Last night we made a lasagne. It was a fraught and most difficult creation due to a number of factors. It started off doomed when we had actually planned to make it the day before, but me being me, I left all the mince in the fridge at work - only realising of course, the very second the train doors glued shut and pulled away leaving me in a face-palm moment. I should have taken that as a sign, to just sack it off and have some nice supernoodles or something, but NO. So I arrive home last night, mince in tow, to find CJSMM at home with the ingredients layed out and away we go. I don't know why we find it so stressful cooking together, but we do, and it's a wonder neither of us got killed. We didn't have milk for the white sauce, so we ended up using creme fraiche, and we dropped half a pot of pepper in it. The butter had somehow inexplicably turned into cheese, which was just delightful. We didn't have cheddar, so we used mozzarella. We destroyed the kitchen with the food processor and each accused the other of having broken it. We hadn't. I think I probably cried at one point. In fact I definitely did.
But amazingly, as it cooked in the oven, and he plonked in front of the football, and I got ridiculously over-excited about having a house phone to play with (this means we are now adults I think. Terrifying thought.), it smelt like an actual proper real life lasagne. We served it with a rocket and spinach salad, and a nice bit of crusty bread from my Dad's bakery (The Wheatsheaf Bakery if you're ever in the area) and it tasted really bloody good. We felt proud of ourselves, and looked on at the fruits of our labour like it was some incredible piece of artwork, like a Picasso on the plate. The situation was all a bit like childbirth, really painful but I've kind of forgotten quite how much as the end result was so bleedin' gorge.
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