POST 8, PART I: MUM’S THE WORD

Men of the world, rest easy. I have put myself back on the contraceptive pill. Phew!

I secretly took myself off-pill some nine months ago (ironically) in hopes of adding a certain sense of possibility and risk to my otherwise rather dull existence. Shake things up a bit with that ‘what if?’ vibe. And to lose weight, of course. But, guess what? No baby. Unless I’m gestating an elephant, which would explain a lot. Particularly the weight gain as opposed to the weight loss... But given I haven’t had sex with man or beast within the conventional timeframe for bringing an infant of almost any species into this world, this is hardly surprising news.

Unless this is the Second Coming – assuming God is giving time off for good behaviour these days.

But clearly playing Russian roulette with your fertility and future isn’t big and it isn’t clever. And if (if only!) there was a loaded gun around I’d have certainly downed weapons and declared a cease fire – I have no desire to trick someone into getting me up the duff. Scout’s honour, and all that stuff. No, a ‘happy accident’ with a condom was the theory... Because sometimes I think that’s the best I can hope for. I seriously can’t picture meeting, marrying, mortgaging and procreating with a man in the conventional sense. Coz in practice... Hell, I can’t even be trusted to remove my eye makeup at the end of the average evening out, so how can I hope to find a suitable mate in that state?!

But then there’s this fantasy of my future self... With the hubby, the 2.4 children and our pet Labrador. The house in the country with the heffing great farmhouse kitchen. Me, getting the Sunday lunch on. Knocking up a batch of gingerbread men for the village fete. In the Aga. Basically, I’m Kirstie Allsopp. But then you hit 30* and that just hasn’t happened. And you hear your mother say, “When I was your age I was married with two kids” for the zillionth time, and you wonder – is this ever going to happen? Like, ever?!

When you even struggle to get to the bit where there’s talk of taking a mini-break and maybe moving in. When you rule out perfectly acceptable chaps from the get-go because you prefer brown eyes to blue and simply cannot tolerate someone who thinks apostrophes are optional or puts Ketchup on their roast dinner. When you shudder at the thought of spending a further five minutes with some of the halfwits you happened to have shagged, let alone the next 18 years. When you looked at baby photos of the last man you were supposedly in love with and deemed his head funny-shaped, and hence him unsuitable breeding fodder – seriously, what hope is there?!

(To my future blue-eyed, Frankenstein-headed offspring, if you’re reading this – there was a fuck-up at the sperm bank, for which that doctor paid dearly. Mummy loves you really. Provided she doesn’t look you directly in the face.)

So, after a lot of soul-searching, I’m back on the pill. Because I’ll be damned if I’m spending my 30s spotty. Honestly – my skin is an outrage! Zits everywhere! Plus my boobs have shrunk too, which just takes the biscuit. But rather than spend my Sunday afternoon obsessing over how my teenage skin contrasts with my National Geographic breasts (which is what I have been doing), in white picket fence world I am preparing Sunday lunch for the family. So I thought I’d take this opportunity to share my favourite roast recipe with you...

*Crying in a New York City bar restroom, fyi, midnight UK time so therefore officially the 22nd June, but 7pm State-side the day before – but more on that in post nine as I have to write these in advance for Bex to do the pictures!

POST 7, PART II: LET THEM EAT CAKE

So as I clopped down the stairs this morning looking like I’d been dipped in Accessorize to pick up my plate of cakey-cakes, it suddenly hit me – I am such an utter twat! What the hell am I doing bringing homemade cakes to work?! I’m trying to get a promotion and payrise, for fuck’s sake! And, besides, I could never truly love a man who works in IT and has terrible taste in jumpers.

Hence I’m chickening out of taking the cakes to work. But don’t let that stop you baking them because they are scrumptious.

Guess it’s back to Match.com for me. But what in the name of Peggy Mitchell is going on in the world of internet dating, people?! Is a weirdy-beardy who’s seen fit to put up photo after photo of his head simply taken from different angles by the camera in his computer the best I can hope for?! Even the bipolar trainee hypnotherapist I agreed to meet the other week (for reasons that now escape me) failed to work his magic. You’d think with skills like his, and standards as low and as random as mine, we’d be a perfect pairing.

Perhaps I should call him when he’s completed his course...

