writer's moll

On Monday I joined the nation’s other masochists to watch our very own Tim on centre court for another roller coaster ride at Wimbledon – heads in our hands when he cocks up a shot, hands in the air when he makes a great one. He starts really well and gives us some exciting tennis, but when rain stops play and looks set to stay for the rest of the day, I decide it’s a good time to try out a new recipe. Unexpectedly, the sun comes back and so does Tim, but it’s too late for me because the oven’s hot and eggs have been broken and beaten. Now I like cooking, but one of my rules for recipe testing is doing it when there’s plenty of time so it’s relaxing and stress-free (the other one is not trying it out on unsuspecting guests but I break that all the time) so now I’m dashing between the kitchen (where the tele doesn’t work and is now only for catching fat splashes) and the other room where it does, to see how Tim’s doing and starting to feel anything but relaxed. Then there’s the recipe itself. A pea and mint torte might seem a strange thing to want to make anyway, so I should say that it wasn’t just the peas that attracted me - it had ricotta and eggs and spring onions and mint and basil and parmesan in it too and looked all gorgeous and golden in the photo next to it. But it called for 5 kg of fresh peas (3kg shelled weight). Yes, 3 kilos of peas. That’s one hell of a pile of peas and as it's supposed to serve 6, that means half a kilo each – more than one pound of peas each. Not even a black hole can eat a pound of peas, so now decision-making has entered the equation. What should I do? My loved one says helpfully “yes that does seem an awful lot of peas”. Dithering between the two rooms I decide to go with my instincts and cut the quantity of peas by half, but there’s the mint still to pick and, what’s this: put half in a food processor – damn now I’ve got to find and assemble that and I can hear the wild applause in the next room. Finally my loved one ambles into the kitchen and says “you haven’t forgotten I’m going out tonight have you?” The kitchen’s a mess, and I’m eating the tart (which tastes plenty pea-y enough actually) alone on its own because I'm too fed up to make anything to go with it, but Tim’s doing well so I suppose two out of three isn’t bad. At 9.20 bad light stops play and our Tim lives to fight another day.