Sunday, February 8, 2009

BAFTAS, cocktails and cut-price chicken


MeFella bought a Freedom Food-certified, oven-ready chicken for the vastly reduced price of 97p in our local Co-op yesterday. It’s not massive, but it’s got plump breasts and firm, meaty legs (oh go on, make the obvious comparisons if you have to). So I’ve poured French Walnut Oil (if not, why not?) into the non-gap between breast skin and flesh, ground some salt and pepper all over it, stuffed a quartered lemon and a handful of fresh thyme leaves up its bum and left it in the oven to roast. It’s only been in for 20 minutes, and already it smells pretty yummy – go lovely with a nice creamy mushroom risotto, that will. And that’s what I’ll be eating while watching Sol (aka Mr KirkbyGirl, who is of course accompanying him to the ceremony) at the BAFTA Awards this evening.

I hope he wins, but even if he doesn’t, I’m v v proud of him; I’ve known him since he was still a teenager, and his lovely missus since around the same time – it’s about bloody time one of our gang got a gong for our efforts. What’s really ironic, though, is that this is the first time in three years that I’m not attending the Big Bash meself. I’ve never been (or even attended with) a nominee, of course, but you know what we journalist-types are like for blagging onto guest lists. But not this year! Ah well – I’m sure MeFella, our bargain chicken and I will have a grand old time of it anyway. In fact, give MeFella a hint of opportunity, and he’d even rustle up a special BAFTA tipple - cocktail slinging is his new hobby. Last night he made me the yummiest gin/fruity/really sharp lemon’n’limey one ever in the history of the world. He’s suddenly fluent in the language of jiggers and splits, and even knows what Angostura Bitters are for – heck, we’ve even got a bottle of whatever it is (or they are?) in our kitchen cupboard! The only trouble is, it’s the same cupboard that I’m constantly reaching in for oils etc when I’m cooking which meant that last week, I sautéed onions in some sort of sticky apple liqueur (worked brilliantly in the ensuing pork casserole, though). So that French Walnut Oil that I think I’ve basted the chicken with? It’s probably actually tequila. But hey, who cares? There’s another grim weather warning on the horizon, my ‘official’ work for the day is done, and there’s a big award with my friend’s name on it waiting to be handed out on TV tonight. You go, (Kirkby) Girl! I’m right here for you when you’re ready to spill the beans on Mickey Rourke.

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