Eat the Baby!

So Saturday found JZ, NoLogic and myself at something of a loose end. Sure we were at a gallery opening and there was free wine but somehow none of us had it in ourselves to write off the afternoon under the shiny steamer lids of Donna Marcus and her posse of sharply dressed, sharp haircutted late thirty somethings.

JZ had just been told about the gallery owner's favourite memory of him from when he was 8 so none of us were feeling the coolest. NoLogic hadn't showered in days and I was wearing pink and suddenly feeling an affinity for, of all people, Di Morrisey whose whinging in the Good Weekend I had minutes earlier dismissed as self indulgent piffle. Until I found myself and my pink top at the receiving end of several scornful and evaluative looks from some crow-like groups of ladies at the gallery. I had no black on me, none. Clearly I was an imposter on the scene of the worst order...

Staring at all the saucepan lids gave us an idea though. What does one do when one has nothing much to do? Why one goes and buys as much meat as one can and devotes the evening to cooking it.

Years ago, on a particularly hungover Saturday, JZ, Ex and I discovered the magic that was cooking programmes on channel 7. In particular, cooking programmes that celebrated cooking enormous and ridiculous quantities of meat. That day we went and bought ribs and steaks to wear as meat hats. No, to cook. The magic of Meat-As-Hat, though, has always remained.





The spice crusted bits of lamb were a revelation, the meat balls were definately better than anything my mum would make but, upon reflection we agreed that perhaps the thick lamb stew/stock we made using olives and fat from the leg of lamb to pour over the couscous was taking things a bit too far.

Ah, to eat so much meat you start to think you might be breathing it. Fantastic.