I’m not ashamed to admit that my whole personality basically revolves around food but my Achilles heel when it comes to this deep passion of mine is the temperature at which food is served. Food must be PIPING hot.
My favourite Chinese restaurant has the right idea serving most of their dishes on sizzling plates, so the dish retains its heat for a lot longer. Side note: nothing irks me more than people who say pizza is better cold.
Food that is meant to be eaten hot is “never” better cold but for me (as with most things) it goes to another level. If a meal that is meant to be eaten hot is served to me not very hot, or God forbid warm, my whole day is likely to be ruined.
When I announced my pregnancy last year, I vividly remember my friend Nick, who had been subjected to my food-temperature rants on many occasions, telling me to say goodbye to ever having a hot meal again.
I remember questioning him, finger-in-the-chest, demanding an explanation.
He said: “When the baby needs you, the baby needs you. Your spaghetti will just have to wait and, yes, potentially get cold”.
That training kicks into gear and I get that bowl of food down faster than Usain winning the 100.
Jess Frachione
I remember making things very personal very fast and quipped back: “Well you’re just dumb. I’m just going to wait until the baby goes to sleep and then eat in peace.”
Nick just chuckled (a father of twins, mind you) and wished me good luck.
Now I have a four-month-old daughter and, lo and behold, I know why Nick wished me luck (and why he chuckled).
Lucia could be fast asleep in a darkened room, white noise machine on high, deep in what appears be a very peaceful slumber.
I will plate up my caramelised shallot pasta that takes an agonising amount of time to cook and bring the first forkful up to my mouth only to be met with an earth-shattering cry.
As Nick warned, “When the baby needs you, the baby needs you”.
My only saving grace is my 32 years of training in inhaling food.
For years I’ve suffered with reflux and indigestion from gobbling down my meals way too fast much to the disgust of my mother and dinner dates alike.
So, once I settle the sweet angel baby, that training kicks into gear and I get that bowl of food down faster than Usain Bolt winning the 100m.
Dealing with indigestion is more appealing than a cold dinner in my book.
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