No. The only way to attract a better class of boyfriend is to embark on The Diet To End All Diets. Again. I don’t want to be medically normal, dammit! Don’t let the hotpants dream die, Amy! So it’s healthy eating for me from here on in... By God, maybe I’ll stop worrying what passersby think of me and go on that run I’m always talking about. Even if I do run like a henchman in a Bond movie...

Or do two weeks on the Special K Diet. Washed down with a fistful of laxatives. Ooh, I do enjoy a good crash diet, me. Even dabble with the odd eating disorder. One of my proudest achievements was when I didn’t eat anything for 10 entire days. I did that ‘lemonade diet’ where you just sip water with a bit of lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper in it all day, every day. With a couple of laxatives for tea as a treat. So, quite literally, not a sausage. And while I did lose half-a-stone, I really wouldn’t recommend it if you need to do anything taxing – like think. Or get up from the sofa/bed when you will be spending the duration of your diet without fainting. You know you haven’t found a long-term solution when the highlight of your day is brushing your teeth.

As for the other options... Well, anorexia really isn’t for me. I ask you, have you ever tried to eat a tissue? It’s not terribly palatable. And the danger of regularly mixing bulimia with binge-drinking is that you quite often forget to throw up.

Losing weight is tough. Especially with four-and-twenty cakes to get down your gullet before The Diet To End All Diets can commence.

Which just goes to prove, you can’t have your cake and it eat it. Or ever expect to pull-off hotpants.

Illustration by Bex Barrow.

PS – we're having week off, folks, while I jet off to New York to turn 29 (again) / have a breakdown... See ya on the 28th June!

POST 7, PART I: LET THEM EAT CAKE

Samuel Johnson sure got it right when he observed, “A man is never happy in the present unless he is drunk”. Happiness and the here and now rarely go hand-in-hand. Unless you’re pissed.

But, on occasions, it just isn’t practical or proper to get sozzled – you’ve got to operate heavy machinery or are on the verge of liver failure, say – so what’s the alternative? Impulse-buying a puppy? Heroin? Both worthy but rather drastic contenders. I, however, find nothing beats baking a cake for an instant happiness-fix.

Yep, baking cakes – particularly fairy cakes – makes me happy. Like, can’t-wipe-the-smile-off-my-face-while-I’m-doing-it happy. I guess it’s a girl thing. Having been taught to bake by my mum and granny, it brings fond memories of childhood flooding back... Of birthday parties, jelly and ice cream, and all those trestle tables heaving with sausages-on-sticks and bowls of Hula Hoops. My pink fairy princess party dress that I loved so much I forced my younger brother to wear it when I outgrew it. My grandma making a chocolate cake from the Cadbury’s cookbook and letting me lick the spoon – the yummiest, naughtiest treat there was back then. When no one worried about salmonella. And before she ruined it by covering it with cooking chocolate. (Why, granny? Why?!)

When I first started this blog I figured, if nothing it else, it will be the best excuse to make my favourite recipes and be a fat, greedy bitch. But in my mission to bag a boyfriend, I’ve decided to multi-task and whip up a batch of these amazing iced almond fairy cakes in a bid to impress a male colleague. I haven’t yet decided which male co-worker, I hasten to add – just resolved to find a work crush. It’s been ages since I’ve had one and I just find those fleeting moments of flirtation over the water-cooler we totally don’t have in my crappy office building make the urge to bash my forehead against my keyboard in abject disappointment and despair, again and again, so much less frequent. And it also motivates me to don earrings and high-heels, which I’m otherwise too lazy to wear.

There are no obvious contenders for the enviable position of My Boyfriend at present. All the best ones are taken, of course. But there are a couple of guys worth considering for a temporary role... Though I recently discovered that the favourite was only 23! What is it with me and younger men?! I wouldn’t mind, but being so horribly insecure and self-obsessed, I can’t help but think hooking up with boys of increasingly younger years reflects just how emotionally retarded I am. I recently ‘fessed up to my youngest yet. “Oh, God, Amy – is he even in sixthform?!” was the response. (He was 22. Well, nearly 22... And it was only a fling.)

I tried to convince someone I was a cougar the other day (no, not that kind – this kind). She called me a kiddie fiddler and said my love life was more Jeremy Kyle than primetime Courtney Cox show.

Moving swiftly on, let’s shake things up a bit this post by getting straight to the baking so as I can convince some unsuspecting and entirely unsuitable fella at work I would make a smashing wife.

