"Adapt your expectations to what you're capable of producing" said ruddy Ray Mears, his chubby cheeks all aglow with childlike enthusiasm. I nodded sagely.
Fools rush in; I offered to cook dinner. No getting the lay of the land, for me, oh no. I just bumbled straight on in there, full of piss and vinegar, making out like I was the next Nigella. I'm not. She has diddies and flair. I have an overdeveloped sense of curiosity and a monstrous appetite.
The others looked a little surprised when my offer was graciously accepted. My ego and I assumed that this was because not all guests are as wonderfully talented and thoughtful as we. But my ego and I think only of ourselves. Most other guests would be sensitive enough to suss out the lay of the land. Most other guests would be perceptive enough to realise that a man who keeps special pans for special purposes - say, roasting horse chestnuts and grilling asparagus - is king of his kitchen. Most other guests would offer to wash dishes, or the king's feet. They would not paw at his crown.
Too late, I realised my mistake.The village squirmed with a sing-song of hushed, incredulous whispers. Bruce is letting you in his kitchen? Nothing quells the queasies like an afternoon supping prosecco with the folk above on the hill. Nothing impairs judgement and ability like an early evening spent chasing that prosecco with red wine and improvised white russians in the local pub. Now, you'll have to make do with whatever they have in the shop, Mary had warned. No problem, I thought. It'll be like an episode of Ready, Steady, Cook! The shop owner sat with us for a pint in the pub, and I explained my predicament. "What are you going to cook?" he asked. "I don't know," I said, "what have you got?" "Red onions" he said. "I have some lovely red onions".
Ray Mears also gave some good advice on how to trap squirrels and fight bears. Not strictly necessary for a weekend in Dolwyddelan, but it would do you no harm to know.
Fools rush in; I offered to cook dinner. No getting the lay of the land, for me, oh no. I just bumbled straight on in there, full of piss and vinegar, making out like I was the next Nigella. I'm not. She has diddies and flair. I have an overdeveloped sense of curiosity and a monstrous appetite.
The others looked a little surprised when my offer was graciously accepted. My ego and I assumed that this was because not all guests are as wonderfully talented and thoughtful as we. But my ego and I think only of ourselves. Most other guests would be sensitive enough to suss out the lay of the land. Most other guests would be perceptive enough to realise that a man who keeps special pans for special purposes - say, roasting horse chestnuts and grilling asparagus - is king of his kitchen. Most other guests would offer to wash dishes, or the king's feet. They would not paw at his crown.
Too late, I realised my mistake.The village squirmed with a sing-song of hushed, incredulous whispers. Bruce is letting you in his kitchen? Nothing quells the queasies like an afternoon supping prosecco with the folk above on the hill. Nothing impairs judgement and ability like an early evening spent chasing that prosecco with red wine and improvised white russians in the local pub. Now, you'll have to make do with whatever they have in the shop, Mary had warned. No problem, I thought. It'll be like an episode of Ready, Steady, Cook! The shop owner sat with us for a pint in the pub, and I explained my predicament. "What are you going to cook?" he asked. "I don't know," I said, "what have you got?" "Red onions" he said. "I have some lovely red onions".
Ray Mears also gave some good advice on how to trap squirrels and fight bears. Not strictly necessary for a weekend in Dolwyddelan, but it would do you no harm to know.
