempting to find) that balance of big appetite and reasonable waistline, and like any normal person, most big events in my life are paired with something edible. My months spent in London were probably my most exciting gastronomically; I learnt so much in the few shifts I had in a pub kitchen, and in summer the new tastes and flavours and combinations and ideas were constantly inspiring me. So it seemed only fitting that my farewell dinner for the London housemates was a significant one.
French cooking has always been this sort of ridiculously daunting task; it made me feel the way you do when you’re going somewhere far posh-er than you’re accustomed to, and you’re not sure how to behave or what to wear. Every time I opened a French cookbook I could hear some French chef screaming at me, “Don’t baztardize zee muzzer of zee culinary artz!” I could feel the gorgeous Provenรงal pots and pans hitting my head because I ruined the beurre blanc, I could smell my pompous toque chef’s hat being set on fire.
