Having enjoyed the luscious Lisa Faulkner's hopeless poached egg the other day, yesterday it was my turn to, hit the hurdle, drop the ball, curdle the hollandaise.
I was preparing a simple "pasta bake" supper to greet my wife home from the cold forbidding hills of corporate mismanagement. Not just any pasta bake, of course. The tomato sauce was a thing of great beauty - home grown tomatoes and garlic, sweating down in a few secret ingredients no cheeky TV celebrity chef could ever get me to divulge. The courgetttes were sweet and firm, yellow and homegrown. The mince was handrolled on the thigh of a Shropshire farmer's lusty daughter. Rustle up a white sauce, finely grate some finest mature cheddar, eh voila.
Of course, when it comes to serving up food in our home, frankly nothing gets tougher than that, with my very own Anne Turode-Fortt-Leith, not to mention the three wicked witches of the WI. She smelt, prodded, nibbled, chewed, rolled my succulence round her mouth, and finally declared: "Mmm, lovely. I think there's something missing though."
And she was right. There was.
Pasta.
Should have called it "bake".
.
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