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I dropped in to visit my sister last night, and while I was there I copied a couple of recipes out of her new cookbook, which according to her has mysterious, magical powers to grant untold deliciousness on ordinary ingredients. On my way home I did some grocery shopping, then made Italian Chicken Breasts (chicken slathered with pesto and parmesan and wrapped in prosciutto, then baked), followed by Tiramisu (cream and marscapone whipped together, layered with sponge biscuits soaked in Tia Maria and espresso).

Both were rather successful. The tiramisu recipe made a lot of tiramisu - I halved the ingredients but there was still enough for eight or nine serves - so I invited some Suburb Buddies over for a late night snack. Their delighted reaction to the dish was gratifying, and yet a little perturbing. It was almost as if they doubted my story, unable to process the idea that an ordinary doofus like me could make tiramisu in a suburban kitchen without the intervention of some sort of hidden celebrity chef. They kept looking at me suspiciously, as if I'd played a trick on them. I think they half-expected Delia Smith to suddenly leap out from behind the refrigerator and shout "A-ha! Fooled you!"