(BTW, most of the recipes on here are old family favourites and ones I’ve made up or adapted beyond recognition. But, credit where credit’s due, I found this real gem of a recipe by food writer Sybil Kapoor in the Waitrose magazine a few years back and it’s since become part of my cooking arsenal. What I love about these cakes is that they cook really reliably – none of the random, ugly peaks you get with sponge cakes to cut off – and they stay super moist too. So do try them.)

INGREDIENTS
(Makes 12 cakes)

100g butter, softened
100g caster sugar
2 medium eggs
25g plain flour
100g ground almonds
1tsp almond essence
2 tbsp milk

185g icing sugar
3 tbsp orange juice

Go crazy with 1 or 2 drops food colouring and/or decorate with hundreds and thousands!

METHOD

1) Preheat the oven to 180 degrees. Line a cake tray with 12 paper cases.

2) Cream the butter and sugar together until pale and fluffy. Having made these cakes more times than I care to remember, I reckon using an electric whisk produces the best results. I used my food processor the first few times and without enough air in them these cakes can come out quite dense. Do sample the mixture even at this early stage to check the buttery-sugary taste is just right.

3) Crack the eggs into the bowl and whisk before adding the flour, ground almonds, almond essence and milk, and mix well. Check that it’s the right consistency – ie, it drops easily from a spoon (and into your gob). If necessary, add a dash more milk. Taste, taste, taste.

4) Lick the whisk attachments clean.

5) Divide the mixture between the 12 cases. Or 11, depending how much raw cake mixture you’ve consumed. Pop the cakes in the oven and bake for about 20 minutes. Lick the bowl and any utensils clean while you wait. When they’re ready, the cakes will be golden brown and bounce back up when lightly pressed. Or do the cocktail-stick test – the skewer should come out clean when inserted. Or just eat one. Transfer the survivors to a wire rack to cool.

6) Sift the icing sugar into a bowl and slowly stir in the orange juice until you’ve got a thickish paste. Add a drop of food colouring if you’re using it. Remember to sample a teaspoon or two – it should be so sweet it makes your teeth ache.

7) Use a different teaspoon to drop some icing onto your cake, then smooth over with a knife dipped in boiled water. Decorate as you see fit – the girlier the better, in my book. Repeat until all your cakes are iced and decorated, and leave to dry.

Thanks to Bex for the fab illustration!

POST 6, PART II: TIME TO BRING OUT THE BIG GUNS

Now, where were we? Oh, yes – scotch eggs. Here’s how I made ‘em...

INGREDIENTS

100g white bread crumbs (that’s about four average-sized slices, to save you getting the scales out)
1 tsp paprika
Pinch of ground white pepper

400g sausages – ie, pack of six (buy the very best quality you can)
4 rashers sweet-cured bacon
1 tbsp fresh or dried herbs (to complement what’s in your sausages – ie, sage and parsley)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

8 medium eggs

Flour for dusting

Oil for deep frying

METHOD

1) Blitz the bread, paprika and pepper into crumbs in a food processor. You can use fancy bread if you like, but I don’t think it makes all that much difference myself.

2) Place six of the eggs in a pan of cold water and bring to the boil and bubble away for four minutes. Don’t do what my mother always does at this point and leave them boiling away for hours as they’ll end up hard and rubbery, with a nasty grey around the yolk. Remove and plunge into cold water.

3) Pulse the bacon in the food processor with some fresh herbs if you’ve got some. Choose your herbs according to what’s in your sausages by checking the pack – sage and parsley are good with pork if you’ve got plain ones. Transfer the mixture to a bowl.

4) Split the sausages with a knife and ease the meat out the skins and into the bowl with the herby bacon. If you’re not using fresh, sprinkle some dried herbs in at this stage. Add seasoning to taste. Mix together with a fork. Divide the mixture into six balls.

5) Shake some plain flour into a bowl. Break the remaining two eggs into another bowl and whisk together. Place the plate of breadcrumbs followed by a clean plate beside them – this is your scotch egg production line!

6) Crack the cooked eggs and peel off the shells. Gently does it – they’re soft-boiled, remember! (Unless you’re my mother.) Rinse and dry on kitchen-towel. Toss in flour and shake off any excess.

