Cooking With Anna J #2


I’m not in the best of moods today, nor was I yesterday. After making the grand declaration about a month ago that ‘I was never EVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER dieting again’,   I decided to step on the scales to see if there was any damage. I already knew things were a bit off. Once the initial excitement of being able to eat whatever the hell I wanted for the first time in 40+ years, life then quickly disintegrated into

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I could feel myself getting heavier. Energy levels dropping. Mobility dropping. My face started to feel puffier and just kind of

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I’ve had to admit defeat and get back with the programme. Being the Princess-Fad that I am, I’ll be lucky if I make it past the weekend. I’ve got the sticking power of sellotape that’s been left in a moist and dusty atmosphere. I know there are some incredible women out there, breaking down barriers and squishing fat-shamers; I take my hat off to them. I support their cause and mission whole-heartedly. But for me, being this over weight is just horrid. I hate it. I don’t fit my skin … or rather my skin doesn’t fit  me. I don’t recognise the person I see in the mirror, so, here we go again.

I’ve jumped back on the Ketogenic waggon. Having tried everything else in my many years, it is the only thing that has any impact on me. And the only one that doesn’t leave me ready to eat my own arm although that adaption period can be somewhat ‘testing’.

Yesterday was actually fine. I expected the worst ( ravenously hungry as my brain started screaming out for glucose) but it was fine. I planned my meals,drank freakin’ gallons of water and got through the day without too much drama. Today I’m hoping  for the same. I’ve currently got some cauliflower cheese crusts in the oven. No clue how well they are going to turn out. I did my usual trick – looked at the instructions then ignored the instructions. If anyone wants a go:-


  1. Take one head of cauliflower. Grate or chop super fine in a food processor.
  2. First, create dish with raw cauliflower.
  3. Go back and read instructions, realise it should have been cooked. Microwave if you have a microwave, if not put into boiling water and murder it until it reaches a consistency of ‘meh, that should do’.
  4. Totally ignore instructions about squeezing out as much moisture as possible from the cooked cauli and plough on ahead.
  5. Place cauli mush in a bowl and add a cup or two of mozzarella cheese ( grated, obviously!).
  6. Add one egg.
  7. Mix
  8. Attempt to scoop up liquidy mess whilst swearing profusely and wondering what the hell you did wrong.
  9. Read instructions again and go back to #4. Repeat entire process again. This time squeezing.
  10. Preheat oven to  ‘hot as hell’ because you don’t have enough patience to cook it properly. Check intermittently ( as and when you remember basically) and turn down once the edges resemble charcoal.
  11. Pray
  12. Wander off and start blogging on the internet. Forget everything you’ve been doing.
  13. Suddenly wonder what on earth that burning smell is, and run screeching to the oven. Whip out Cheesy Cauli Crusts, preferably using the end of  the oven glove that does not have the gaping big hole in it.
  14. Remove from the non-stick pan ( oh how I am  laughing … and they are still stuck in the none stick pan).

Et voila.


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Yeah, I know ….

And here is what they should have looked like.


Photo credits to The Iron You, where you can go and learn how to do them properly!

I’m going off to eat my burnt  cheesey lumps now.

Have a great one.

Anna J xXx


I’m too old for this …

I’m too old for this …

“It’s your birthday soon,” they said. “Let’s have a girls night in and make it an early celebration,” they said.

And so we did.

And then wine happened.

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There was something in the middle that involved roasted vegetables,a birthday cake being licked by a vegan, hummus and putting the world to rights …

And then morning


And the moral of this story is (at nearly 45 years old) JUST FUCKING DON’T!!

I shall mostly be hanging for what remains of my weekend.

Hanging. And moaning.

A lot.

Feel free to send recovery / early birthday gifts of money, diamonds, fast cars, and pizza.

Mostly pizza.

Lots of love

Anna (piss head) J    *hic*


The Morning After The Night Before. ( The Indian Chronicles.)

I don’t have many words to share with you this morning, but I felt it only polite to follow up on yesterday’s blog. I shall do this using the medium of giphys.

