Mel Buttle: I’m a foodie, but I can’t cook
People say they get nervous having me over for dinner because I’m a foodie. But I’m an eater not a creator.
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I live to eat, not eat to live. I am a foodie, but I’m upfront about it, I hide in plain sight. People say they get nervous having me over for dinner. I don’t know why, I’m an eater not a creator. Being a foodie doesn’t mean I’m a great cook, it means I happen to know that it’s local Peak Crossing oyster mushrooms that I’ve horribly burned and I’m now scraping into the bin, as the dog watches on desperately.
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I read a lot of recipes online before tackling a dish. I’ve noticed a trend, they’re not just recipes any more, they’re life stories of the recipe writer along with an in-depth history of the author’s past experiences with the hero ingredient.
I came across this clunker on a food blog recently: “Cooking with my nana taught me that carrots are to be treasured, orange batons of sweet, humble flavour asking to be brought to life through roasting, steaming or even shaving. Throughout my teenage years, I hated carrots, cut into ubiquitous rounds, overcooked and served without any flavouring.” Wrap it up, love, it’s a recipe for shepherd’s pie, let’s crack on.
I went around to a mate’s place for dinner this week. What a treat. It was handled with aplomb, spicy chicken skewers, a lush green salad and lemon potatoes. I couldn’t stop picking at the potatoes, so much so, that the following night at home I remade the lemon potatoes for myself. They were not as good as Leah’s, what a disappointment. I think the issue was, I had to make my potatoes, and at Leah’s I got to sip Margaret River cabernet Merlot and throw a ball for her Labrador.
Here is someone who enjoys my cooking. Her name is Ruby, she weighs 28kg and has four legs.