293. Sam Mendes

I have a colossal crush on Sam Mendes. I bet he gives great hugs. And he's got a lovely voice.

292. Kindle

Farsands and farsands of books, all on one little thingy no bigger than a real notebook made of paper. Joy.

There are some downsides. Reading is just not the same without covers and rustling pages. I live in constant fear that somebody other than me will peek at my library and instantly fall over laughing and then never speak to me again. (There really ought to be a lock on Kindles - Amazonians, please take note.) If you drop it in the bath you die. Possibly, haven't tested that particular theory. Certainly the Kindle would die. No draping it over a radiator and forever having a weirdly fat, crinkly book.

Anybody want to tell me that my fondness for Kindle means I am not a true bibliophile? Meet you outside the British Library tonight at dusk. I'll be carrying a Kindle and a knuckleduster fashioned out of my copy of War and Peace.

291. Nicknames

It's my mother's fault. Each of her three children had at least four regular nicknames, so I must have caught it from her.

Even if you don't know that I have a nickname for you, I do. If I don't, it's because I don't like you very much. The more I like you, the more nicknames I'll have for you. This is a simple equation, no?

290. Crab sandwiches

The best crab sandwich that I have ever eaten came from a tiny caravan at Blakeney Quay, north Norfolk. It was just crab, butter and bread, but it was juicy and creamy and intensely, delicously, crabby.

Herself is obsessed with crab, so I have tried to make crab sandwiches and they're good, but they're not great. This is clearly an issue of alchemy - or maybe she has to be outside, in Norfolk, on a sunny day. It's not for me to say.

The second best crab sandwich I have ever eaten was from Cromer, north Norfolk. Crab, bread, butter.

The third best crab sandwich I have ever eaten was from the Nelson pub, Southwold, Suffolk. Crab, bread, butter. Inside, no sun, but accompanied by chips (result) and beer.

Right, I am challenging myself to a challenge. Crab, bread, butter. Take Herself to a sunny place in East Anglia and make her run about a bit so she's hungry, then win the ultimate crab-based accolade. Or give up and have crab sandwiches join the list of other foods that are best made by somebody else.

289. Planning a menu

Herself wants to go out for supper. But the restaurant we're most keen to try is booked up, so I offer to cook/make mezze. It's a lovely day and Herself's passion for hummus knows no limitations, so I thought I might be on to a winner.

As soon as I was given the thumbs up, I started planning the menu. Homemade hummus, obvs. No tahini, she doesn't like it. Tzatziki, obvs, with mint from the garden. Sumac lamb, grilled so it's blackened in parts but pink inside. Slices of aubergine, baked in the oven and scattered with feta and oregano from the garden. Halloumi. Tabbouleh.

Then she decided she just wanted lamb and new potatoes and green beans. Delicious. But not a feast and no menu planning needed.

Never mind, I will deliver my feast another time. Any takers?

288. Simon Hopkinson

Herself cackles with glee when she remembers that it was she who first brought my attention to SH, when she bought me Roast Chicken and Other Stories.

I don't like to tell her that I have yet to cook anything out of that book, bar following his guide for roast chicken, which is excellent and might change the way you roast a bird forever...

He's a lovely writer. And now that he's done some telly we know that he has that remarkable knack for writing exactly as he speaks. That's what I call a 'voice'. Spare, elegant prose, but always branded through and through with his affectionate yet rigorous expectations.

He loves food. He loves writing. He doesn't like parties. I can't understand why we're not friends already.

287. Picpoul de Pinet*

I reckon this wine is a marketing ploy. It appeared so suddenly, and became ubiquitous so quickly, that part of me is convinced it's a new ruse from one of the big wine makers.

It's white, it's from the Loire, it's dry and tastes of minerals and it's delicious. So I don't care if it's authentic, or not.



*It's not a marketing ploy. It is real. I'm just feeling a bit jaded and weary today.