7) Working one egg at a time, take a ball of sausage meat and flatten it out in the heel of your hand. Place an egg in the centre and then gently envelope in meat, wrapping and pinching the meat until the egg’s completely sealed. Give it a gentle final roll to ensure even coverage.

8) When all of your eggs are covered in pig, roll them in flour, dip them in the beaten egg and then roll them in breadcrumbs. Place them on the clean plate as you complete each one. It’s also advisable to wash your hands each time or your fingers will end up a floury, eggy, bready mess.

9) Heat enough oil in a fryer or pan to just cover the eggs. (Incidentally, I have an electric wok that doubles as a fryer – well worth investing in one of these if you have a crap hob and/or are in denial about your regular deep fat frying needs, as am I.) To test the oil is hot, tear a bit of bread off and drop it in – it should turn golden and crisp in about half a minute.

10) Cook the eggs, I’d say, no more than two at a time for about six or so minutes until they’re golden and crisp all over. Drain on kitchen-towel. Leave to cool if you’re taking them to a picnic or eat warm if you can’t wait.

So as it turned out, it wasn’t him. Or me. It was some girl called Sophie. She’d been on the scene for some time, it seemed. She rocked up at this picnic... And, whaddyaknow, she couldn’t get enough of my scotch eggs – she ate two, I’m told. My memory is a bit hazy if I’m honest, as I spent most of the evening getting angrily drunk from afar watching her and Dom flirt. Coz she couldn’t get enough of Dom either, you see.

Dom didn’t make pains to save a scotch egg for himself before they were all scoffed and was perfectly content with the Asda sausage rolls Sophie had brought (Asda!). Clearly, had Dominic sampled the delights of my scotch eggs rather than Sophie’s reconstituted pig paste in pastry he would be mine, all mine. But some things, children, are simply not meant to be. Unlike Sophie and Dominic, who have been happily dating for the past three years, I believe.

Still, those were some bloody good scotch eggs. ‘Yeah, you can be proud of yourself,’ I reflected as I downed my gazillionth glass of Pimms and revenge-flirted with some random by the name of Stu (also a big fan of the scotch eggs, BTW). ‘Just look at what he’s missing,’ I mused. As I vomited in a bush, cried and had to be escorted home by my mate... Good work, Amy. Good work.

Illustration by Bex Barrow.

POST 6, PART I: TIME TO BRING OUT THE BIG GUNS

Scotch eggs... Need I say more?

Well, I probably should seeing as you’ve come all this way.

His name was Dominic. I liked the idea of a Dominic. The name has a certain something to it, don’t you think? Far superior to your standard, common-or-garden boyfriend names – your Robs, your Dans, your Toms. But not too posh, like a Hugh or a Henry. Or a Percy. The kind of man who might exclaim ‘gosh!’ or ‘crumbs’ as he climaxes and whose parents’ chromosomes met long before they did. Yes, I could see myself with a Dominic. “This is my boyfriend/fiancé/husband (delete as applicable), Dominic”, I’d say. “Dominic’s whisking me away on a long weekend in Devon...” “Dominic’s dropped the kids off at mum’s while we go to Waitrose...”

“Dominic’s taken a restraining order out on me...”

So, yeah, it was all about Dominic for a time there. Until he decided to dump me, that is.

Now, I’m pretty good at getting dumped – or, indeed, doing the dumping – if I do say so myself. Beginnings and endings are my thing. It’s the middle, 'the muddle' – after the high of that sickly sweet start, but before the nauseating sense that the end is nigh sets in – which always seems to elude me. Being dumped is a breeze. For me, it’s expected. Obvious. I pride myself on taking it well – few tears, no drama. When we next bump into each other, it’s all smiles from me ­– the best form of revenge is when they want you back.

And if and when the boot’s on the other foot, I’m happy to do the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine. I hate confrontation. Hell, I’ve even been known to claim I’m indefinitely busy until you take the hint. The 12th of never? Nope, afraid I can’t do that date either. Anything other than confess it’s because you’re crap in bed or persist in sporting long hair when you’re going bald beneath.

So I believe you should be mindful of other people’s hearts. But also that there’s a certain etiquette to kicking someone to the curb. So when dear Dominic summoned me to his one Wednesday night, I suspected nothing. He lived in Islington and, I, in Southfields, for Christ’s sake! I was expecting pizza and a mid-week shag. Surely, Dominic wouldn’t – couldn’t – drag me umpteen tube stops across town and back to ditch moi?! But, yes, he could and he would, folks. 24 stops it is from Angel to mine – four-and-twenty long and lonely stops...

