Fondue
I took the fondue ingredients to Liv’s last night and shamelessly capitalised on a photo opportunity with her 18-month old flatmate Delphi.
A young Fearnley-Whittingstall
A young Delphi
Classic fondue
Classic fondon't
Tasted very good. Sainsbury’s doesn’t stock kirsch so I bought one of their ready-made fondue sachet things from the cheese chiller and added a load of wine, gruyere, emmental and some flour to the mix. Tasty and wonderful but, as other flatmate (and mother of Delphi) Holly pointed out, if you’re going to eat fondue it helps to precede it with a day of alpine activities. Otherwise you just sort of sit at your desk all day and then melt a kilo of cheese with some booze, dip handfuls of bread into it, cram them in until you can fit no more down the gullet and crawl away to collapse into a carb coma spectacular. That’s exactly what I did last night, which explains why I woke up in Liv’s room this morning with no Guardian-matching outfit to change into for the day.
I re-borrowed Harriet’s kipper-infused outfit from the other week and put yesterday’s white shirt on top of it for the photo only. It produces a pretty unsightly effect when worn in this way. The poses from today and tomorrow require the cooperation of other models, so in this post I would like to introduce the lovely Gabrielle, who happened to be wearing an appropriately hued pullover today. Tomorrow Photographe Flavie will be making an appearance on the other side of the lens. She has been briefed on her outfit for the day. Sometimes I do pity those on the periphery of this cursèd project.
Blazer trail
Jacket in
Conclusions:
- Fondue actually makes a quick weekday supper as you can just melt it up and eat it out of the saucepan.
- Wouldn’t recommend having it every evening though.
- Liv would like to point out that although I described yesterday’s mushroom recipe as ‘delicious’, she actually thought it was disgusting and spat it out while I wasn’t looking. When I think about it, I loved the fresh mushroom bit but did avoid the rehydrated porcini as I found them too strong. I was supposed to use ceps. Maybe that was the problem.
- I’m not entirely certain that Hugh F-W is actually making fondue in the above photo, but I can’t work out what else it would be. I don’t suppose it matters too much.
Towelling it on
Best Liv came over last night to help throw away some of my pathologically hoarded possessions (this sort of thing is why I call her Best Liv [I also call her Little Wrenny Bolokov, but that’s another story]). As some sort of recompense I force fed her a few mountain ranges of chorizo carbonara and many rivers of cold custard that were left over from Sunday’s cake-a-thon. I also made the mushroom part of Hugh’s polenta feast and we had a little taste of that (delicious) before I decided to palm the rest of all this food off on whichever pals come over for fondue tonight.
We then got to work sorting through my infinite boxes of tat, some representative examples of which included a collection of small shreds of plywood, a startling number of ribbons I have no recollection of ever receiving, a tiny bag containing a button and a 1p coin, an umbrella cover stuffed with a pedometer and a hairband, and a very disturbing veterinary receipt from last year when one of my beloved cats had kidney failure and I had to make the heartbreaking decision to have her put down:
“PRODUCT/SERVICE: EUTHANASIA CAT ONLY
QUANTITY: ONE
PRICE: £28.13 inc VAT”
It’s not exactly soothing, is it.
Also, what do they mean by “cat only”?
We were up so late sorting out my rubbish that Liv stayed over and was able to take my photo this morning. I was standing, perplexed, in front of her holding a grey double-breasted blazer in one hand and a brown leather jacket in the other, trying to work out which one was more similar to today’s required outfit, when she glanced over my shoulder and remarked that it was a shame I couldn’t wear the peach-coloured towel hanging on the back of my door, since it perfectly matched the model’s jacket. And hence, I bring you today’s pic. Looking outside I decided it was probably a bit chilly to go out in a towel so I plumped for both the jackets at once. What with the orange plimsolls being the closest non-heeled thing I own to the model’s gold shoes, I look a bit clownish today, but I’m well used to that by now.
The blazer
The towel
Conclusions:
- Happy tonight’s dinner is the last energy-rich recipe for 10 I have to cook, for obvious reasons related to waistbands.
- I am now seeing my collection of c.1970s hand-me-down towels through new eyes.
- William Eggleston exhibition looks well worth a visit but the opening hours tally not with my work duties.
- A trip to NY to use the subway is not on the financial agenda.
- Acne interiors: if you have bad skin, you don’t want to fill your house with Acne sofas any more than you want to walk around in Acne jeans, looking for all the world like you’re wearing your medical diagnosis proudly upon your denims. In fact, don’t tell anyone but it took me a year to get over moving to Hackney for the same reason.
- What?!! It’s not my fault. Spots make you very self-conscious.
I've always found it funny when people write letters to the Guardian's Weekend magazine complaining that the recipe ingredients are too middle class and the fashion only looks good on thin people. After all, it's just a magazine. Or is it? I decided to follow its recipes, fashion and lifestyle advice as closely as possible, to see if the aspirations promoted therein can really be achieved by the average reader who is not especially wealthy, not necessarily model thin and is obliged to work regular office hours. This blog has no affiliation whatsoever with the Guardian but I link to the Weekend magazine website for the purposes of illustration. 
Guardian Girl 
2 comments