Louise Brooks
Louise, you rock.
My beautiful friend Ava came round for dinner tonight and we discussed the perils and pleasures of letting men into our lives, the horrors of self assessment tax returns and the chances of being struck by lightning if wearing an i-pod. It was a Prosecco fueled chatathon and long overdue.

I made every single thing in Rosalind’s kitchen a candidate for washing up whilst preparing Louise’s dish, but it was worth it. My mum’s delicious home cooked gammon tucked underneath the cream and flour encrusted chicken gave it the saltiness it needed. It was quite, quite delicious.

Ava cracked me up once again with the tale of her pyjama clad terrine pressing adventures. She managed to avoid telling the nurses at the casualty department how a grease infested terrine was the cause of her sliding across the kitchen floor and gaining a leg black and blue with a severe oblong shaped bruise.

The terrine came out of it unscathed apparently.

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