Can't. Blog. Must. Bake. Bake bake bake bake bake bake bake bake bake bake. Only 36 hours 'til I leave for London with my cargo of tupperware boxes full of mean biscuits. Only, what, 60 hours or so until C-DAY. I am wearing a polka dot apron and an authentically Cruel Tea expression of fury and madness. I decided to tweak my recipe in a fit of stupidity and hubris, and then I realised that the only salt I had is big boulders of grey rock salt. There is butter everywhere and the weepette is scavenging eggshells out of the bin in a fit of stress induced bulimia and grinding them to an attractive paste on the rug. Seriously, he's behaving like a compulsive over-eater, mid-binge. Every time I leave the room and come back, I am confronted by a gloomy, skinny faced weepette with its front paws on some illegal stretch of kitchen, eating chocolate coins, or dry bread, or avocado skin. Literally, in the time it took me to write that phrase, it had dismembered an old avocado on the floor in a silent frenzy. What the fuck? Is this a notorious weepette trait that I am unaware of? (I am now steeling myself for a rush of whippet bulimia related keyword searches).
I am putting the Salmon Palace kitchen to the test and it is failing. The oven only has one shelf. That's, like, 12 biscuits. Out of 500, for fuck's sake! Thank goodness I am appalling at maths, otherwise I suspect I would actually give up. (If anyone tries to calculate how long this is going to take me and puts it in the comments box they are instantly and irrevocably barred from these pages, even though I don't know how to do that. Yeah.) Between batches I do this:
Oh, yeah. I was here for a reason. Veg.
41 of you bastards who expressed a preference wanted me to make actual food from the organic veg box. Thanks for nothing. I give you "Aubergine Whatthefuck":
Yes, I did bloody well make it myself. Look, here it is festering, sorry, cooking:
It was gross. I lost control of my salting hand and created a briny monster. The shallots were putrid. I nearly didn't finish it, and I'm one of those 'pathologically unable to leave food on a plate' people. See? See what I did for you? I am very, very, very stupid.
I think I am going to make a beautiful vegetable nativity scene with the turnips, next week when my grasp of reality returns slightly. Apparently undeterred, however, by a crisper compartment full of wrinkly, deflated turnips, I signed up for the box this week too, and as I type, a yellow pumpkin type thing is sittingly squatly on the table looking disapprovingly at me. There are beetroots too. They're a pain in the ass, aren't they? No more polls though. You've lost my trust, all 41 of you. Pah.