11 reasons why I’m a really, really bad #fdblogger

So last month when I was tasked with coming up with a bit of kitchen-based Christmas craft, I had grand plans. Needless to say, it was timber for my Christmas tree made entirely from cupcakes but it did get me thinking… I’m actually not that great in the kitchen. I mean, I’m okay – maybe slightly above average – but I really don’t know who I was kidding. Nor why I feel like I have to pretend to be Heston bloody Blumenthal just because my Twitter bio says I’m a food blogger?!

Alas, those cliches and those unwritten blogging laws do exist (and heaven forbid you don’t fit into the mould) so here’s why I’m one terrible, terrible #fdblogger:

I never make pastry from scratch (or pasta)

I may very well have attended a gluten free pasta masterclass hosted by Shoreditch-based Italians, Burro e Salvia and be descended from a grandmother who, I swear, wrote the Holy Grail of Homemade – but I really am Jus-Rol’s biggest fan. Second only to packet pasta.

I don’t like avocado

More like avoca-NO. Come on kids, you can’t seriously be enjoying that slime green mush lurking on top of your toast like some kind of millennial swap monster. Don’t think I don’t see you shaking on the chilli flakes like there’s no tomorrow and piling on more goat’s cheese than your dairy-sensitive digestive system can handle in a bid to disguise the taste AND texture. Just admit it, it’s fucking gross.

I like (love) pineapple on pizza

Fight me.

There are currently no food emojis in my Frequently Used

I, too, am baffled at this revelation. There must be some mistake.

🍩🍕🥜🥞🍒🥓🍳🥕🍝 (just a few personal faves)

I don’t drink coffee

Guys, I’ve tried. I really have. I just do not like coffee. As much as I might like to post photographs of intricate latte art and throw the whole urgh, don’t speak to me ‘til I’ve had my coffee shade, I’m just not into it. It tastes like fag ash smells, no matter how liberally it’s muddled with seven shades of sugar-filled syrup. The closest I’ve come to loving coffee is when the perfume lady at John Lewis brought me a little bowl of coffee beans to neutralise my nasal cavities after Henry Hoover-ing my way around the concession counters.

Sometimes I forget to snap my food

Yes, it’s true. Sometimes I eat things and don’t tell you about them.

Just like the time I went to Hanover Street Social for birthday lunch.

I cannot get on board the Pumpkin Spice bandwagon

I love autumn just as much as the next basic and I’m all over Christmas like a festive STI but when it comes to the seasonal snacks, I’m out. Christmas pudding and mince pies are high on my Hell No list but sitting right up there at the top is pumpkin spiced anything. Puke.

I do make a mean reindeer Christmas cupcake though.

All of my Kilner jars are full of flowers

Not a chia pudding or any overnight oats in sight. Just some beautiful blooms.

So shoot me.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BTZfZrrD8Ca/?taken-by=stephanieee_hw

 

I’d rather eat wallpaper paste than sushi

Now don’t get me wrong, I bloody love me some meat-based sushi – as bastardising as that might be. I could eat that shit all day long and the Vincent Café in Liverpool serve up a damn fine gringo sushi menu. However, my one encounter with the Real McCoy led to me practically begging a street cat to take the raw fish off my hands while I picked pungent rice grains from teeth with the tip of my flaming hot wasabi tongue. Nope and then nope again.

I literally cannot poach an egg

I’ve tried. I’ve failed. Many times. I’m done. Any advice most welcome.

I love a chicken nugget (or 20) 

Their name may not contain letters you don’t even pronounce, nor do they (usually) come garnished with a strain of Saffron that can only be acquired from the farthest Eastern Medditeranean spice rack (or something like that) but I do love a chicken nugget. Horror stories and health risks will never break our bond. Love you, nugs.

 

So there you have it, the truth laid bare.

Feel free to leave a salty comment below or troll me on Twitter because I’m ready for your dirty worst. Oh and while we’re here, my name isn’t Harriet – it’s Steph. Curve ball.