1) Let them know that instead of using the organic chicken that’s been squatting in the fridge to roast on a cold tuesday night, you’re going out.

2) Let them know that not only are you going out, you’re not taking him.

3) Suggest that he eat the remaining sad bits of sad salad for his dinner.

4) Entice him home the night before with the smell of baking chocolate cake as it wafts down the coridoor- only to discover when he opens the door; it’s not for him.

5) Let him know that the lemon yogurt cake perching on the bench isn’t for him either.

6) And now there may not be …

It was the Hungry One’s birthday on Monday. There’s a bit of precedence for splashing out at birthdays.

Last year was a wine sodden trip to Orange and Selkirks. The year before was a small surprise party at the Quay Grand- I’d smuggled in contraband and stocked the fridge with boutique beers and bubbles. There were coffin bay oysters with Tetsuyas dressing and coriander, little tartlets of caramelised onion, thyme and goats cheese, a hunk of tuna sashimi, slices of Bourke st bakery baguettes with truffled butter, shot glasses of white chocolate, raspberry and passionfruit mousse and mini chocolate tarts.

The night started civilised but didn’t end up that way. Some …

I used to love Sunday evenings. Back in the day- there was Baywatch to be devoured sitting in front of the heater and dinner was usually English muffins.

English muffins topped with butter and bacon. The bacon would be cooked between paper towel in the microwave for 45 seconds on high. I’m not really sure why, but it was.

That sounds pretty civilised. It was.

One of these days I’ll learn. When you’re fronting up to a full week of crazy work, is it really sensible to try and pull off a sit down 3 course dinner for six?

Probably not. That’s probably why it’s taken me weeks to actually get around to …