February 9, 2015, by Gemma Coleman
The boys near me live by very strict eating rules: Chicken Kiev Tuesdays, Carbonara Wednesdays, Cottage Pie Saturdays and my god, don’t offer to peel a potato unless you can do it in less than 10 seconds. Not. Worth. It.
As much as I enjoy being cooked for, my inner Beyoncé tells me to me a strong independent woman (and yes, to be a little sassy when my mashing skills aren’t “up to scratch”) and, so, the girls thought it was time to have their own, ahem, gourmet-dining experience.
My pasta bake game was strong. Creamy tomato sauce. Spinach. Peppers. Onion. What didn’t it have? I even managed to not burn the garlic bread, which is a valuable skill: the timeframe between undercooked and burnt to a crisp is small. A lesson learnt the hard way on more than one occasion. Dark days.
I guess you could say I was getting pretty cocky by the time it got to dessert and that is where it all fell down. My friend Katie and I were ready, ingredients had been purchased; the oven had been preheated. Ready, steady, cook, right? Wrong. We started from one recipe and getting half way through it realised it had substituted butter for a whole manner of ‘healthy alternatives’. This wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, so we switched recipes. Maths is neither of our strong suits and scaling the ingredients down to match the other recipe proved problematic. Yes, it tasted pretty good, but any Come Dine With Me contestant would have picked up on the presentation and gleefully given us a 6. The cake crumbled before our eyes as we took it out of the oven and we had to sort of squish it back onto the plate to make it cake-shaped again.
The only answer? Chocolate fondue. A people pleaser; definitely one of your five-a-day; and not even I can mess up melting chocolate.
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