It is cold. I wonder if we'll finally get the same snow treatment as the rest of the country. In years passed this would be the ideal weekend for a winter breakfast BBQ. Think full english grilled while we sip bloody marys and coffee with baileys in an attempt to not feel like actual alcoholics. Alas, it will not be so. Everyone is dry or experimenting with the vegan perversion. Laying off the sauce wouldn't be a bad idea to be honest, good job this is the last weekend of our winter holiday.
There will be a reuniting of The Band this weekend, so a quick forte with our 20s is in order. Beers and a takeaway to undo this week's gym sessions.
It is cold and we had two martinis last night. And a bottle of wine. And a negroni. So this morning was ripe for something fried and in bread.
Eggs. I remember a friend looking at me in complete bemusement and terror, as if I'd just sworn allegiance to Maggy T, when making a fried egg sandwich. I don't know who is more confused, they at my culinary fucking masterpiece or me at their unforgivable ignorance. Maybe it's a Northern thing? North Northern, not lower Northern. I don't know. And to be honest, I can't even be bothered to google it.
Fry an egg or two and stick it in-between some bread. I fucking dare you, you cowards,
Surprise lunch of frozen fruit, granola and coconut milk. Shut up.
Tonight is band practice. Which means a rushed pizza and wedges. I do not complain. I enjoy.
A project of love and passion Made by Sheppard.