So first this happened ….

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This of course, is an actual photo of me and is pretty much how I both look, and start all my mornings. Flower changes depending on seasonal availability. Prince changes depending on kidnapping availability.

All was good in the world as I set to, commencing what was to be a glorious day.

Time for morning ablutions.

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I obviously don’t get paid to poop. There are many things I am happy to do for money but pooping isn’t one of them. Nor is making my own giphys.


And then this happened.

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At first, I thought the rumblings were some kind of earth movement,but I soon realised that my soul was trying to remove itself from my body.


It got messy.

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I googled quickly whilst loo-bound … ‘upset tummy after eating Indian food’ … 

The news wasn’t good. It looks like I could be here for the foreseeable future. ‘Here‘, being on the loo. Still. My legs went numb about 30 minutes ago and I can no longer feel my face.

Please send gifts and donations. Money and diamonds are renown for their healing properties.

Until tomorrow. If I make it.

Anna J xxx


Cooking With Anna J

We’ve all got one of those friends on Facebook. The one who casually whips up food porn for their meals and then posts photos. I’ve got one and he’s called Mr. P.  Him and his lovely wife Mrs. P ( who always reminds me of a beautiful exotic Asian Helena Bonham Carter) have  been responsible for my screen-licking activities on many occasions. Today I was blessed with a visit from them. Our meet-ups are always far and few between. Work, commitments, life etc. gets in the way, but the time I do get with them is always a joy for which I am grateful. No matter how our conversations begin, they follow a road that always leads back to food – and what a great place to end up! The by-product of this, is me, without fail, being left , after they’ve departed, with cravings that only a telephone call to the local Indian restaurant can cure, especially as my cookery skills don’t stretch out much further than oven chips and fish fingers.


As I was feeling in such a good mood this evening, the sun was shining in through the French windows, the birds were singing and life felt generally good, I thought I’d be brave and try something new off the menu. It’s so important that we step out of our comfort zones whenever we can. I’m generally not a huge fan of Indian food. If I’m honest it scares me a bit because I don’t know what things are, or what is in them, but after a couple of hours talking about it, it was a bullet that had to be bitten.

I closed my eyes, pointed my finger and trusted in the Goddess of Lovely Food.

Jhinga Satay!

 I made the call. Placed the order. And twenty minutes later – Bish Bash Bosh. ( Don’t you just love living in the 21st century? )

It was with much excitement that I plated up and took my first couple of mouthfuls. Spicy but delicious. So delicious  in fact that I set to on Our Lord God Google to see if I could find the recipe. It took me a few minutes to track it down on a cookery site, mainly because I was also still filling my face … which was starting to feel a tad warmer …

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By the time I got to copying the ingredients down, although still with no regrets, I had officially concluded that this probably wasn’t a ‘novice curry’; but being the brave and courageous soul that I am, I ploughed on.

So if anyone wants to try this recipe at home, here are the ingredients.

I have made some slight adjustments using what little culinary knowledge I have, to ensure that the version I am sharing is as authentic as possible and also accounts for the build up of heat I experienced by the end of eating.



1 lb – tiger prawns. Peeled if desired.

2 cups – Fresh volcanic lava. ( If you can’t get fresh, dried is acceptable however it should be widely available when in season.)

3 cups – Breath of a dragon ( flaming) If you can’t find this in your local store, we recommend checking out your local farmer market.

1/4 lb of the sun. It essential that you use a lump of the core. We’ve tried outer layers and it simply doesn’t burn through your oesophagus

Mixed chopped salad for dressing.

And apparently some sort of Asian plum sauce


Fry off the tiger prawns and arrange on plate. Don’t worry about presentation too much. In five minutes your sauce will have melted the crockery anyway.

Mix all the ‘spices’ together ( we recommend wearing protective equipment whilst doing so. Safety, Safety, Safety! That’s the motto in the Anna J kitchen.) 

You can either pour the mix directly from the bowl, over your seafood, or simply hold the bowl above the prawns and wait for it to corrode through and drop down anyway.

