Gluttony and Sloth

I love food. There was a time when I didn't; between the ages of 12 and 19, I wasn't that interested. If I was upset (often), I wouldn't eat. Perhaps this was a sub-conscious attempt to upset my parents who repeatedly report that they had a hard time getting me to feed and eat when I was a baby and then a child. In my teenages years, I saw food as a filler, a stop-gap, something that was a waste of money compared to alcohol or national express coach tickets to other places. Even though I was horribly thin, I used to go on diets and see how long I could go in the morning without eating or feeling faint. I think I must have been a little bit of an accidental anorexic. Becoming a vegetarian didn't help as I didn't like vegetables and pretty much existed on mushroom omelettes and TVP for a good number of years.

But previous to my Damascene conversion, I was obsessed with food. There isn't really any fine dining in Doncaster, but we sometimes used to go out to pub-restaurants on a Sunday, me dressed in my best Clothkits dress and carrying my 1977 silver jubilee clutch-bag (jumble sale, 10p) filled with my plastic jewellery. When we got home, I'd make up menus, detailing my favourite meals (prawn cocktail, egg mayonnaise, roast duck, steak and chips, blackforest gateau, strawberry shortcake) with the puddings priced more than the main courses.

It was when I lived in France that I rediscovered food. A year with not much to do, an Erasmus grant and lots of fresh produce changed my student meals from beans on toast to such gastronomic efforts as ratatouille, white quenelles in satay sauce and chilli with guacamole. One thing you learn about being a vegetarian is that you have to Eat Foreign. I remember my dad bringing home hummous from Rotherham M&S for the first time - it was a revelation. Ditto masala dosa, pad thai, felafel, baba ghanoush, pieroggi.

Anyway, last week, I took David out for a Valentine's meal (slightly late) at very poshe French restaurant Morgan M, which despite being French, won Time Out's best vegetarian meal award. Mon Dieu, those Frenchies can cook. I was a little concerned that the vegetarian tasting menu would be nouvelle cuisine-y, leaving us hungry, but after 6 courses, I was stuffed to my very greedy gills.

The amuse bouche didn't quell my fears when the waitress brought over a tiny portion of chopped cucumber and a slick of basil oil and what looked like squirty cream (but turned out to be horseradish foam). On it she poured a broad bean cold consomme which was one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted. The second starter was a small ragout of Mediterranean vegetables and beans. Yum. Then came the two main courses - gnocchi with asparagus, shaved truffles and saffron cream. This was my favourite course: ingredients I could recognise with flavours I could love. Next up was red pepper stuffed with curd cheese which was pretty good, but by now I was hankering for desert. The first went back into nouvelle territory - a titchy portion of rice pudding ice cream inside a brandy snap with passion fruit coulis. Ambrosia. Then came the finale, a bitter chocolate moelleux with ice cream, the sweet equivalent of crackling, and a home made Baileys (i.e. whisky mixed with double cream).

I chose to abstain, but David chose their wine tasting menu, which matched a glass of wine per course and was perfectly done down to the red desert wine. The only complaint I'd have about the restaurant is that it was a little too swanky for a Donny lass like me. I felt embarrassed every time I went to the toilet and the waitress re-folded my napkin for me. Two waiters were larking about on the stairs; I smiled at them and they apologised, as if they had something to be sorry for. The rest of the clientele were very cashmere and pearls. And whilst I don't mind paying a lot for food, the additional costs (for example, £5 for a cappuccino that isn't going to taste any better than one made at a Dalston coffee shop), were a little outré .

But we walked home over Highbury Fields feeling rather jolly. It was almost as good as one of my mum's roast dinners.

Gluttony and Sloth

I love food. There was a time when I didn't; between the ages of 12 and 19, I wasn't that interested. If I was upset (often), I wouldn't eat. Perhaps this was a sub-conscious attempt to upset my parents who repeatedly report that they had a hard time getting me to feed and eat when I was a baby and then a child. In my teenages years, I saw food as a filler, a stop-gap, something that was a waste of money compared to alcohol or national express coach tickets to other places. Even though I was horribly thin, I used to go on diets and see how long I could go in the morning without eating or feeling faint. I think I must have been a little bit of an accidental anorexic. Becoming a vegetarian didn't help as I didn't like vegetables and pretty much existed on mushroom omelettes and TVP for a good number of years.

But previous to my Damascene conversion, I was obsessed with food. There isn't really any fine dining in Doncaster, but we sometimes used to go out to pub-restaurants on a Sunday, me dressed in my best Clothkits dress and carrying my 1977 silver jubilee clutch-bag (jumble sale, 10p) filled with my plastic jewellery. When we got home, I'd make up menus, detailing my favourite meals (prawn cocktail, egg mayonnaise, roast duck, steak and chips, blackforest gateau, strawberry shortcake) with the puddings priced more than the main courses.

It was when I lived in France that I rediscovered food. A year with not much to do, an Erasmus grant and lots of fresh produce changed my student meals from beans on toast to such gastronomic efforts as ratatouille, white quenelles in satay sauce and chilli with guacamole. One thing you learn about being a vegetarian is that you have to Eat Foreign. I remember my dad bringing home hummous from Rotherham M&S for the first time - it was a revelation. Ditto masala dosa, pad thai, felafel, baba ghanoush, pieroggi.

