We were in the UL all morning yesterday, and decided to retire back to college for some lunch, the tearoom in the UL being a) extortionate and b) unable to accept cards. 'I'll cook lunch!', I declared brightly. Grimacing, gnashing their teeth and wailing like condemned men, my friends followed me back to the G-Staircase kitchen, also known as the Place Where The Magic Happens. We have reached an interesting stage in our friendship in which we all know that I am an atrocious cook, and that actually they'd rather not eat my hideous offerings, but they don't quite know me well enough to know whether I'd react very badly to the news and throw myself from my balcony. From my perspective, it's a win-win situation.
We fried halloumi, microwaved hot-dogs and put them in slightly stale pitta bread with some other random cheese that happened to be in my fridge. I consider it a culinary success, in that nobody has yet been hospitalised. Katherine, as you can see in the first image, is less convinced. Ah well.
Tastiness - 6/10 - It was OK. I don't think the hot-dogs were quite cooked. Ah well.
Likeliness to set off a fire alarm - 6/10 - We got The Fear a bit frying the halloumi, but all was well, and all manner of things were well.
Likeliness to cause a fatal coronary, 20 years down the line - 8/10 - It's fried cheese and questionable meat, topped in weirdly runny ketchup. Not what you'd call gourmet.
Incidentally, I note from the stats that people actually appear to be reading this. Thank you, people, you poor, deluded souls. If you have any questions, just want to berate me, or if you have any simple recipes you think I could try (I mean, really simple. Like, no more than four steps), please let me know. I'm thinking of making Sunday a Special Cookery night. Even more special than usual that is. So, comment!!
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