Life in Pieces

‘Oh nice,’ I replied.

‘Tell him to call me, I’ll teach him how to act.’

‘You know, he’s doing OK, actually. But thanks so much.’

‘He needs lessons,’ she said.

‘He’s doing fine, really,’ I said.

But she wouldn’t let it go. So I ended up yelling – because she was quite far away – ‘It’s FINE, he is CHRIS O’DOWD.’ Joggers stopped jogging. Dogs stopped barking. Trees stopped swaying. She yelled back ‘WHO?’ And then jogged off.

SO awkward.

I had tequila at 4 p.m. and I think it saved my life. I also smoked some pot then smashed half a saucisson and a massive lump of brie. BEFORE dinner. That’s where I’m at.

LA announced that school is out until September. It is full-on news. Awful, in a way. Wonderful, in another. I am trying to be good at this. Trying to imagine the story I tell of the PANDEMIC in ten years.

‘It was a weird and scary time, but we got through it. It was months of family time that we’ve never had since. It was special. We barbecued, sat naked in the paddling pool, watched movies, ate chips. We painted each other’s nails, played with the dog, put the kids to bed then watched loads of great movies. We played backgammon and had lots of sex, made up games, taught the kids how to read. I tried new recipes, we ate some amazing food, I took care of the old lady next door, FaceTimed my family loads, did as much as we could for people who were struggling and tried to write some really funny things. It was a weird time, but we did it, and we had a lot of fun.’

My reality is NOT THAT, but I am going to try to aim for it, even a little.

What would you like your PANDEMIC story to be, and how likely is it that you think it will happen?

Love Dawn x

3 April

Isolation Update – Let me squeeze your finger

I don’t mean to go on about this, but do you remember that time I painted those terracotta pots with my kids?

An absolute triumph.

Such a good mum.

I literally ran out of ideas thirty seconds after that, and can’t be bothered to do anything right now, but nothing takes away from the fact that I did it.

Is it 2023 yet? Because maybe this will be over by then.

Isn’t it funny that all those people who get Botox won’t be able to get it while this is happening? I wonder if Instagram will just go really, really quiet. I hope we get to see their real faces. I hope they get to see them too, and realise that actually they’re alright without it.

I had a nice day. Nothing happened, nothing didn’t happen. It was just a fine day. We baked a terrible apple pie. For some reason I’m not getting my squishy, sugary, gooey bit right. I put chocolate in it, which was a storming success. Then I warmed it up, shoved on a dollop of ice cream and it was YUM. I don’t enjoy baking, but the kids LOVE it, so I am going to get better at it. I’ll be the next Mary Berry by the end of this. As in, I’ll be eighty-five. WHEN WILL THIS END?

I had halloumi for lunch, because now I just fry my cheese.

And here’s a really simple salad recipe that I’m thinking of making for dinner, so nice as a side on a hot day:

Peel and cut an apple into small slices, then halve them

Chop a shallot (why does that always make me think of Jilly Cooper novels?)

Chop some celery

Add some raisins (optional)

Spoon in a big blob of mayonnaise

Sprinkle with paprika

It’s REALLY yummy. My Aunty Jane used to make it a lot and it reminds me of home. She does the most brilliant BBQs. A variety of meats, lamb steaks, sausages, even some salted mackerel. Her selection of salads was always the best. The one above, with another that always took guests by surprise: garlic, mint and salt mixed into Greek yogurt, poured lavishly over sliced cucumber. Another would be the freshest Guernsey tomatoes with basil, and then a big bowl of Jersey Royals. We’d sit at the table outside, my uncle in charge of the BBQ, and eat it all up while our tortoise, Daisy, ambled around under the table nibbling our toes. The perfect Sunday, and I miss it so much. It’s comforting to imagine them there, carrying on as though things are normal, but without anyone else with them. Daisy will miss my toes, they were always her favourite.

Anyway, any of the salads above go brilliantly with BBQ or ribs. Do you ever do ribs? It’s quite American. Ask your butcher for a baby back of ribs. Put the ribs into a shallow baking tray with about half an inch of water. Season the ribs. Wrap them very tight in tin foil and put them in the oven on whatever 200 degrees Celsius is where you live. Cook them for two hours. When done, get them out, SLATHER them in BBQ sauce and put them back in on a higher heat for about fifteen minutes. Until the sauce is all hot and sticky. DONE. BOOSH. BACK OF THE NET – 400 FOOT JIZZ.

