
It’s pancake day – time to use up all the things in your cupboard that you’re not going to be needing once Lent gets going. Like eggs. And flour. Won’t be seeing them again until April. Possibly.

It’s pancake day – time to use up all the things in your cupboard that you’re not going to be needing once Lent gets going. Like eggs. And flour. Won’t be seeing them again until April. Possibly.

Happiness abounds as Chinese New Year approaches – not just the promise of roast duck, scallion pancakes and soup dumplings, though, obviously, all things to be happy about – but also the end of the year of the Dragon, which, Jon’s Mum assures us, means calmer sailing ahead.
I probably sit next to a celebrity. This is one of those large open plan offices, holding several different companies, all hot desking over three floors. So on this particular day I find a spot, and a guy sits down next to me. He’s very tall, broad, handsome in his suit. His name is Anthony. He says hi. I say hi. We get to work.

As Superbowl approaches, thoughts turn, naturally enough to food. Every year I am fascinated anew to learn that Americans will be eating 4.4 million pizzas, and 1.25 billion chicken wings.

Everything I know about football can pretty much fit on a cocktail napkin. My dad, who is something of an oracle on American sports in spite of being British, has given up hope.
A few years ago I won a competition (and a bunch of really nice egg-shaped Denby dishes), for this snack. It was actually the first time I made food for a Superbowl party, and I was anxious to get things authentically, respectfully correct. I turned to Google to gin up on the basics. Wings. Ribs. Pizza. Dip. Chili. Fried things with cheese. And pizza wonton bites just popped into my head.

Burns Night is a celebration of the poet responsible for such classic literary hits as A Red Red Rose, and Address to a Haggis. If you’re Scottish, like my husband, it’s an unmissable opportunity to drink whisky and say things like “Och†– i.e., a day much like any other, really.

My Aunty Jennifer, of accidental sex grass fame, has been taking part in another biological experiment.

A few winters ago my sister and I put our names on the waiting list at Serendipity. Apparently it might take a while. So we went to Bloomingdales for an hour. Yeah, it was still going to take a while. So we traveled to the island and back on the tram, then we hung around for a bit, and went to Starbucks, and hung around some more, and eventually, finally, our number was up. Our table looked as though it had been designed by a 6 year old girl, which I mean as a huge complement. Â We ordered frozen hot chocolate. It was totally, totally worth the wait.

“I don’t want to be a King,†protested Arthur, when told that he had to participate in the annul family nativity show. “I don’t want to and you can’t make me.â€