Anyway, last week, I took David out for a Valentine's meal (slightly late) at very poshe French restaurant Morgan M, which despite being French, won Time Out's best vegetarian meal award. Mon Dieu, those Frenchies can cook. I was a little concerned that the vegetarian tasting menu would be nouvelle cuisine-y, leaving us hungry, but after 6 courses, I was stuffed to my very greedy gills.

The amuse bouche didn't quell my fears when the waitress brought over a tiny portion of chopped cucumber and a slick of basil oil and what looked like squirty cream (but turned out to be horseradish foam). On it she poured a broad bean cold consomme which was one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted. The second starter was a small ragout of Mediterranean vegetables and beans. Yum. Then came the two main courses - gnocchi with asparagus, shaved truffles and saffron cream. This was my favourite course: ingredients I could recognise with flavours I could love. Next up was red pepper stuffed with curd cheese which was pretty good, but by now I was hankering for desert. The first went back into nouvelle territory - a titchy portion of rice pudding ice cream inside a brandy snap with passion fruit coulis. Ambrosia. Then came the finale, a bitter chocolate moelleux with ice cream, the sweet equivalent of crackling, and a home made Baileys (i.e. whisky mixed with double cream).

I chose to abstain, but David chose their wine tasting menu, which matched a glass of wine per course and was perfectly done down to the red desert wine. The only complaint I'd have about the restaurant is that it was a little too swanky for a Donny lass like me. I felt embarrassed every time I went to the toilet and the waitress re-folded my napkin for me. Two waiters were larking about on the stairs; I smiled at them and they apologised, as if they had something to be sorry for. The rest of the clientele were very cashmere and pearls. And whilst I don't mind paying a lot for food, the additional costs (for example, £5 for a cappuccino that isn't going to taste any better than one made at a Dalston coffee shop), were a little outré .

But we walked home over Highbury Fields feeling rather jolly. It was almost as good as one of my mum's roast dinners.

Brain Drain

Some things I have come to conclusions about:

Women who say they are gay men in a woman's body only mean that they can't see themselves as the desired, the object, but more the predator, the gazer and there is no role model for them (apart from the comic character of the cougar).

I think smell determines your sexual preference. I find many girls pretty or sexy or both, but I don't like the way women smell, perfumed or otherwise. Men, unless horridly sweaty or Lynx-ed up, just smell nicer.

I am starting to understand self-harm. I have never practised it myself and don't intend to, but there seems to be very little outlet for women's anger, apart from shouting at people in shops. We have the hormonal rage for at least a week a month, we need An Angry Space (hey, let's call it LiveJournal!) Let's stop apologising for being in a funk, PMT-inspired or otherwise. The days of the angel in the house are long gone, systerz.

My natural self is a brassy big mouth, but I am also really shy. The two things compete.

It's impossible to slag off women who slag off other women (e.g. Annabel Croft commenting on a tennis match, criticising, not Serena Williams's backhand, but her dress, as if she was the radio equivalent of Heat magazine), because then one becomes the thing one hates. Perhaps the Linda Lee-Potters of this world became female misogynists because that is how they could get their voices heard in the male dominated media. Male editors weren't interested in their views on politics etc, but were delighted to hear the decimation of the sisterhood. I've noticed that male gatherings do much the same.

Women who, after dumping or being dumped by their boyfriend, criticise his "tiny penis" are weird. Surely they can find something other than his dick (which after all, a man can't do that much about unless he believes his spam folder) that he could change about himself.

I find myself longing for the innocent days of Sam Fox whenever I see Jordan.

Radcliffe should gag Maconie.

I'm not sure I won last night's "Dr Brian Cox is the sexiest scientist" argument. Evariste Galois was pretty hot, although he died aged 20, which always helps.

Brain Drain

Some things I have come to conclusions about:

Women who say they are gay men in a woman's body only mean that they can't see themselves as the desired, the object, but more the predator, the gazer and there is no role model for them (apart from the comic character of the cougar).

I think smell determines your sexual preference. I find many girls pretty or sexy or both, but I don't like the way women smell, perfumed or otherwise. Men, unless horridly sweaty or Lynx-ed up, just smell nicer.

I am starting to understand self-harm. I have never practised it myself and don't intend to, but there seems to be very little outlet for women's anger, apart from shouting at people in shops. We have the hormonal rage for at least a week a month, we need An Angry Space (hey, let's call it LiveJournal!) Let's stop apologising for being in a funk, PMT-inspired or otherwise. The days of the angel in the house are long gone, systerz.

My natural self is a brassy big mouth, but I am also really shy. The two things compete.

It's impossible to slag off women who slag off other women (e.g. Annabel Croft commenting on a tennis match, criticising, not Serena Williams's backhand, but her dress, as if she was the radio equivalent of Heat magazine), because then one becomes the thing one hates. Perhaps the Linda Lee-Potters of this world became female misogynists because that is how they could get their voices heard in the male dominated media. Male editors weren't interested in their views on politics etc, but were delighted to hear the decimation of the sisterhood. I've noticed that male gatherings do much the same.

Women who, after dumping or being dumped by their boyfriend, criticise his "tiny penis" are weird. Surely they can find something other than his dick (which after all, a man can't do that much about unless he believes his spam folder) that he could change about himself.

I find myself longing for the innocent days of Sam Fox whenever I see Jordan.

Radcliffe should gag Maconie.

I'm not sure I won last night's "Dr Brian Cox is the sexiest scientist" argument. Evariste Galois was pretty hot, although he died aged 20, which always helps.