Strictly NO children allowed, sorry.

I’ll be honest, when it comes to kids, I’d much rather watch them falling backwards off their chairs or falling asleep in their cake on You’ve Been Framed than actually spend a decent amount of time with them. It’s not that I hate them, I’m just yet to develop that maternal feeling so many mothers have toward their spaghetti covered, precious children. Which is probably why, when they’re screaming in my ear in a restaurant or complaining about the lack of strawberry flavoured ice cream on the menu, I get a little antsy.

By the way, you’re ordering the wrong food

One of the best things about discovering a new restaurant, a hidden gem, and loving absolutely everything about it, is that you then get to brag about this cool place you’ve found and recommend it to your friends. Everyone loves being able to make a good recommendation because it says a lot about you. Yes, I’ve got great taste and my life is about more than eating out in the local chain restaurant before going the pub. When I stumble across a place I’ve never heard of or give something relatively new a go that hasn’t quite made it onto the map yet, I can’t wait to tell people about it. I’m not selfish, I don’t try to keep it all to myself, I want to share the experience and be responsible for a friend’s fantastic evening. The only problem I have is when they don’t like it. Then things become a little awkward.

Sharing is caring?

I recently came back from a trip to Paris (said as though I often hop on the Eurostar to visit my favourite boulangeries and cafes) where I spent my time simply wandering their beautiful markets, picking up an obscene amount of bread, smelly cheese and cured meats, and sitting under their obtrusive landmark. There’s nothing I love more than laying on a delicious spread for myself, picking at little or big bits and eating until I’ve run out of belt holes. It’s just, when I have to enjoy a spread with someone else, I can get a little panicky. I’m not a sharer. It’s all I can do not to bat the other person’s hand away every time they get a little too close to the last fistfuls of floury bread, and I often find myself manoeuvering my body so that I’m shielding the last few chunks of cheese from beady little eyes. Get your own spread, mine’s not for sharing.

Alfresco? Alfresc-no.

Now that we’re no longer experiencing manic winds and mud up to our knees, and are instead enjoying kind of warmish temperatures and some sun, we’re all getting totally overexcited about barbecues! Except, they’re not barbecues anymore really, are they? Back in the day a BBQ was when dad piled some coal together in the corner, balanced a wire rack on top and chargrilled some burgers and sausages, also toasting the bun if you were lucky. Nowadays, we’ve all become obsessed with alfresco dining. Now, when we have BBQs, we put tablecloths down, get out the knives and forks and use serviettes instead of kitchen roll. Even the ketchup isn’t just plain old Tommy K anymore, it’s something fancy and gourmet, like ketchup with chilli. What happened to bunging a burger in a bap and fully accepting the fact that it will end up all over your face? It’s summer, you can just wash it off by running through the sprinklers.

Take my order and cook it, please

I’m not much of a Doctor Who fan, I’m still trying to figure out if the whole thing is some long-winded joke, but when describing London I like to compare it to the TARDIS, in that it appears small, we know it is small, but somehow it manages to fit a whole lot of stuff in it. Every day a new restaurant is opening and a bar pops up, yet we don’t question how it’s even possible, we just get excited because it’s bound to offer something new and exciting like a burger or a hotdog… but served with champagne!

Stepdad pies

I consider myself to be quite the expert when it comes to baking pies and so I should be, given the number I’ve had to make in the past, but there is one person who is far better at baking pies filled with all sorts than even me. He is meticulous when it comes to baking them, stirring the ingredients with the same far off look in his eyes as when he strokes his moustache, sprinkling god knows what into the pot in an eerily methodical way. He’s a character at the centre of many horror stories, the one that looms at the top the stairs, the one that children are terrified of, and they should be, because he is…the stepdad.

Phony bakers

Despite not everyone being able to cook or bake, all of us like to pretend that we can at some point or another, and I don’t mean simply donning a chef’s hat and mixing something in a bowl.

You’d be surprised by the number of my friends who couldn’t boil an egg yet manage to produce perfect cakes and beautiful dinners for their boyfriends on special occasions. It used to be that they’d at least have a try first, to confirm that they definitely couldn’t do it themselves – the sunken and burnt heart-shaped cake quite literally being the proof in the pudding – but now they don’t even bother. They go straight to the friend with the required skills, put in their order and wait for the goods to be delivered. Of course, they’ll be there so they can witness it being made, because at least that gives them some justification when they claim that they made it. ‘I made it’ isn’t quite the same as ‘I was there’ though, is it?

Wanted: a man who can read a menu

Unfortunately, a friend of mine is back on the dating scene. I say unfortunately, because while she’s very optimistic about the whole thing, we both know that dating, though occasionally fun, is more often than not just disastrous. I know that I’m a bad friend, but her lack of a respectable partner is affecting me too. Call me controversial, but I like a double date and I know that double dating with her would be a laugh because she drinks her wine by the bottle like I do, and there’s nothing worse than asking for a straw for your sauvignon when the other girlfriend is drinking soda water. So she needs to find a date sharpish. She’s a beautiful girl, inside and out, which is why I’m annoyed as she’s obviously just not trying hard enough, and I think I know why.

Fussy eater? You’re just spoilt!

It being Valentine’s Day and me being the avid amateur baker that I am, you’d think by now I’d be up to my elbows in flour and cocoa powder, creating some sort of indulgent chocolate cake in the shape of a heart. Well, I would be, had I not chosen a cake-hater for a Valentine.

Look, we all know I’m a savoury lover and would rather eat a loaf of bread than a cake, but come on, how can you say you don’t like cake? I’m getting a little tired of fussy eaters these days, they’re taking it to the next level. It’s no longer a simple aversion to mushrooms or marmite, it’s ‘I don’t like cake’ or ‘I don’t like roast dinners.’ My sister doesn’t like roast dinners. How absurd. She’s basically stating to the world that she doesn’t like roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, vegetables, gravy, bread sauce and (seeing as she didn’t specify) meat in general. Yeah, right. What a ridiculous thing to say. Now people are declaring they don’t like whole meals. I would understand if it was not her favourite meal, if she didn’t like bread sauce or a certain vegetable, fair enough, but to disregard the entire meal? Spoilt, that’s what I say.

MISSING: a good bacon sandwich

What is it about going abroad that makes us think we can all eat like warthogs? We spend weeks, sometimes months, pounding the pavements, eating horrifically green and salady meals, using every bit of willpower within us to say no to white wine and carbs – and for what? To treat ourselves to a ‘holiday breakfast’ the moment we step foot inside the airport or to order ourselves a litre of beer or a pint of wine as soon as we’ve set up camp on the beach. What on earth is going through our minds? ‘I’ve looked like crap for the last few weeks, a sweaty, red and starved mess, so now I may as well pile on the pounds and look crap here too.’ Logical. Then we all complain that we put on two stone on holiday, ‘can you believe it?!’ Well, yes actually, because you ate like a pig the entire time.