Anne was working late tonight. Yesterday, in preparation, she hunted down some stuff that I even I would be able to cook for us in tiume for her return, namely two steak and ale pies in their own little ramekins foraged from Waitrose, that cost little more than the average banking bonus. Channelling her inner Pru Leith, she decided this would go well with McCain's crispy oven chips and a microwaved cauliflower cheese. For she is all taste. All edge. All class.
But I hate cauliflower cheese. And I was in charge of the pass. Would Gordon “roar my gonads off” stand for this shit? No. No he would not. So, at the last minute, in the full heat of a fevered kitchen service, I went off-piste, showed some flair, a soupçon of élan. I grabbed a tin of the Jolly Green Giant, that safest of understudies, picked when ripe, tinned when sweet, plumptious, golden-yellow nuggets of sun, soon to be slathered in the melting butter of joy. Except, as I poured them into the pan, it turned out they were actually something called Palm Hearts. What are they? I honestly don't know. Why are they in the front of our cupboard? Why are they in a Green Giant tin? What the fuck?
Service...
But I hate cauliflower cheese. And I was in charge of the pass. Would Gordon “roar my gonads off” stand for this shit? No. No he would not. So, at the last minute, in the full heat of a fevered kitchen service, I went off-piste, showed some flair, a soupçon of élan. I grabbed a tin of the Jolly Green Giant, that safest of understudies, picked when ripe, tinned when sweet, plumptious, golden-yellow nuggets of sun, soon to be slathered in the melting butter of joy. Except, as I poured them into the pan, it turned out they were actually something called Palm Hearts. What are they? I honestly don't know. Why are they in the front of our cupboard? Why are they in a Green Giant tin? What the fuck?
Service...
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