Over and out in a storm of food and jizz. How was your day?

Love Dawn x

No Such Thing as Calories in Lockdown

I love food.

I realise that’s a basic statement and might not sound like it warrants a whole load of page-time, but for me, it does. Food is the great passion and pleasure of my life. Reading cookbooks, shopping for ingredients, spending hours in the kitchen, making it, serving it and then eating it. Brilliant.

I think my love of food stems from a moment in my childhood where I ‘changed’ parents. After my mum died, I lived with Nanna and Pop. They were East Enders without a particularly diverse palate. Our dinners were classic 1980s nosh. Findus Crispy Pancakes, ham, egg and chips, fish and chips on Fridays. We’d have a roast on Sundays but, at Pops’ request, the meat would be very well done and the veg nice and mushy. I am in no way slamming this menu; I used to think it was the best in the world. My personal favourite (and if you’ve read my book Paper Aeroplanes you will recognise this) was tinned chicken in white wine sauce, with in-the-bag Uncle Ben’s rice and lashings of salt. Ideally eaten out of a bowl, on the floor, next to the heating vent in the kitchen. Heaven.

Delicious as it was, there wasn’t much in the way of experimentation. Salt and frying made everything delicious. But when I was ten, my sister and I moved in with Aunty Jane and Uncle Tony, and the world of food opened up in a whole new way. All of a sudden, the menu expanded beyond my wildest dreams. Rich and tasty made-from-scratch Bolognese, mussels marinière, fillet steak, grilled skate with capers, avocado mousse (gloriously 1970s, always welcome), and everything served with a side salad, possibly a starter of Parma ham and melon with a drizzle of walnut oil and a selection of good cheese to top it off. My taste buds got the wake-up call of all wake-up calls. I remember at first finding everything a little bland, and my Uncle Tony repeating ‘only add salt after tasting’, because I was used to a more ready-meal level of saltiness. But I adjusted, and then actual flavours stole the show. My uncle was a pilot and had a little four-seater Piper Arrow plane, G-BAAZ. We used to hop over to various parts of France at the weekends (I know, I know, it wasn’t only the culinary part of my life that changed). There is one story my uncle always likes to share about us all being in a restaurant, likely in either St Malo or Dinard. The waiter apparently asked me what I wanted to eat, and I asked for six oysters. Apparently the place went quiet when I proceeded to add, ‘And then I’ll have twenty-four for my main course.’ I was ten. The whole restaurant was struck dumb as they watched this child hoof oyster after oyster, like that was entirely normal.

I have since developed a severe allergy to oysters, coming close to death twice in the space of ten weeks after eating them. The first was raw, the second was cooked, which is why I thought it would be OK. I didn’t know that once you have been poisoned by one, you are likely to have the same reaction every time. MY ACTUAL GOD. I won’t go into the details of what I went through because it’s hands down the most disgusting story imaginable, but put it this way, my oyster days are over. And anytime I see one going towards someone’s mouth I turn into the woman from the Shake n’ Vac adverts from the 1980s; launching forward in slow motion, screaming ‘Noooooooooo!’

But don’t let me put you off if you love them. You eat your oysters. AT YOUR PERIL.

I found the adventure that food offered me one of the most exciting things about life. I experienced loss and true sadness as a kid. Food gave me joy. When I ate, I felt happy. Luckily for me, I am an extremely indulgent person, but I don’t have much of an addictive personality. Although there are a few things I should disclaim here in case that statement ever gets contested: I could be on the verge of being clinically addicted to lip balm, crisps, eye shadow and pictures of Cher in the seventies. Apart from that, my indulgences are largely optional. BUT as a teenager my love of food did mean I never particularly loved my body. This was due to two things 1) a massive appetite and 2) no real knowledge of nutrition. Aside from the good food that my aunty cooked me (a pretty solid and varied Mediterranean diet involving lots of fish, olive oil and side salads), when she wasn’t looking, the food I ate was terrible. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, I averaged about seven bags of Wotsits, two squishy canteen sausage rolls, a blue Boost (that I would separate so I could first eat the biscuit base, and then roll the toffee into a ball), chips and mayonnaise and multiple cans of fizzy drinks EVERY SINGLE DAY. Is it any wonder I never had the confidence to wear a swimsuit on those sunny Guernsey beaches? I used to eat crisps like my life depended on it. I felt uncomfortable in myself. My tummy was always big, my chins followed suit. I wasn’t what would be referred to as ‘fat’ by other kids at the time, but I had a paunch. And I didn’t like it. In the nineties, I had no idea that it was the food I was eating that caused it. It’s so annoying to look back on it now. I wish I’d just stripped off and run into the sea. I hate how self-conscious I was back then. Such a waste of all that beach time.

