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The flavour hung thickly in the air, flickering across my tongue and creeping down my lungs tantalisingly. I swallowed hungrily, saliva collecting in my mouth again almost instantly. The lid of the red pot was lifted and with a heavy sigh more fragrant steam was released, condensing against the cold windows of the conservatory. I stood against the sliding glass door, watching carefully as plates piled high with meat and vegetables were shuffled; I wondered whether the condensation would taste like the air and watched a single drop make its jagged way down the blinds, dropping to the floor and shattering like a liquid crystal.

Time moved in slow motion as my stomach rumbled in anticipation of the great feast ahead of us – was it ready yet? Could we eat now? How about now? Patience was not a virtue I possessed but could you blame me? It was shabu shabu season.

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Photo credit: David Mason.

We deal with conflict everywhere. Whether it’s at work, with our friends and family, or simply with a complete stranger, it just can’t be avoided, no matter how hard we try; stubbornness is a part of human nature.

I’m not a fan of conflict. I usually try to run away from it and am always the first to apologise in an argument, even if I’m not in the wrong, purely because I find the tension of disagreement deeply distressing. To be so anti-confrontational is not one of my best qualities and in these situations I usually find myself bottling everything up inside and then inexplicably bursting into tears of frustration and anger. This was my week.

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You may be wondering why the beginning of this post has 7 photos of the giant ferris wheel known as the London Eye. Well that’s because these photos mark all of the appointments I’ve had at the hospital since I was diagnosed with Grave’s Disease 3 months ago. Since then I’ve traipsed back and forth to the hospital every 2-4 weeks, had my left (and once, right) arm punctured so many times that I’m covered in constant bruises and track marks, befriended the nurses who stab me, rushed into hospital when I fell ill as it could’ve been a sign of my immune system shutting down, taken four different dosages of the same medication and watched my disease chart itself up and down, yet always a long way away from the ranges of “normal”.

Today my doctor discussed the possibility of radioiodine treatment with me.

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I’ve always been a bit of a devil.

When I was a child I loved to pretend. Maybe it was because of my overactive imagination or maybe it was because the thought of being somebody else was so much more appealing than the awkward (and yet precocious) child, teenager and adult I’d become. Dressing up was a game I forced everyone around me – even my older brother – to play and my dressing up box was filled with flouncy party dresses and ribbons, an old lace wedding dress my mother had given me (whom it belonged to I had no idea), and various toys and accessories, including a Chanel handbag which, had I kept it, would be worth a lot of money now, I’m sure.

Of course, dressing up wasn’t just for fun, it was also about competition: you had to be the best looking child with the best costume. The time of year that this was most obvious? Halloween of course.

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A little while ago I was asked, “do you have any writing advice or tips for what makes a good writer?” Wow. What a question. Honestly, it’s a mammoth one and I’m not entirely sure that I’m qualified to answer it. I am, after all, just a girl who likes to tell stories. I find it hard to embrace the title and tell people that, yes, I am a writer and I write about food; I always find myself blushing a little as I do.

There’s an idea of glamour that goes along with the term ‘writer’. The thought is that other people value your words, that you have the power to influence, that the pen is mightier than the sword… but I’ve never really seen it that way and so small successes are always a surprise.

For me writing has always been somewhat cathartic. I find that my brain moves so fast sometimes that I can’t always vocalise what I’m thinking – with writing it’s my only way to silence the voices or the nagging questions, to slow down and normalise. It’s word vomit (if you’ll excuse the phrase on a food blog) and in the past I’ve been known to actually burn or tear up a piece of paper full of my words, jotted down out of necessity – an unloading of ideas, frustrations and cerebral noise.

So I don’t know if I can give you any ‘tips’ or ‘advice’ that’ll be helpful to you, all I can do is tell you what I’ve discovered and the ideas and principles that I stick to, because at the end of the day writing and especially good writing is all about your personal experiences.

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The other week I had a slight health scare. Y’see, the medication I’m on has the potential to shut down your immune system (scary stuff, I know) so if you start feeling unwell or have a raging sore throat, you’re advised to go and see your doctor immediately or you could be dead within a week. After a wonderful weekend in Brighton celebrating a birthday, I woke up with a horribly sore throat and a slight fever. As I’m sure you can imagine, I panicked.

