I mean that perfectly accurately. Cooking is an art form. Since the arbitrary digit rollover, I've been trying to cook more. Roasting a chicken is good. So is a leg of lamb with rosemary and thyme. However, tonight really brought home everything pajh has ever told me about cookery being an art form.
Start with the inspiration: stuffed mushrooms in the M&S fridges. Check ingredients; purchase four portobello mushrooms, a pack of soft cheese, and some chives.
Head home. Throw the cheese into a bowl together with some breadcrumbs (slice and a half or so), some sharp cheddar, a fair bit of garlic, two finely-diced rashers of bacon, a bit of fresh-ground pepper, and a few chopped chives.
Mix well. With a knife. Moo hoo ha ha ha. If it's not being a right bastard to mix, add more breadcrumbs until it stiffens up.
Turn the mushrooms upside down on a baking tray (stalks in the air), slather the gooey mess on top of each. Top with a coating of breadcrumbs. Make remaining gunge into balls, cover with breadcrumbs (total used was just under three slices). Stick in at 200C for fifteen minutes. Serve with leafy salad & balsamic vinegar, and pasta with olive oil and oregano.
Feeds two, who will then be stuffed for a whole evening and won't even think of attacking a very tempting bag of crisps.
Enough about my culinary genius, because the point is that it's pajh's fault. It's because of him that I understand the precise meanings of "some", "a fair bit", and what they look like when taking the shape of different ingredients. Everything's fuzzy and variable, but a quick taste indicates whether it's about right or miles off. That's is how food should be.
One of these days, I'm going to really challenge myself in the kitchen. I'm going to cook something according to a recipie. With precise measurements and everything.
: Except when I am.
: I've become terribly middle-class since that's become the closest supermarket. Last week was terrible, there was a shortage of rocket. Couldn't get it anywhere.