A Fran-tastic day

6 hours of cooking! 6 straight hours of cooking and I made my own vegetable stock - from scratch! Phew, I am ex-haus-ted. But, feeling pretty exultant and euphoric. This must be what it's like to go through 6 hours of labour and give birth to a baby. It was sweaty, I was breathless, there were painful moments, my back ached and I just wanted to throw in the tea towel at times. But, I persisted and was rewarded at the end of it all with a veritable feast that bordered on ludicrous given the sheer amount of food that I produced (for no particular reason other than I felt like spending the whole day cooking).

This baby was a big baby. Seriously, I feel like Jesus feeding the five thousand except that there's just me...possibly with the appetite of five thousand. And, exactly as I have been told, the moment the labour ended and this precious little being was placed in my arms (or, dished up on a plate in my case), I forgot everything...whatever happened, it was completely and utterly worth it.

Chargrilled asparagus, courgette and halloumi - you were worth it. Chickpea, tomato and bread soup - you were worth it. Herb couscous with pistachios and rocket - you were worth it. Grilled aubergine, pepper and tomato soup - you were worth it. Slow-roasted lemon chicken - you were worth it. French bean and mange tout with hazelnut and orange - you were worth it. Sweet potato gratin - you were worth it. Roasted plums, nectarines and blueberries with honey cream - you were worth it.

With food like this in the world, who needs alcohol? Drugs? Men? Ok, I might take back that last one. Still, I could wish for nothing more at this moment, blissfully contented as I am. Well, there is one thing - I wish I had more room in my stomach so that I could eat more food. I have quite literally reached full capacity. The spirit is wanting but the body is incapable of complying.

There is a sort of unfair balance to all of this - 6 hours of tiring cooking followed by 6 minutes of gratifying gorging. Not that I didn't enjoy the cooking part. I seem to slip into some kind of meditative trance when I cook. My mind completely focuses on the task at hand and I forget about every care and worry. Nothing exists in the world except me, the food and the kitchen. I love losing myself in that happy place.

It's over now. The sun is setting quite spectacularly in a myriad of pinks across the sky. No more cooking for the day. No more cooking for the week I have so much food. But, it's going to be a hell of a lot of fun eating it...

Late-night lustings...

They say it's the first sign of madness when you start talking to yourself. But, what does it mean when you start having full-blown conversations with your stomach? Call me crazy but I'm convinced that mine has a mind of it's own and we're currently not quite on speaking terms. Why? Well, I refuse to give in to it's greedy desire for a second dinner. I've just returned from a very satisfactory first dinner at Leong's Legends - the shredded chicken fried rice with toasted pine kernels had the wholesome simplicity of homecooked comfort food, the steamy soup-filled xiao long bau were the perfect remedy to this rainy day and the deep fried shredded turnip, wrapped in a nest of pastry layers, reached light and flavourful heights well-beyond one's expectations of the humble turnip. Naturally, I waddled home with a full belly following that meal. It never even crossed my mind that I might be in dangerous territory if I were to diligently prepare my lunch for the following day - egg stir fried rice with chillies, toasted cashew nuts and dessicated coconut, pak choi and green beans. But, as I stood there over the wok, inhaling the beautiful aromas and delighting in the vibrant colours, I felt lustiness in the pit of my stomach. It didn't help that I'd somehow managed to cook too much food for one lunch portion. Even now, I find myself dreamily gazing in the direction of the kitchen. 'Just one spoonful...' my stomach rumbles. I've brushed my teeth in self-defense!

Why don't you come on over, Patisserie Valerie

One has to wonder if there is something deeply soul-destroying about working at Patisserie Valerie. I have considered it myself - working at Patisserie Valerie that is, not destroying my soul - and have always imagined that it would be a rather delightful place to earn a little bit of extra cash. Just as some men (no names mentioned!) like to surround themselves with attractive women, I quite like the thought of spending a whole day surrounded by deliciously tantalising cakes and pastries. Some of them are so beautiful that they look like they belong on plinths in an art gallery. Mostly, they look like they belong on a plate, being devoured by a very happy and satisfied person (I love it when that person is me!).

Yet, the staff at every Patisserie Valerie that I have been to behave as if they are manning some sort of barge of the dead. Their eyes appear glazed over and their gait betrays an undeniable wish to be anywhere but where they are. It's as if the very life is being sucked out of them. I would know, I've been there before! I try to make eye contact and find myself avoided, ignored - it's as if they don't want to sell the cakes. Perhaps, they are allowed to take away any leftover cakes at the end of the day...yes, that would make sense. I can imagine myself being tempted to selfishly deter customers if that were the case, in desperate need of my next sugar-fix.

Nonetheless, this sort of service really takes the fun out of treating oneself to a naughty slice of cake and cup of tea in the mid-afternoon - such 'sinful' acts should be nothing but pleasurable. Alas, the whole experience becomes so drawn out that my conscience is left with far too much time to make me feel quite guilty and I can no longer enjoy my raspberry tart without contemplating every calorie that passes my lips. And so, I have decided to mutiny! Tonight, I made my own dessert (plum crumble with extra thick cream) and did an exemplary job of serving myself. I even gave myself a second helping, just because I deserve it.

The no-bread-diet

The time has come to say my farewells to bread...for now. We've had a jolly good time this past week - no holding back, abundant indulgence, slices and rolls with every meal and between them too! But, to continue in this vain would require a whole new wardrobe to accompany the inevitable weight gain that would ensue. And so, the no-bread-diet must commence upon my setting foot on the streets of London. This kind of bread gorging is reserved for France and France only. Now, I understand why the word for bread in French is 'pain' - I can't think of anything more fitting considering the pleasurable pain that it has induced multiple times this week.

So, goodbye brioche, farewell croissants, so long baguettes and au revoir pain au chocolat! I miss you already...