Milk Mustache

I grew up in a never finished house. On the outside, it was your picture perfect image of an Irish stone cottage, going to seed a little, walls of brown and grey mottled granite, windows trimmed in brick. Two lazy ash trees drooped over a slate roof with occasional tile ajar, gutters groaning with sodden leaves.

Sometimes I have philosophical doubts about my endeavours. Let’s take this recipe blog: I’ve loved to cook for longer than I can remember. Presumably, I’ve loved to eat for longer than that.