Yes. Spoons. Tablespoons if we’re going to be exact. You would not believe the number of tablespoons chefs use in a day. And this week I am being uncharacteristically chefy.

I’m back at Ashburton Cookery School for 5 days of the kind of cooking that plebs like me would term Dead Swanky. And rule Number One of being a DS Chefy-type is: taste everything. Taste it all the time. And taste it with a tablespoon. Great jugs of them stand before us at our work stations and we’re taught to use them but once then toss them aside with the abandon of someone who knows they don’t have to wash up. I have cultivated a disregard for washing up implications alarmingly quickly.

Today, my wanton use of tablespoons (and some expert tuition) has helped me create these:



Part of my motivation for coming here this week was my other glut – soil. I have weeded. I have rotavated. I have planted every possible seed in snug little pots in the cosy warm greenhouse. And now, thanks to our so-called Spring, I must look at my freshly turned soil and wait for some warmth. Wait?! Look at them!:


Wait?! With all that gorgeous weed-free soil just begging to be cultivated? No chance. I must remove myself from tempatation. So what else is a girl to do when she can’t allotment? Cook, of course.