So, that was Friday. I potted and faffed about the house in the morning (I'm a big fan of lazying about in my pjs, reading the paper, that sort of thing), went out to do some errands and just enjoyed a very chilled and needed day off. I was already starting to feel a bit bleh but kind of ignored it. On Saturday, it sort of started to transpire I was really not 100%. (To be honest, I had been stifling it for a week; the weather had taken a maniacal and evil turn and gone back to Autumn behaviour, and it had been dead busy at work. However, I had just chosen to ignore all those signs and believe the blehness would simply go away at some point.)
It didn't. I'm now home nursing the last remnants of a bad cold/flu. [When does it actually start being The Flu and stop being a common cold? I very rarely have (what is considered) a temperature but still suffer the rest of the symptoms. Flu or no flu, "ça c'est la question"! Anyhoo... I ramble (fact!).] I'm still coughing my lungs out but seem to have slept an itsy bitsy (teeny weeny) bit better than the last few nights (probably something to do with that cough syrup, which should probably be listed under soft drugs; it knocked me out, like!) so things are looking up!
As you may have read, I had the brilliant idea of roasting a huge pollo on Saturday. I was still in denial about how crappy I was feeling so, to my amazement, it turned out well-roasted and well-tasty (was a good quality organic specimen, that chick). So, apart from a couple of tense expletive-laden moments in the kitchen and virtually managing to kill all vitamins in the "steamed" broccoli (I did manage to forget about the boiling water under the steamer and ended up with a beautifully charcoaled bottom of the pan) it probably can, all in all, be considered a success! There's a carcass in that fridge I need to sort out, though. Let's see how I feel in a while when my body follows my brain and starts functioning too.
So, should I achieve the purpose of actually getting my arse in gear, I might have a go at the scone recipe colleague and food-nut D passed on a few months ago. One morning, there was a small package waiting for me atop my keyboard at work; it was the cream of tartar bottle pictured left. Having had a go at making scones that had come out a bit flat (to say the least, they looked like plain biscuits), she recommended Nigella's recipe (her again! the feud continues!) and, a few weeks later, she even got me this, the alleged key ingredient. She's a star. I've made much better scones since (not opening the oven half way through the process is, apparently, a must... d'oh!) but I'm curious about this recipe now.
That reminds me I have yet to crack open this beautiful tin too. Another gift from another lovely friend and colleague, who brought it back from her last visit home. I love the old-fashioned design of the tin but, when I asked her what I could use it for, she looked at me in disbelief (another one) and, with a shake of the head, replied that most traditional Spanish dishes call for it. Ahem!
For the first twenty-odd years of my life (before I left the country to go and study abroad and never made it back) I never really showed any interest in cooking or any other domestic activity and I reckon this applies to most of my mates from home. It's a sign of our generation, really: trying to break with the traditional role of the woman, blah, blah, blah, shan't get into it here or now. We're all (just) starting to pick it up now (and, as I've mentioned here before, we're all on the very wrong side of thirty). Right, pimentón dulce, then. A new challenge, ei! They really want me to cook that lot, don't they?
Thank you, chicas, and, yes, I know I owe you a post on Súper López. I just don't quite yet feel I have my wits about me to try and be (well, if you'll excuse the repetition) witty. As if...
It's all domesticated ninja here lately, I'm afraid.
That and some serious snot! : )