Guardian Girl

Alice band

Gastric band

Only kidding about the gastric band thing.

It was weird copying Jess Cartner-Morley rather than a model today. I felt a bit stalkerish for doing it.

She’s a ‘normal girl’ testing high fashion to see which looks work realistically, and then I’m copying her to see what works really realistically. It’s like that infinite cat thing.

In fact now might be a good time to reflect upon some of the things I (might) have learned in the first five or so weeks I’ve been doing this experiment/blog/whimsy/narcissistic rubbish.

When I first started I saw myself as being pretty much on the Guardian‘s side in the battle, as I suppose I saw it, between clueless, complaining readers who had the time to write indignant letters about the availability of curly kale, and a bunch of bright young things who knew something about fashion, cooking, brains and how they work – life, I guess. It’s only in retrospect that I realise I was really thinking that, and how barmy it sounds.

While I am still of the opinion that a lot of readers’ letters to Weekend are unnecessarily pedantic and often miss the point entirely, I am starting to come around to some sort of solidarity.

I know that the Guardian‘s lifestyle supplements are intended as guidelines only – in fact probably not even that. They should come with a disclaimer. The middle-class reflexivity and self-aware tone of most of the writers also propagates the idea that it’s all a bit of a laugh in a way, aha-ha-ha-ha, and who’d really take such things seriously when we’re all clever people with right-on personal politics and we know what really matters in life.

Of course a lot of that is true and I’m not going to join in with this tiresome white-middle-class-bashing that every white middle-class person suddenly feels obliged to do in order to show they know how white and middle class they are.

But when you do take what’s between the pages of Weekend to its logical conclusion, what you get is a lot of contradiction. OK, so you’re not supposed to take it to its logical conclusion – for one thing it’s protected from that treatment by admitting to its sins before it’s even begun, and besides, it’s only a bit of a laugh in a way, aha-ha-ha. But in fact it has a lot of power, let into the kitchen/cafe/garden every Saturday morning and allowed to show us its wares like a travelling salesperson with a suitcase of prize dusters.

I always thought it was my friend, because it spoke how I spoke, looked how I looked, and talked how I talked. But now I am starting to see that it might be just a little bit of a backstabber, and perhaps I talk that way and look that way and think that way because I’ve been friends with it for so long. In fact it might really be making me feel a bit slovenly, a bit fat, a bit poor and a bit unsuccessful. But I feel guilty talking about it behind its back like this when I’m not really sure whose fault all this really is – after all the Guardian never forced me to hang around with it and we were only having a bit of fun all along.

Gosh it’s hard being so middle class isn’t it?

So damn reflexive.

And so… on to pastures greener – Dan Lepard’s gougeres, yay!

In DL’s recipe he described these as ‘puffs’ whereas mine really came out like mini-scones, which is no cause for complaint. I didn’t buy enough olives or parmesan cos I didn’t check the recipe – slapped wrist for that. So mine could’ve been tastier, but they were still delicious.

I’d never encountered this way of making dough before and was a bit alarmed when I added the eggs to the hot pan and they started to scramble, but I just stirred like mad with my face scrunched up and that seemed to do the trick.

The very best thing about these gougeres was that I piled some on a plate and took them into the bath, where I watched Dallas on my new portable DVD player. It was like being at a badly tiled 80s cocktail party. Albeit with no cocktails.

Gougeres

Li'l scones

Conclusions:

• I had no idea Dallas was so hilarious. That Lucy is brilliant, and the moment wotsername tells her dad she’s married Bobby Ewing – a-hee! Acting!
• If you’re planning to watch Dallas re-runs any time soon, definitely combine them with Dan Lepard’s black olive gougeres. This was one occasion when the Guardian totally came up trumps with its lifestyle suggestions. No contradictions here, no angst, no complaints. Pure luxury.