Arrange salad as desired.

Put the Asian plum sauce back in the cupboard and save for another time because I have no clue when it’s supposed to be used.

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And there we have it. My new favourite Indian dish. Next week I shall be blogging about my visit to the plastic surgeon to have my princess-mouth rebuilt.It seems I have taste buds that are grown from fairy wings and dew drops. And the next time I decide to get all brave with things I have absolutely no knowledge of, I shall ensure I have an expert to hand. And probably a fireman. And a plastic surgeon.

Enjoy xx Anna J xx

Single Mom Discovers New ‘Strongest Substance Known to Man’.


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Up until today, according to Our Lord God The Google and Michio Kaku, the strongest substance known to man was something called Graphene. In the description is says

“Think of like Saran Wrap made out of one-molecule-thick carbon atoms.  That graphene is so strong in principle you can take an elephant, put the elephant on a pencil, suspend the pencil on graphene and graphene will not break.  That is how strong it is.  It is the strongest material known to science at the present time.”

Now I’m not a woman of science. Nor am I one to blow my own trumpet in particular, however, I think on this occasion I would be excused a moment or two in the limelight. And I think the scientific community would excuse my temporary big headedness when I declare, with confidence, that Graphene bloody well isn’t the strongest substance known to man. It is, in fact, what ever the hell is on the inside of the three-week old bowl that I found in my son’s bedroom today. The ‘what ever the hell it is’ that he ( of course) denied all knowledge of.

<Cue innocent and mildly surprised look from tween>

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As well as it’s apparent strength, one has to assume that there is some kind of quantum physics / molecular fusion that has  gone on because quite frankly that is the only explanation to how, what used to be #Kellogs #CrunchyNutCornflakes, could have become quite so well attatched to my porcelain.

We would have attempted the elephant experiment as described by Google however, in the absence of an elephant, we only had Fetish-Dog and she refused to co-operate. She also chewed up most of the pencils we own, many weeks ago. Instead, we devised our own tests. Despite putting it through many process in the ‘Anna J Domestic Laboratory’, including sand blasting, acid erosion, small nucleur bomb, hammer and chisel, swearing at it very loudly etc. I have been unable to break it down either physically or emotionally. Sadly, it appears to have had the reverse effect on me and I’ve now reached Pinot Grigio point of desperation.

I’m praying there will be no regeneration or breeding from what ever it is during the night, but in all honesty, things aren’t looking great. Next stop is NASA Research Dept … followed by Argos. To buy some new bowls.

I’ve Got This Dog That Steals Pants …


(Artwork provided by Kk  Instagram: of_art_and_science/  Aluria Arts ) 


To be fair, it’s not the only thing she steals, but pants are her favourite. She’s not fussy whose pants they are (as can be verified by a few guests who have stayed at Chez-Annas). She hasn’t singled mine out due to any dubious or questionable hygiene habits ( or lack of them). She just likes pants. Fresh out of the drawer, or fresh off ya bum. Either / or. She also has a penchant for cucumbers and will steal those too given the opportunity. (I know right? The whole thing is quite questionable). You wouldn’t think it was a circumstance that arose, but in our house it does, because I also have a child (The Colonel) that nicks cucumbers. Whole ones at a time. Because I once said, many moons ago, that I didn’t mind him helping himself to healthy nibbles out of the fridge.

And so he does.

A few nights ago he took one and stashed it somewhere in his bedroom for later. No, I have no clue why. As far as I am aware there was no impending national shortage of cucumbers and nor had we reached such a dire state of financial destitution that we wouldn’t be able to purchase any in the near future either. Whatever his reasoning, the cucumber ended up at eye level. Fetish-Dog eye level (who I should add only weighs 3kg and is not much bigger than the average roasted peanut). Fetish-Dog didn’t waste a second. She promptly whipped it out from its hiding place and scarpered across the landing at a hundred dog-miles an hour. Tail and ears flattened to enhance her aerodynamics. Straight under my bed. Bearing in mind that the cucumber was about the same length as her, it was quite a sight to behold.  I’d like to pretend I was shocked and stunned at the antics, but the reality was that I barely raised an eyebrow. However, it was more entertaining than the writing project I was sat trying to complete at the time.  In traditional fashion, I rolled my eyes and then flipped over the edge of the mattress for a front seat view of the ensuing hoo-har. Just in time to feel the breeze coming off my second born (the victim in this scenario) as he also arrived at the scene. Horizontally. A bit like superman, but with less grace and more spots.