By the time I’d reached the corner shop to buy a bottle (or two) of pinot, I’d simultaneously reached breaking point. Taking my vino to the till, I also had the foresight to grab a cucumber (so as to start my obligatory Diet To End All Diets the very next day) as well as request a pack of paracetamol from the shopkeep (for the inevitable hangover that would inevitably inhibit the successful start of the Diet To End All Diets and instead cause me to eat three Danish pastries before noon). The shopkeep eyed my purchases. Two bottles of wine, a cucumber and a box of painkillers... “You’re in for a quite a night,” she observed. “I’ve just been dumped!” I sobbed. “In Islington!” I’m not sure whether that helped or hindered her notions as to what I might have planned for my purchases, but hey-ho.

I had hope. For, you see, it was him and not me. Yep, I was in denial. So when, three weeks and several bottles of wine later, there was talk of a picnic amongst mutual friends, I thought fuck it – what have I got to lose? I’ll bring – nay, make – some scotch eggs. Bring out the big guns. What better proof of my potential wifey credentials than that? What better way to win him back? Homemade scotch eggs.

Next post: recipe and conclusion...

Illustration by Bex Barrow.

POST 5, PART II – HI HONEY, I’M HOME!

Oh, God... Having polished off the entire bottle of Jacob’s Creek, I’ve just staggered back from my local Co-Op with a second bottle and a box of Mr Kipling’s French Fancies! I snapped on hearing that depressing ‘ding!’ the microwave makes when you’re nuking a ready-meal for one. Like it’s mocking you. Because it doesn’t just match the kettle but the toaster too – they’re a matching set, don’t you know. While you, you’re destined to walk the earth alone. Like the Incredible Hulk.

Um... I think I’m freaking out about the 30 thing. So it seemed like a good idea at the time. But as it’s a school-night, lemme tell you that it is definitely not a good idea. We’ve been here before, haven’t we, Amy? But I’m so much more receptive to the misfits on Match.com with a bucket of wine in me. And he does make exceedingly good cakes, dammit!

R-i-g-h-t, I’d best share this recipe before I lose the ability to type...

INGREDIENTS

(Makes four burgers to serve two)

300g wholemeal breadcrumbs
200g smoked salmon (no need for the posh stuff – trimmings will do)
100g frozen peas
1 egg
2 tbsp fresh or dried parsley, chopped
Freshly ground black pepper and salt, to taste
Pinch of lemon zest (optional)

3 tbsp mayonnaise
Juice of half a lemon

METHOD

1) Fire up the grill to a medium heat.

2) Bring the peas to the boil, then drain and run under cold water to cool.

3) Pulse the bread in a food processor until crumbed, then add the salmon, peas, egg, parsley and seasoning. Pulse gently until combined. Form into four burgers.

4) I’ve found that the best way to cook these babies is to lightly oil a perforated baking tray like this one, then set it on top of the grill tray. A normal tray makes the bottoms go soggy, but the burgers aren’t quite robust enough to sit on a grill tray without the risk of some falling through. Grill for around seven minutes each side.

5) While they’re cooking, whisk the lemon juice through the mayonnaise and season generously with freshly cracked black pepper. This bit’s optional, but the lemon really complements the smoked salmon. It also looks really cute served in individual dipping pots next to the burgers on the plate – shows you’ve made the extra effort!

6) Serve the burgers with a salad and some sweet potato chips. Yum!

Right, that’s all for now, my friends. And when I say ‘my friends’, I mean my mum, who is the only person reading this. And I’m not sure she’s even enjoying it. Just humouring me.

Ooh! The bipolar trainee hypnotherapist (I kid you not) who’s been emailing me on Match has just sent a new message. Lucky me. So I’d best be off.

But, in case you’re wondering, I think – yeah – I’m going to end up eating the whole box of French Fancies. This is a new low. Though not quite as low as the day I triumphantly squeezed my ass into a pair of size 10 Topshop jeans only to discover they were from its then-new maternity range. They were elasticated. Ugh, I think just one more glass of wine...

You just know this night is going to end with me eating toast and leaving all the lights on, don’t you?