I saw Nigella doing maple parsnips last night - eeewwwwww. Also, she seems to spend Christmas day doing nothing but cooking, and how is that fun?
Roasties with garlic and rosemary sound lovely, but we seem to be stuck in the middle of a local rosemary shortage, couldn't get any for love or money today.
Tom's Christmas song sounds positively cheerful by his standards. Where's all the mope gone?
Yes, the rest of the world did seem to have bought all the Rosemary ahead of us, but I finally found some dried stuff in Sainsbury's.
As for the mope, it's all gone into his blog instead. ;-) Did you sign up for his email updates? Yesterday saw the following:
"With the snow gently tapping at the window pain, and the sound of the organ grinder rising slowly from the cobbled street below, it's time to toss another orphan on the fire and wish you a politically correct holiday in whichever way you choose to celebrate it.
Personally I shall be feeding .22 bullets into my rifle, hording canned goods and frantically turning the handle of my wind-up radio listening for updates on the coming apocalypse. Listen, if you wanted good news full of false optimism and hope for the coming year, you should never have opened this. You saw who it was from."
Honey and mustard parsnips are yummy. The big Christmas day section of Nigella's book is based around 12-16 people - so that's quite a lot of cooking. You have to be hideously organised to make a roast dinner ready for that number of people, she just attempts to make it a bit easier.
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I suspect that this may be the point of Christmas dishes (for those without specialist requirements anyway)...
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Roasties with garlic and rosemary sound lovely, but we seem to be stuck in the middle of a local rosemary shortage, couldn't get any for love or money today.
Tom's Christmas song sounds positively cheerful by his standards. Where's all the mope gone?
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As for the mope, it's all gone into his blog instead. ;-) Did you sign up for his email updates? Yesterday saw the following:
"With the snow gently tapping at the window pain, and the sound of the organ grinder rising slowly from the cobbled street below, it's time to toss another orphan on the fire and wish you a politically correct holiday in whichever way you choose to celebrate it.
Personally I shall be feeding .22 bullets into my rifle, hording canned goods and frantically turning the handle of my wind-up radio listening for updates on the coming apocalypse. Listen, if you wanted good news full of false optimism and hope for the coming year, you should never have opened this. You saw who it was from."
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