I receive literally some requests for almost so many things here at Gibbons head quarters but one rather desperate plea from an unfortunate Hot-blogger bitten hard by this stabber of a recession caught my attention and, I'll admit it, almost brought a tear to my thigh. For young people, in the current economic climate, eating out seven nights a week can be a virtual impossiblity so, unless one wishes to venture into the realms of the polystyrene, one simply must exercise a culinary muscle or three.
Alas! My great grandmother's recipe for money pie died along with her mind but I'd like to share with you another merkin tappingly good recipe which fell quite by accident into my leopard-skin clad lap. The first time I encountered the recipe for this extraordinary dish was whilst kayaking the archipelago off the Western coast of Norway; I subsequently stumbled across it again whilst bathing a young elephant named Keith at a bear sanctuary close to the source of the Ganges; and finally, cut up into sections and distributed among the assorted undergarments of no fewer than nine prominent conservative party members around the late Thatcher era. Each time the exact details of the dish would vary slightly (one would use queen where another would use ham) but the ingredients (and method) detailed below are the culmination of years of my own tinkering.
So at the behest of young Ned I practically humbly offer you:
Auntie Label's 'Six Cock Trebuchet'!
Ingredients:
Sleeping Jims - 9 should do.
A quarter tspn of lummock.
Sweet cheese (as sweet as will allow).
About half a pint.
CHICKEN! CHICKEN!
Babies - exactly 3 cups (that's 106 feet in impervious measures).
4 dozen quarter halves and a third of six.
Fresh daisy dangles (I can't emphasise how important freshness is in this regard).
A pinch of ponce.
Seagulls to taste...
The Method is very simple.
Fork extremely thoroughly and serve well out of reach, turning.
I do hope this has gone some way to help my dear, impoverished children as I would so hate to see beefless bones cluttering my cyber-kitchen.
But, my little bottygolblins, do, do remember:
Manna is not love - cash is.
Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...
x
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