Yorkshire Pudding

The pinnacle of achievement in a British person's life is to effortlessly whip up the divine Yorkshire Pud!! And no, my stateside friends, it is not a glorified popover, it is the slightly crisp, lightly chewy, born from British beef fat, glorious high rise consummate maiden to the Beef Rump Roast!!

Shortly, I will go in my kitchen and perform the magic! If it is a success, and I can summon the technical prowess, I will post a picture. If not, you will never have to suffer through the YP diatribe again!

After another good nosh up on NYD, we go back to relative normality. The cold hard winter sets in, without the relief of twinkling lights or flickering candles. The log fire that burned brightly seems a little tamed; the wind that previously whistled, now howls. "Time for the Caribbean!" we yell as one.

The let down after the holidays is palpable. A couple of days out we even doubt whether it is worth having the holidays at all when we feel so disappointed it is over. The upside? There is tennis to play! The Australian Open is coming and that means warm sunshine, at least on the telly! Plus, this is the year of your greatest tennis ever, when you will not be beset by those mental demons, and even the club coaches will watch, mouths agape, as you wail and volley and drop shot your way to complete dominance!

Also, what about those resolutions? Not eat fewer carbs: the determination to finally understand what the blockchain is, and how the hell does a bitcoin get mined by a computer solving your math homework?

I tried to explain this process to my incredulous dad. He's smart but he's pre-historic. As I drew a grand picture of banks of computers humming through complex Einstein defying problems, solving them and earning a block of bitcoin, his head tilted and he gave Leda (the dog) a reassuring scratch under the chin. Pleased with my explanation, I waited for his reaction.

"You have no idea what you are talking about, do you?" he said.

"Nope!"