Although strictly speaking I am too tired to write a blog posting this evening, I am exercising myself in 'avoiding Nigel Slater'. I am too tired to change the channels, or rather to experience the other unpalatable offerings that are broadcast at this time on a Friday evening.
A while ago there was a dramatisation of his semi-autobiographical novel on TV. The boy Nige came across as an awful snob who was ashamed that his natural mother couldn't cook (hence the book's name 'Toast') and even more ashamed of his stepmother. I haven't been able to read any of his recipes since, without imagining scenes from the dramatisation and cringing.
Before I got wise to my own problem, I used to cook huge vats of soup made from leftover vegetables and leave them on the side in the kitchen. I would take the lid off the pot before heating it up, sniff it, and think 'compost heap', and then of course, throw it away.
Quite a lot of Slater's recipes inspire me to the same reaction. I watch with a sinking heart as he adds just one ingredient too many to the mix, and then with a lot of 'hmmm'-ing, tucks into a different coloured compost heap each week.