Monday, 21 July 2014

Date Night: Tapas

I tried squid for the first time the other night. Kinda squishy, isn't it? Not as flavoury as I had hoped. Still, the rest of the tapas Ciaran and I had last Tuesday was delicious. As an Italian, anywhere that gives you a complimentary pot of olives upon arrival has a place reserved in my heart. We went to a local tapas bar and the service was great! We ended up sharing our table with a quirky hippy couple who didn't have anywhere to sit (it's a tiny place) but I happily agreed to let them sit at our table while the Cassidy and I chatted about different countries and where we'd each like to travel (Venice, plz). I wanna go again, just thinking about it is making me hungry.

K x

Sunday, 20 July 2014

The Breakfast Club: Poached Eggs and Rocket

Sometimes a bowl of museli just doesn't cut it in the mornings. Yes, raspberries are fruit of the gods and yes, they make my cereal Instagram worthy but a few times a week I wake up in the mood for something a little more savoury.
A little like a brother of Eggs Benedicts, I whipped up this poached egg, rocket and chutney combo on a sliced Subway-style roll. Was it delicious? Yep. And no doubt it had a hell of a lot less sugars too (you have to be careful with some of the museli knocking around...)
Give it a try, see what you think.
K x

Thursday, 17 July 2014

Something To Tell My 5 Year Old Self


As a child, there were a few things that left me confused. Firstly, I wondered why my mum wouldn’t let me dye my hair bright purple like the lady I’d seen in the playground. (I was five years old, for goodness sake – clearly old enough to make my own decisions about my hair colour and certainly old enough to decide whether we bleached my locks or not).

Secondly, why my older brother and my dad would spend almost two hours in front of the television watching men in shorts kicking a ball. They could have been making castles out of toilet roll tubes decorated in feathers like I was (fun, right?) but instead they insisted on shouting at football players and referees who couldn’t hear them. I was told “football is a big deal” but it just didn’t make sense. How could football be a big deal? This pondering carried on for a while and during the 2010 world cup, sixteen year old Kerry (who now had the playground-lady-inspired bright purple hair) still didn’t really understand football.

But purple hair now long gone, this year I decided to watch as many games of the World Cup as possible. All the fuss must be over something, right? The England games turned out to be quite a nerve wracking experience – hello pre-kickoff jitters- and when England were knocked out I was so disappointed that I spent the rest of the evening in a bad mood. 
No I don’t want a muffin, our team is out of the World Cup, leave me alone to grieve.
All wasn’t lost though, as I still had Italy to support (half Italian and all that). I could remember Italy winning one year (my dad was chuffed), which meant they must be a fairly good team – or at least a little bit better than England...

So I carried on with the Italy games, and found myself more and more emotionally invested in this funny game of kicking a ball into a net and getting paid millions to do it.
When Italy were knocked out, I was inconsolable. I had no-one else left: like your cat dying the week after you buried your dog. Since Uruguay’s front man, Suarez, bit an Italian player, I instinctively supported whoever was against Uruguay, and when they went head to head with Columbia, something strange happened. 

I found myself shouting at the men on the other side of the world. 

Then I stopped. And I realised that if five year old Kerry were to walk in now, I would simply have to shrug and tell her “football is kind of a big deal”.

K x
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