Back in the day I used to be a chef. A real sweary, scary, ball-busting, forged knife-wielding, nocturnal, binge-drinking, meticulously-plated-dish-slinging chef.
I slaved away at the pass, squeezing perfectly spherical blobs of puree and tweezing teeny tiny Japanese herbs onto handmade stoneware plates.
These days, I'm not about that life. I’m a live-in snack b**ch to twin preschoolers and I learnt pretty early on that my skills in the kitchen are utterly wasted on them.
Watch: Things I say while watching MasterChef. Post continues below.
There was the guanciale and manchego incident of 2019, where I spent two-thirds of a day preparing, cooling, hand-rolling, crumbing and batch-frying really f**king fancy ham and cheese croquettes, only to watch them toss every single one from their highchairs, straight onto the floor.
Now I’m more of a frozen pastizzi in the air-fryer kinda gal. It’s called self-preservation. But I do flex my little cheffy muscles at least once each week, when I make my seven-day supply of “beauty boosters”.