Day 2: Can you hear that creaking sound?

It’s my resolve, bowing dangerously under the strain of this morning’s porridge.

Suffice to say, folks, this isn’t going well. The day was going absolutely perfectly until I opened my eyes this morning, and then it all started going a bit downhill.

It all started at breakfast. As I’ve mentioned in my previous couple of posts, I seemed to think it was a good idea to slash away a good 40p of my budget on a kilo of porridge oats whilst being quite certain that I don’t like porridge.

Now, I don’t like porridge at its best. I don’t like it when it’s made with jumbo oats hand rolled by a burly Scotsman in a kilt like in the adverts(frankly inappropriate work attire if you ask me). I don’t like it when it’s mixed to unctuous perfection with good whole milk, and liberally scattered with fresh, tart blueberries and a flamboyant swirl of honey.

So I’m certainly not a fan of this, which was my creation this morning:

Yes. I ate it. I was desperate.

Note that I’ve left that image at full size to really bring home the horror. First off, no milk. Good old fashioned dihydrogen monoxide was my mixer of choice this morning, which I felt gave it a really lovely ‘wallpaper-paste’ edge. Magnifique! I then added this to our trusty non-turning microwave and gently exploded it for a few minutes. When I was happy that I’d covered every internal surface of the microwave with my incredibly glue-like snack, I proceeded to add the final flourish. A liberal scattering of fresh,tart berries? A flamboyant swirl of honey?

No. Value Jam. Which has a consistency similar to those strange stock pots Marco-Pierre White is always flogging on telly.

I ate the entire thing, and it was absolutely disgusting. I’m genuinely considering just dry oats for tomorrow. That’ll work, right?


I’ve started having food fantasies.

It’s quite worrying. Somebody mentioned steak earlier on, and suddenly I was in an old steakhouse in Cornwall I used to frequent, opening up an incredibly juicy sirloin, letting it dissolve in my mouth.

And I let out a happy sigh. In the present. At work. Not good practice.

On the way home I got really snared. I live in a middle-eastern food paradise in West London. As I stroll home of an evening I always get the scent of the charcoal ovens grilling their first quota of beautifully-spiced meat goods, and think “Mmm, What’s for tea?”.

Not tonight.

Tonight it was visceral. In my head I was in that oven, hearing every sizzling globule of grease tumbling off the gently charring meat, inhaling the heady mix of spice and woodsmoke. I could taste the sweet, succulent lamb as I tore it off the skewer, feel the heat and flavour bursting on my tongue like a waterfall of goodness.

It didn’t stop there. There’s a chicken and pizza joint round the corner (chicken AND pizza. What more could you need?) that I’ve never felt the urge to go to. Tonight took some pretty serious willpower. They were just making up fresh dough as I went past; I could taste it in the air. I saw lavishly topped fresh dough thrown into a pizza oven and cooked until it was a gorgeous mess of cheese and loveliness, and I even recreated the little hiss of steam that comes off a properly fresh, deep pan pizza crust when you bite into it. Half crunchy, half soft. All perfect.

If you’re doing this too, please let me know I’m not alone here…

So that’s been my day so far. Tune in tonight for a more concise and hopefully more amusing summary of events. I’ll try and think up some witty ways of saying “I’m hungry and I don’t want egg fried rice”.

I’ll also be revealing my latest list of incredible donors (hint: IT COULD BE YOU!), so that might be fun.

I’m off to reinvent rice as we know it. I hear human tears make it tasty.

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