Ladies and gentleman, allow me to address the nightmare phenomenon of The Hangover. Now, I'm not just talking about a mild post-vino fogginess over the brow; a slightly wibbly tummy, that gurgles a little more than you're entirely comfortable with - no, sir, I am talking about the kind of hangover where you wake up, far earlier than you would normally arise, run (generally in a state of disarray and possibly, undress) to the kitchen, to the fridge and drink the lion's share of a litre bottle of milk. Spilling a good mouthful down the front of your t-shirt. The 'soaked-through-sweaty' hangover, when you know that no amount of Febreeze will freshen that duvet.
The kind of hangover where you can't stop picking at food, though the food that you are continually picking at is rather questionable and may start to have even the men wondering if there is any chance that they could be in The Family Way.
Cue torn apart slices of Gouda, a few grasped silverskin pickles, a couple of chocolate cookies, dunked into a big mug of tea, a smear of pate on toast, a mouthful of crispy bacon. A Twix. Basically I'm talking about the kind of hangover which looms over your person like an enormous, shadowy and cumbersome malignancy. Breathing hot whiskey vapours down your neck every time you think you might be starting to feel a little better.
Never had one? Well, lucky, smug you. But, no matter, for I have found the perfect hangover cure. It even tops the Bloody Mary and 'Seafood Cup', that I purchased and consumed on Brighton Pier when sunny summer’s day, when I was feeling particularly afflicted. This curative properties of this spicy feast - literally, a 'jumble' of flavours and textures - are nothing short of miraculous. Spicy, stodgy, toothsome, comforting and easy to throw together and leave, bubbling away on the pan, leaving you plenty of time to laze in a powdered milk bath reading a Marlene Dietrich biography....no? Just me then?
No comments:
Post a Comment