Let’s start off by stating the patently obvious – this dish isn’t likely to have chef Thomas Keller banging on my door, frantically begging me to hand over the recipe any time soon.
Not a lot to say about this dish, really.
In the same way you might stand on a busy street corner in a new city, before pointing in a boldly go manner and confidently exclaiming to your significant others “I think the hotel’s over there somewhere..” I was aiming for a vaguely “Mediterranean” feel here.
Valentines Day, eh?
The Bard of Avon once asked if music was the food of love.
No, it isn’t, Bill. Stop being silly.
Food is the food of love. The clue is in the name.
Trying to splice the terms “concrete plans“, “Saturday evening“, and “our local supermarket” into the same sentence is rarely, if ever, a sound idea.
I’d had a vague idea about doing something groovy with a nice lump of lamb, which, of course, more or less guaranteed that by the time I was in the hallowed aisles of that blessed boutique, they would be out of said meat.
We thought we’d seen off the worst of winter, but it looks as though it has other ideas.
It hardly seems fair. Just as we were getting used to longer days, milder temperatures, and the odd spot of sunshine, Winter has to go and sucker-punch us, launching a sneak attack, dumping a thick coating of what my pa-in-law used to refer to as “that hateful white stuff” on our pavements and bike paths.