There's nothing quite like having a meal created by a man you love.
The Brit loves to cook. (How fucking lucky am I?)
He can't wait to deck out our kitchen with Creuset frying pans and fancy things like pestle and mortars, and a colander that doesn't look like Jason's mask out of Friday The 13th.*
The Brit has ensured that I know one British dish from the next. Over the last 10 months, he's made Toad In The Hole, a few Sunday Roasts of varying meats, Beef Wellington.
Last night he made a pasta carbonara. Watching him whisk things, sprinkle things, sieve things, mix things, while poring over a hot stove, fills me with instant love and horniness.
I mean, the man has Jamie Oliver and Nigella's recipes bookmarked on his phone.
And I was one lucky lady to be eating pasta over a glass of pinot grigio in the garden last night with my hot little chef.**
*The manky digs one does.
** In case you're wondering, I do the washing up. And I actually like it.
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