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I very rarely have a complete and utter culinary meltdown. Last night, I did. I’m still ashamed now. I figure confessing it to all and sundry will cleanse my soul and result in reassurance that I’m not the only one.

I’d got it all planned. Inspired by Rosemary Shrager at the Malton Food Festival, I was going to make potato scones. And top them with Sand Hutton asparagus, a poached egg, some wilted spinach and hollandaise sauce.  We were going out to the theatre to see Rory Bremner and I figured a nice meal would make it all date like and nice.

It’s not that hard, right?

When thinking this through, I realised that I really couldn’t be bothered to make hollandaise sauce. It’s not that I can’t, actually I find it quite therapeutic, but I just felt meh about it. That should have told me something. I should have listened to my inner M&S siren and just bought a Gastropub meal for 2.  Mistake number one.

So off I toddled to M&S and purchased a bag of beautiful looking hollandaise sauce. Sometimes life really is too short.

I snapped my asparagus, I washed my spinach, I got the eggs out to warm up to room temperature. I had my pan of water all ready on the hob and the grill good to go.  I’d mashed my potatoes and mixed in flour and butter a la Rosemary.

Then I had a rather ridiculous wedding related spat with The Other Half.  It was downhill from thereon in.

My potato scone turned into one large potato pancake which just bubbled in a faintly disturbing way. The bacon burnt, the sauce boiled and split, I didn’t whirlpool fast enough and the egg white just went all the way round the pan and the yolk burst. Then the egg-whitey pan boiled over.

The only thing which was perfect was the asparagus.

I flung my eggshell into the sink, the eggy pan after it, and burst into tears.  The Other Half quietly slid into the room and turned everything off. I salvaged the vegetables, made him toast and cried my way through stirring the sauce.  I refused cuddles and offers of help with sobbing cries of ‘I’m going to be a baaaaaaa-aaaaa-aaaad wife’ and ‘I ruuuuined din-neeeeeeeer’.

We ate a hodgepodge of food to a soundtrack of me sniffing and occasionally adding a bit of unintentional extra salt to my dinner.  The kitchen looked like a bombsite. Nothing The Other Half could say would make it better.

And he doesn’t even really like asparagus.

Not my finest hour.  

And then we went to Huddersfield and watched Rory Bremner and laughed til we cried. But this time, in a good way. Thank you, Rory.

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