I have often read on the various forums I frequent that many people will have a pj and duvet day. Well today was a pj day. I woke up on the sofa at around 7.30 this morning and finally scrambled into my pit. When I emerged at about 11.45, I just had to do it. It was cold outside so it was time to stay warm.
I found the biggest and scruffiest t-shirt.
When I eventually found some pyjama bottoms, I realised that I was not a pj person. I tend to collapse in whatever is still hanging on to me. It reminds me of my elder brother’s stag night. After the night’s misdemeanours three of us decided to take a route home through a building site. Now I’m cutting a long story short here, but I ended up covered in builder’s mud.
I woke up the next morning in my filthy attire. I think I had the sense to take my shoes off. My poor mother never mentioned it. She duly washed my bed sheets and clothes without a word of admonishment. Although I did actually have to spend the next night in my mud laden bed. So I never mentioned that.
Today, therefore, I rocked up in my tattiest best, sat myself on the sofa wrapped in a blanket with a huge mug of tea ready for the day’s action: Three football matches. My Sunday sloth was interrupted only by visits to the kettle and the statutory toilet stops. When I say I was rocking my stripey pyjama bottoms, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say I was wetting my pyjama bottoms? (I didn’t!) Definitely MS humour there. But we are a highly trained species. We know when to go and what precautions to take.
Back to the football. When Liverpool scored their second goal I switched off the TV. I hate Liverpool. I love the city but I am a true Evertonian. It’s in my blood therefore I hate Liverpool. All those schooldays and workdays of sniping about shallow victories, listening to those red monkeys proclaim their dominance of human kind. For a time it seemed they were invincible.
Oh spare me sweet Lord of the pains of constant defeat and humiliation. Promise me that one day the sad belittled blue half of Merseyside will rise once more in glory to vanquish the false gods of Anfield.
After turning off the box I was drawn to the kitchen. There were 500 grams of turkey mince screaming for attention. I checked the sell-by date. It said 5th November. What’s one day between me and the cat? I mixed the mince with onions, garlic, paprika, tomato puree and the remains of the carrot and swede mash from yesterday. I love paprika; its a very good friend of white meat. Then it came to me. Whilst gently hand mixing the soft meat and its friends a song burst into my head.
“Paprika, I’ve just met a spice called paprika.
And suddenly I find that not all food is bland you seeeee
Say it loud and there’s music sighing.
Say it soft and it’s almost like frying.”
We are safe. I will not give up the day job. Now sometime in the distant past, the ubiquitous hairy bikers did a series on diet food. They made a Cornish pastie with pizza dough instead of pastry. The bell went ding. My machine has a forty five minute pizza dough setting. So I made the dough and wrapped it round the turkey.
As it cooked I had to sort of watch it as I had no idea what I was doing. But after 35 minutes on 160 fan, it looked ready. The second part of my song burst into life. It involved a slightly strangled screaming exclamation as I tried to handle the hot pasties. It was not pretty but at last it was rhythmic. By this time I was watching Leicester City lose to West Brom. There were three pasties. In fact here they are.
It was as though I’d made them for the three bears. I started with the baby portion. Oh yes! What I’d actually created was a turkey burger baked in a bun.
For those of you who’ve not yet discovered the delights of the bread machine, I say get one or at least dig the one out of the cupboard that’s sitting there all neglected along with the fondue set. I can manage it very well one-handed. I bought mine fifteen years ago after proclaiming the pappiness of manufactured bread.
There is a local bakery in Crowborough but they charge the earth and you cannot leave that shop with just one item. It’s often referred to as “Fat Boys”. I knew I could do better for my health so reader, I bought it.
As for Paul Hollywood; my scouse accent, steely blue eyes and bread making skills are equal to his. (That might be a lie, cue Hollywood saying in his Wallasey drawl; “That claim’s over-baked”) I knew of the family but they were in a different part of Wallasey. We had the bakers at the bottom of the road. My mum used to wax lyrical about his tin loaf.
I sat staring at the mummy bear portion. When you’re on a diet and guarding your intake of calories and carbohydrates, one tends to eye any form of bread with unholy avarice. There was not too much bread and it wasn’t slathered in the devil’s own butter. The turkey mince was already low fat….. Go!
I ate half of mummy bear’s. Before I could ponder any more it was wrapped and beginning a new life in the freezer. My word. What a delight. It was so simple. It would have been ideal with a warm carrot salad with a splash of olive oil and lemon and a sprinkling of fresh coriander. There could have also been a yoghurt, feta and mint dip. But I am on a diet.
I ended up collapsed on the sofa listening to our national treasure, David Attenborough. Soon I will report about my love of carrots. Steel yourselves. Thank-you for reading.