Monthly Archives: January 2010

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So, I don’t talk about my “work” very much, because we all know what happens when you talk about your work. Yes, that’s right, you get dooced, you then call yourself dooce, and you make millions of bucks out of blogging the conundrums of OH MY GOD only the coolest life in the world. I mean, a hubby who looks like an older, cuddlier version of Aidan from SATC, two awesome dogs, a gorgeous daughter and hands down the cutest baby on the planet.

No, I don’t want to talk about my work at all.

Or do I?

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St John Restaurant. What can I say? Well there is definitely something to be said about having stellar expectations, looking forward to a meal at a reputedly fantabulous restaurant, and having my little heart shattered from disappointment.

Expectation, coupled with the fact that I’d just experienced the insufferable uselessness of the British travel system (given that two fluffs of snowflakes caused some major flight disruptions to and from Luxembourg where I’d just spent three nights with very little sleep, and believe me, I is precious with my sleep), resulted in me being crazy excited about my meal at St John last night.

Because food does make everything better.

BUT. Disappointment plus.

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I started doing this post the way I start all of my posts. I flick through my photos and after wiping a sufficient amount of drool off my keyboard, I get my creative juices flowing and smack them into some sort of an aesthetic collage, “kook” them a little, “vignette” the sides and supposedly, on the other end of this process, I am presented with a unique piece of eathography.

But not this time.

Because remember, Ted, the miniature gerbil in charge of the Creativity Dept in my head was accidentally made redundant not so long ago.

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Once upon a time, I turned thirty years old. I threw a party, put on a dress and revelled in the fact that thirty, it really is the new twenty-one. I mean, my spritely youthfulness, doesn’t it just eminate from this blog? All that life! love! colour! BAH. What am I talking about. I spotted three grey hairs the other morning and another one yesterday. Life starts at thirty if by “life” you mean “researching geriatric wards”.

But who am I to complain? When I turned thirty, my friends gave me some most awesomeness foodie presents, from gorgeous le creuset pots to adorable silicone cupcake cups and of course, cook books. From the moment I laid eyes on it, the Hummingbird Bakery cookbook had my heart ~ the scrumptious cakes, slices and all things sweet, what was I to do? I hadn’t the will to fight, what with frosting… all that frosting… and more sweet sweet.. frosting.

Wait a minute, is this post even about the Hummingbird? I don’t think it is.

Ok, focus.

So after four months of monogamy to the one cookbook I will utterly love forever, I’ve managed to unearth the dozens of other cookbooks I received and lookie here! Another gem! Not quite sweet, no frosting in sight, but a legend in its own God-given right: the Ottolenghi cookbook.

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New Years Day. The clock strikes midday and the world is asleep. Well, not everyone’s asleep I suppose given that our planet revolves on an axis that bends the time continuum (it hasn’t quite mastered space yet, unlike Hiro Nakamura). Someone, somewhere, is awake.

For someone like me, someone who happens to know a lot of people who live on the other side of the planet, the bending of the time continuum is a right pain in the behind. This is especially so for me, because I have a handful of friends who don’t seem to grasp the concept of timezones.

Time. Zones. That 4pm in the afternoon for you, is not 4pm in the afternoon for me. Not even close.

*silent vent*

But I digress. It’s midday on New Years Day, a new decade, 2010. The world London is asleep and I’m hungry.

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So, this being my first “proper” post for the year, I had wanted to come up with something really clever, something witty, something that would make y’all wanna read my blog five times a day for the rest of this nice long year.

But I didn’t come up with anything.

I poked around in my head and it seems that whilst cleaning out the nether regions of this thing they call my “brain”, whilst trying to catalogue my achievements in 2009, I also accidentally cleaned out the Creative Department, an archive of the randomness that occasionally makes its way through my head, managed by a miniature gerbil called Ted.

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