So I haven't posted for a while, my only excuse being that I have recently become horribly, horribly old. 28 years old to be precise. Typing is becoming increasingly difficult with my ancient joints and I have little purpose for a cookery blog now that I am receiving meals on wheels. Well, that may all be a slight exaggeration but the extended celebrations/commiserations mean I have largely been stuffing my face at someone else's expense and effort.
It all began with this rather attractive moment.
This is me, turning 28 and cramming a haggis scotch egg into my face, courtesy of my good friends Claire Burns and Leisa Thomas ("We wanted to get you something you could blog about!"). Whilst this may not be particularly flattering, I can assure you it didn't get any better from here. There was a jaegerbomb in there somewhere and a moment when I cried in our hotel bathroom because the thought of waking up and checking out by 11am seemed physically and emotionally impossible.
We checked out at 12. There was a lot of head and stomach clutching, then this.
Then a lot more head and stomach clutching. We sat in the cafe for 3 hours, until the floor stopped feeling like the English channel.
An unfeasibly short time after eating a gammon steak the size of my laptop (a real laptop, not even a tablet) it was time for my Birthday dinner at St John Bread and Wine. Now, if you're considering making a trip to a restaurant which predominantly serves vast quantities of offal, you might want to go easy on the vino tinto the night before, because there was more than moment here when I wanted to yack into my napkin. We ordered optimistically; whole crab, smoked spratts, faggots (try ordering faggots without smirking, I challenge you), ox cheeks..... and I mostly just ate bread in fear of vom. I'm sorry, St John, I'm sure your selection of organs is delectable, but I was in dire need of medicinal macaroni cheese. Ben loved it though.
A week later and I had just about recovered enough for my present from my folks, a trip to Adlards in the Country. David Adlard used to run Adlard's on St Giles' St in Norwich, which I unfortunately never witnessed, but by all accounts it was excellent. Adlard's in the Country is basically a bed and breakfast, or bed, dinner and breakfast - you stay in David and Diane's lovely house and they cook for you. It's like going to dinner at your friend's house but you don't have to make small talk with said friend or take them a box of chocolates or offer to help with the washing up. On arrival there is tea and scones, then you go and doll yourself up (have a lie down) and come back down for drinks and immaculately constructed cheese straws, then dinner. Our menu consisted of:
Cream of pea soup with orange zest
Tart of confit cherry tomatoes with basil pesto and balsamic reduction
Gressingham duck breast with creamed lentils and wilted spinach
Chocolate fondant with Adlard's vanilla ice cream
It was delicious and we all got merry and full. Now I'm sorry I don't have a photo of every course, but people who take numerous photos in fancy restaurants make me want to sauté their smartphones (Hypocrite what? Shut up, places that serve ham, egg and chips don't count). Same goes for people who watch entire gigs with a shit digital camera balanced above their head (NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THOSE PHOTOS). Here's some nice flowers instead.
Tomorrow I'll get off my lardy arse and write about something I've cooked, honest.