It's my 40th birthday!

Happy birthday to me.

Rather than mourning my youth (I did that with a terrible flourish at 36) I am mostly grateful. Grateful for the two gorgeous children who were so excited for me today, waking me with their fight for a premium  spot in bed for cuddles and card reading. Gareth, with his usual kooky humour bought a bizarre hedgehog shaped cake from Marks and Spencer and I blew out candles with bed hair and cheers.

No more turkey

I really don't like turkey, and this year, after cooking about 10 full Christmas dinners already for print and TV advertising, I am fed up with the sight and smell of it.

I have been basting these massive birds with their own hot fat from the back of removal vans on suburban London streets, in photo studios and in my own kitchen for testing, for the past three months. I have roasted at least 15 kilos of spuds in 5 litres of goose fat and peeled a small mountain of brussel sprouts. I have learnt how to make perfect parsnips (par boil them before roasting) and perfected the art of a golden finish to the turkey, without resorting to painting it with Marmite (food stylist trick here) - as natural is the new fake in advertising.