This weekend, I sing the praises of slummocking and share a recipe for meatball, mushroom and spinach gratin. You can eat it on the sofa if you want.
Of course I understand the importance of a beautifully laid table, of blessing each day with as much grace as you can muster, of living each moment as fully as you can. Not only do I understand this, but I’ve probably written several hundred thousand words about it over the years in my career as a food writer.
And most of the time, I believe every single one of those words. Live your best life. Use the good china.
But you know what? Sometimes I just want to eat dinner in front of the telly, no side plates or conversation required. I use a tray. I’m not a barbarian. But honestly, there is much joy and comfort in a dinner for which no knife is required.
Sometimes I just want to eat dinner in front of the telly, no side plates or conversation required. I use a tray. I’m not a barbarian.
Years ago, I had an interview for my first proper job in magazines with a rather terrifying woman in the reception of a gloomy tower block south of the Thames. I got the job so I thought I must have been convincing, despite the noisy muddle of couriers, post trolleys and fax machines. My meagre cuttings must have past muster, my writing test mustn’t have been too full of howlers. Fairly soon, I found out that the terrifying woman wasn’t terrifying at all and she’d given me the job because she really liked the pale coral cardigan I was wearing. It’s a very strange feeling that your entire career trajectory rested on a trip to The Gap, circa 1995.
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