Tuesday, 5 February 2008
I have been banned from the internet for almost exactly a month. The internet made me a slave. I looked at my computer for ages and ages and ages and did the things it asked me to. I am looking at my computer. My computer is asking me to produce an excellent plate of food. My computer is aksing my to eat an exceptional plate of food. The two voices in my computer are telling me that if I want to get through to the quarter finals I need to get more flavour out of my ingredients. I have my ingredients in front of me. I have: Five squares of chocolate; an olive stuffed with pimiento; 30 grams of quorn; a sachet of my facial hair; a man from the west country called Dean; a squid that is alive and asking me all sorts of questions. I put my ingredients into an envelope marked "Ingredients". My face is red and blotchy. The man in my flat tells me that my cooking is otherworldy and exciting. I put the envelope in the baking heat of the red raw sun for 5 minutes. I have put my heart and soul into my dish. I have tried my hardest on the dish. I want to quit my job and cook and that passion has been put into the dish. I see the pile of salt. I see the knife. I slice the salt into my dish. There is too much salt in the dish. I am thrown out of the competition and all of the celebrity chefs puke on me.