I have had a lovely weekend, friends came over for lunch on Saturday and it was Mother’s Day.
So why on earth do I get so worked up when I am cooking someone else a meal; someone outside the family, who isn’t used to my rather haphazard approach to anything domesticated.
Its entirely ridiculous, and totally self-imposed.
It makes no sense, I know when god was handing out the DNA to this particular girlie I may have got in the wrong queue *stereotype alert*
Bits of DNA involving football, beer and sci-fi…
But this seems to mean that when people come round, I go into mass panic mode on the inside; trying to be all calm and organised on the outside. I actually don’t feel like I have a clue. I am worried I am about to cause untold damage to my wonderful friends by serving them a cold, badly cooked slab of meat.
Roast dinners are meant to be easy – and believe me with a slow cooker they start off so simple my daughter would have a dam good chance of getting them right. But timings are a total bu**er – how are you supposed to make sure that everything is ready on time, so everything doesn’t taste like you just took it out of the fridge? The stuffing, the meat, the perfectly roasted, but not too crispy, tatties, fifty different kids of veg, the puddings, the drink – its enough to rival the logistics involved in organising the Olympics. And don’t even get me started on hosting a kids party; I’ll have a seizure.
Stick on Take That, just sodding well peel those potatoes, and wait for that all important glass of red wine to be poured.
Thinking about it, maybe Relight my Fire isn’t the most sensible track to cook to, with wine in my hand…
Note: I have written this blog post in anticipation before I get any smart arses telling me that timings might be affected by me stopping to do a blog post in the middle…
Image above courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.