If you are like me, with a stubborn, can’t cook, won’t cook attitude, then the perfect brunch has to be one that you didn’t prepare or cook yourself. Well, last Sunday I had the perfect brunch. Brunching is by far one of my favourite decadent pleasures because you don’t need to invent an excuse to start drinking alcohol before midday. And, in my family, drinking alcohol before noon is just not British, indeed it’s considered to be a bit vulgar.
So, the perfect brunch started with a jug of pimms on the rocks followed by a frolic in the swimming pool. I was then treated to a Moroccan feast which consisted of a tasty lentil and spinach dish, a colourful chickpea and apricot tangine, a second to none salad, a peach and plum chutney and some crusty nut bread. I was on cloud nine and also a little bit tipsy by then.
I am seriously blessed to know people who are keen on cooking and who also enjoy entertaining me. However, they also love to highlight my inadequacies and constantly tell me that it’s a good job I wasn’t born in the 1950’s because if I were, I would be left on the shelf.
It’s true, I would make a pathetic housewife and fortunately, I take that as a massive compliment. I wasn’t born to look after a man nor bring up children, other people can choose to do that if that’s their thing, but my thing is for stuffing my face, inventing cocktails and burning pots and pans. The era of the housewife is dead; bring on GIRL POWER, BRING ON LAURA CROFT!