Date a Chef

Mmmm… sun is out, yogurt and fruit, run in the park- wait you would like to cook me breakfast while I work on some lines? I won’t say no.

For breakfast I eat cornish sea salt, locally made gluten-free rye, home made hollandaise – whisked to perfection, Brown eggs smoked in sustainable and foraged seasonal grasses. The coffee is single bean from a place where they speak Arabic and accompanied by Jus d’orange- a southern french import. I do hope they sort it out soon so I don’t have to feel bad about the Jus travelling all that way. I was told oranges will be available during English winters soon… Looking forward.

LUNCH is Bloody hell already? I mean Bloody Mary Queen of Scots it’s time for the next round. Roast loin of beef bred from the ruby red heifer care of the trucks from Devon, potatoes in goose fat because fat of geese tastes better, organic BLACK kale don’t even start me on the budding baby flower kale and heritage carrots with the leaves on… clotted cream and the mess of an eton school grad, and goodness i forgot about the porkling entree and soup of creme that I devoured right after bloody Mary. The lunch washed down with Mainland ciders and stomach skin starting to stretch and stretch.

Dinner. We’ll just have ALL of the starters, the hair of lapin, and breast of quail, strings of marsh heather and eyes of newt coupled all with reds from Barossa and Sardinia and Mendoza and Bordeaux, a chest that heaves under the weight of digestion, armpits wet with effort, the cotton but thank god it’s not cotton only viscose and acrylic and two pounds so I can throw it away if it comes to that… fashion made for… Ohhhhhhhhh WOOOEEEE is me, I spied the CCTV, ┬áthe arsehole in the corner. His piercing arrogance, his matter of fact visage, his pointed gaze. MY GOD, what happened to my legs, I look frankly enormous (frankfurts aside) and my arms wobble in a mesmerising slow motion fat cascade as I pretend to wave goodbye to my lover. I mean REALLY. No one wants to see that, it completely distracts you from the protagonists plight, their emotional journey reminding you oh shit- I forgot the chicken in the oven…..bbbbbbbbrrrk.

Did I mention the oyster martinis and the surprise jerk and the sushi prepared with delicate expediency. Supper calls. And don’t get me wrong, I am NOT complaining. All this line learning, and audition stress is getting me down and I need to EAT. Andwho gives a toss if I am not the pretty skinny lead anymore but the pudgy best friend. Your casting changes. It shifts and it totally makes me more versatile?. I can be the pretty pudgy girl. The one who likes to have her cake and eat it too? Sooo. When your wardrobe shrinks to half of what it is… and your backflab bends and twists in rivulets when you try to look at your reflected bottom (yes women do that- YOU have to know before the cameraman does duh) then it makes you think- maybe dating a chef is perhaps not the best way forward in this caper… but it tastes so good. Is the industry and food compatible? Absolutely NOT.

Glass of champagne anyone?



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