The Greek God has many skills (apparently). His best, he often tells me, is being able to conjure up a feast from bits and bobs – leftovers, if you will – from the fridge or cupboard.
We watch Masterchef together with mixed emotion; the invention test hurls me into menopausal pantry anxiety while the Greek God bursts forth with recipe innovation.
It’s not how my brain works. I like to shop, French-style, daily. Fresh veg, a bit of fish… whatevs. Years with teens and the frequent lament that “I may as well just empty my purse over the bin” as they ‘didn’t really fancy’ what we had rings loud and frequent.
I’m an artisan foodie lady now – skinflint? miseryarse? on trend? I’ve started shopping more effectively. I think ahead. Crikey. Don’t tell anyone, will you?
But there’s a problem. I shop. I roast a spiffing chicken. Last night’s came with new potatoes (where are my Jersey Royals this year?!) and fennel slaw. My new mean mind expects this chook to last a while. I’ve got veg in to roast with couscous with the other half. Two meals. Boom.
This morning, the Greek God waves a sandwich bag at me. “Awesome leftovers!” Our evening’s dinner is compressed inside a gone-wrong pitta. Oh dear.
How does one convey that leftovers aren’t *actually* leftovers but dinners for the rest of the week? I don’t want to squish his creativity or ‘owt. So. We currently have his ‘n’ hers fermentation going on. Can you guess which one’s which? On the right, rhubarb and raspberry gin. On the left, some sort of dodgy pickled leftover cabbage destined to become a smoked kimchi granita gel. Bloody Masterchef. Bloody Greek God. Thank goodness for leftovers gin…