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Being of an unusually Eeyorish frame of mind last night I decided to make comfort food for dinner. And what is more more comforting than Toad in the Hole, with pillowy soft mashed potato, crunchy vegetables and smoothly moreish gravy? Certainly not the meal I served up.


We should have had fish and chips.

I got home from work in a strange mood, which even warbling along to Adele and trying – and failing – to remember the song from Glee which I like most, failed to disappate. As an aside, if anyone can suggest what that Glee tune might be, it’s perky and jolly, and eminently hummable, I’d be extremely grateful. It’s driving me nuts. I was reduced to singing Supercalifragiliousexpialidocious whilst making today’s sandwiches. Try getting that through your spellchecker.

It was a disaster. The highlight was that the sausages were edible, so at least the Other Half didn’t head out into the night with a gaping chasm where his dinner should have been.

My Yorkshire puddings didn’t rise. My gravy was gloopy, and the potatoes didn’t mash. Only the sausages behaved themselves. I wanted to shed a tear. But refrained, due to the fact that even the addition of salt would not rescue the gravy. And I can’t understand it. I used St Delia’s foolproof pudding and gravy recipe, exactly the same as the guesstimated 3,264,849 times I’ve made this before.

Can food pick up your mood? Did my potatoes sense my feeling of itsgoingtobefebruaryforeverandever? Were my Yorkshire Puddings pierced by the thorn of Weltschmerz?

We might as well have been eating thistles.

Happily, a good night’s sleep has restored equilibrium and good spirits. I’m back to being Tiggerish!