Have just come in from work. An enticing smell is emanating from the kitchen. That can only mean one thing: the boyf is cooking up something tasty for tea. Oooh, a quick chat with him has revealed it is chilli. Yum. He makes a mean chilli. His mashed potato is also pretty good.
I like to think I'm pretty creative in the kitchen. I love to just chuck things in a pot or pan and see how it all turns out - normally pretty good, by all accounts. The boyf always says that I, like the little girl in the British Eggs advert, can make something out of nothing. As long as it's tasty I've got no complaints (and neither does he).
It's a rare occurrence that I have reason to dislike food or complain about food. I like most things, apart from sprouts, butter beans and rhubarb. Oh, and lychees. When I was a little girl we had a rhubarb patch in the garden and my parents would pick it periodically to make crumbles and pies. I've always thought that cooked rhubarb smells like vomit.
I was never fond of school dinners either. One particular incident put me off them for life. At the tender age of five I thought the concept of being served your dinner and your pud in separate compartments but on one tray was wrong. And I was right, as one day the dinner lady proceeded to slop indescribable grey-brown mush over my jelly and custard. I think it was cottage pie or similar - she'd inadvertently ruined my jelly and custard. I told the teacher I wouldn't eat it and promptly received a telling-off for my little outburst. At three-thirty, my mother told the school I'd be going on packed lunch.
Ooh, a steaming bowl of chilli has just been handed to me. Yum yum.