Farewell, My Spoon

I am learning to cook, properly, that is, with raw ingredients instead of opening packets and tins. Now I can get my wheelchair in the kitchen, experiments are occuring that may mean I am able to sometime cook Mr Fang's dinner when he comes home. Tonight we're having parmesan rissotto followed by creme brulee. I can't decide whether to make the brulee with Baileys or bananas, but such are the burdensome decisions of a cook.

Happily my newly found enthusiasm for cooking has been precluded by buying things - a few books to get me started, namely Hugh Fearnly Whittingstall's Meat Cookbook, Gary Rhode's Keeping It Simple, and that scary Scots lady Gillian McKeith's 'You Are What You Eat' cookbook. (I must be at least 60% biscuit, then...).

Don't ever watch her show, though, unless you get a secret thrill by seeing fat people being told they are going to kill themselves with junk food by a small angry blonde woman armed with a tub full of rancid poo. It's enough to put you off nutritionists for life. The book talks a bit more sense, although she has come under critcism in the press for expecting people to source too many bizarre foods and go shopping too often. I don't care about that stuff, though. I am a novelty dieter, so all this specific blabber about rare seaweeds and sprouting sprouts just means more playtime to me.

Even better, my favourite new toy is a small cook's blowtorch. Nobody would buy me one for Christmas, so I bought one myself with my birthday money as soon as I could reach the shops. Mr Fang has already confiscated it, and it is currently sitting on a high shelf he thinks I cannot reach. Unfortunately he has forgotten my 'handy grabber' gadget from the occupational therapist, with which I shall be able to rescue it with ease.

I'm sure will all turn out well, and he will relent after the fabulous creme brulee I will be serving tonight as the surprise dessert - as long as I don't burn down the kitchen first. As if.