Chris and I have been really firm on healthy food, and for that reason the kids get all sorts of treats, but they are always that: treats. We make a real song and dance about every cookie, and Art lights up like Charlie in the chocolate factory when he eats one. I think that’s right, for sugar to be a bonus rather than something they take for granted. Also, my kids eat loads of raw vegetables (I’m basically Gwyneth). I picked this up from my sister, who was a few years ahead of me with her boys. I was at her house and saw that she gave them a few chunks of red pepper with their dinner. I didn’t think kids ate things like red pepper so was suitably impressed, and I stole this technique as soon as mine had teeth. Art now eats multiple pieces of raw vegetables every night, he chooses to eat them before he eats anything else on his plate. This is because I relentlessly tell them, ‘Vegetables help your body make poo.’ And as I have two boys, poo is a real hit in this house. Anything that promises it, is a winner. Valentine is more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy. He thinks vegetables are for losers, but I won’t give up because I know that one day what they eat won’t be down to me, and my nineties diet is not to be repeated.

Regardless of the secret processed food life I was living aged seventeen, I watched and learned from my aunty. Our small island was host to some incredible ingredients. Local beef, dairy, seafood from the rock pools I could see from the end of our garden. She talked about it all like I would new boyfriends. Adoringly, with excitement, with desperation to devour. Aunty Jane set the standard high for me, it just took me a long time to actually live that way myself. As I was launched into being financially self-sufficient at university, my diet got even worse. Disgusting, in fact. With double the amount of alcohol and a heady mix of uppers. But as adulthood kicked in, and especially since I’ve needed to feed my kids, I see my aunty as my mentor in the way I act about food.

I am a total meat snob. I’m not really into designer handbags, I have a wardrobe full of $20 vintage dresses and my husband and I share a car because we see no reason for the expense of two. We are not overtly lavish in our lifestyle. But meat – that is my financial downfall. There are two reasons for this, the first being animal welfare (you don’t have to be vegan or vegetarian to care about how animals are treated). The second is that if I am led to believe there are more hormones in what I am eating than in my own body, I will not enjoy the meal. I think being a meat snob is important for all sorts of reasons, but it is expensive and can, on occasion, make me look like a massive asshole. During the riots, for example (more on those later), Chris called me out for refusing to go to the supermarket closest to us because I didn’t like the chicken. ‘Dawn, stop being such a massive snob and get the meat from Sprouts!’ (A great place for EVERYTHING but meat, in my opinion.) ‘I CAN’T HELP IT,’ I roared. It’s my ‘thing’. In my defence, I will buy meat in most places, but I am always looking for the words ‘free range’, ‘organic’, ‘pasture raised’ and most importantly, ‘NO HORMONES EVER’.

In lockdown, my meat consumption has gone up dramatically (you might have already clocked this). If this isn’t a time to try new recipes and eat like your life depends on it, then when is? Also, as I had agreed with Chris that I would take on the task of all the food shopping and preparing all the meals (my choice, was fun at first, was so over it by June), I’ve had a lot of work to do. Food has been our greatest joy when being stuck at home, and I’ve gone for it every day. The one thing that’s not quite happened is family mealtimes. Honestly, no. Eating at a table with my kids is too stressful. They get so overwhelmed with excitement that they cannot sit still. Nothing gets eaten, they shout, and Chris and I end up telling them off. No, family mealtimes are a thing for the future.

Our ritual is this, and it will remain this for some time: I give the kids dinner at 5 p.m., then they watch TV while I make ours. We put them to bed around 7.30, then Chris and I kick back, put the telly on and eat whatever I have made with a lovely bottle of wine and we go to bed drunk. PERFECT lockdown evening. Every night. For basically a year. Occasionally losing the wine, so likely drinking double the next night. I suppose I better talk about drinking. Don’t worry, that will come, I’ll go pour myself a drink and write it.

PIECE FOUR

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