Waiting to see whether or not you need to go to hospital urgently is not the best way to start a Monday. I was supposed to be working in the city right at that moment and instead I was at home, waiting for the email. It finally came, “go to the hospital” and I was off, fighting through the mid-morning crowds at Waterloo. The first nurse couldn’t find a vein. “Do you have problems giving blood?” He asked, my answer a curt shake of the head and a tense, “no. Not ever.” The second nurse had a quick look at me and plunged the needle into my right arm, drawing blood immediately. They sent me home where I waited for the results whilst trying to work. A few hours later they came back: I wasn’t dying.

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Photo credit: David Mason.

The end of last year was one of the worst times of my life. My then boyfriend David had moved to Canada and I was mourning not just the loss of a relationship but of a close friend; I had completed formal education and in one swift move had gone from being the girl with the five-year-plan to the one drifting from day-to-day, unsure as to what direction my life should take; I was working two jobs at once, one as a private caterer and the other in retail, and though I adored my boss and my retail “family”, I wasn’t doing what I wanted and it was making me miserable.

My personality is such that when one aspect of my life is in jeopardy the rest of it goes completely to pot – it’s terrible but I simply cannot function when something is out of whack. Food was my escape – it didn’t judge, it was there, comforting me and the sense of satisfaction when I created something beautiful was almost better than eating it.

For David’s birthday that year I created this dessert which I named the Mason Matcha-Misu; it was my present for him even though he couldn’t taste it as he was in Canada. Based on David’s family mocha tiramisu recipe, I made the Matcha-Misu with matcha green tea powder, white chocolate laced with pistachios and even more pistachios, chopped roughly. It was a good first effort but it wasn’t quite there yet and so I didn’t share the recipe.

Fast forward a year and I’ve found myself making a living (or trying to) with food and words. David has also returned to London for the time being but we exist together solely as very good friends, a decision that is perfect for the both of us – I get to keep my best friend, mentor and muse with none of the drama that comes with relationships. It’s a tough world but I’m doing well, not the least because of my diagnosis and subsequent medication that is totally re-aligning all of my chakras, or whatever you want to call it. Yes, I’m single, yes, I’m still fighting to make a name for myself, yes, I’m living in a country I’d rather not be in and sometimes I wring my hands with despair at my situation, but for now? This is where, who and what I am and I’ve found a contentment in that. In other words: I’m happy.

And as for this Matcha-Misu? This year I not only perfected it, David finally got to taste it and give it his seal of approval.

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So I’m back! But I’ve got to deal with a little housekeeping before we get into the food, so please excuse me whilst I discuss something that is not at all food related and a little personal: this post has good news and bad news. The good news is that hey! I’m posting again! I know, that’s hard to believe in itself! The bad news is that I may disappear again because I am not a very well bunny & I’m going to be getting myself better & running back & forth between the doctor’s surgery, hospital & various events, so let me explain (there is food at the end of it, I promise!).

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I’ve come to the conclusion that women are pretty insane. It doesn’t matter how old you are, how much life experience you have, or how mature you may appear to be, if you are of the fairer sex you are 100% certifiably mental. I realise this is quite a bold statement to make for my sex but it’s a statement I’m sticking by, because well… girls are weird.

There really is no getting around it: we obsess over every little thing; we talk ourselves in and out of situations a million times; we get mad over stuff that really shouldn’t be a big deal; we’re friends with people we don’t actually like all because we feel that we “have to”; we’re superficial (we are, the amount of make-up we wear is really pretty ridiculous); and we definitely read too much into, well, everything. I know that I do all of those things and more, there simply is no other way to put it: girls are mental.

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So I Am A Feeder is one. That went quickly, didn’t it? And can you believe it’s only been a year? I feel like I’ve been doing this my whole life! In fact, it went so quickly I even forgot to celebrate it on the 21st April! Doh.

Originally this post was going to be about what a failure I’ve been in the kitchen lately. I was going to tell you how I’ve nearly fainted in public twice in the past month because I keep forgetting to eat (massive fail!), how I burned my arm on both the rim of my angel food cake tin when I was taking the monkey bread out and the molten sugar that dripped onto me afterwards, how despite the fact that I made it twice I still couldn’t get it right, and how I forgot to take photos of most of it anyway… but I decided that when birthdays come around it’s better to celebrate the good than the bad, and to remember that every experience is an opportunity to learn. So happy blogoversary to me!

But that’s not all! I also have two winners to announce from my Five Minute Bread give-away! So read on, read on…

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