There was initially a bit of a standoff. Fetish-Dog buried her salad-treasure under the nest of stolen pants (that’s where they’ve all been disappearing to!!) in a bid to frighten the enemy, and for a moment or two, it worked. The Colonel looked at the pants, looked back at the dog, looked at the cucumber and weighed up the odds of survival. He gave me a fleeting glance, a thumbs up and told me he was going in.

I gave him a thumbs up back … because I’m a supportive parent like that …

What happened next was a little more than a heated debate. He argued his case well. She argued hers better, and in typical female fashion, chose to ignore him completely and do whatever the hell she wanted anyway; dragging the cucumber and the pants even further back into No Mans Land. I think it would be a just assessment to say that The Colonel lost … both the cucumber and his dignity. And I also think it would be fair to say that I shall be needing to take a trip to M & S very soon in order to stock up on supplies. Of pants. Not cucumbers.

We are going to stick to purchasing lettuce for a wee while.






Bacon Butty. Red? Brown? Discuss.


It’s a debate that has been going on since the beginning of time, or at least since the invention of red sauce and brown sauce. The core of the campaign ( I think it would be fair to say), sits in the UK. I’m yet to discover another place that is so passionate about its bacon butty. Nor am I yet to discover another place that does them quite so well. And yet even with this accolade, as a nation, we are unable to agree on what actually creates and defines the perfect butty.

This isn’t just a battle of two sides.

The camps are many. Mass-produced white bread or rugged fresh artisan? Sliced bread or rolls? Butter or no butter? Toasted or not toasted? Additions ( egg / cheese etc) or no additions. Smoked bacon or unsmoked? Fried or grilled? Red sauce or brown sauce or no sauce? And then, of course, there are all the combinations in between.

So why am I bringing this age-old issue up? You may well ask.

Because. I. Changed. Camps!!

I have no clue what happened! Or why it happened! Little did I know, as I was preparing breakfast yesterday, that by the end of that first mouthful, life would never be the same again! A red girl for my entire 45 years, I took that bite and something was wrong. I checked the bread.The bacon. The butter. All was as it should be, and yet my taste buds were disagreeing. I looked on with horror as my youngest, The Colonel, grabbed the brown sauce from the cupboard and suggested I give it a whirl instead. I was still mentally scarred from previous occasions in years gone by when I’d picked up the wrong butty by accident, and copped a mouthful of the stuff. It had been vile, and yet there I was. Contemplating shifting my flag from one loyalty to another.

My spot was hit. 

It was with pure self-disapproval and reluctance that I remade the sandwich, replacing the ketchup with some of ‘that stuff’. But I can not tell a lie. I don’t know what had happened to my brain during the night; what witchcraft took place; what alien probing went on, but something did. And I’m a convert. I saw the light / became a traitor ( depending on the stance you are reading this from).

I’m a brown sauce girl!

Apologies to the red team. You had me for a long while, but now I must spread my love elsewhere. The perfect bacon butty is now officially made with the brown stuff. With fried bacon. Buttered bread. Which must be griddled in the remains of the bacon juices in the pan. And the bread has to be good ol’ fashioned bought, white, sliced – cotton wool bread as we call it in our house because that’s the closest thing to its taste, texture and nutritional value. And there must never be any other ‘additions’. Never. Ever.

The only other requirement, the piece de resistance, is a mug of Yorkshire tea that’s big enough to swim across.

Breakfast Heaven.

All other combinations and offerings of this great tradition are, or course, wrong.

Next week’s debate: Daddies or HP?