Well, break my pig knuckle and call me a bon vivant, because lads: it’s eating time. That’s right—the shelves are ripe with the freshest ingredients, I’ve managed to hold type-2 diabetes at bay for another week and the internet is positively heaving with delicious dinner ideas, all there at the swipe of a thumb.

So, allow us to walk you through the aisles of the very best food photography posted to Instagram this week. Like a dinner lady gone rogue.

The amazing thing about eating a diet made up entirely of fried starch, phosphoric acid, high fructose corn syrup, and palm oil is that it actually makes you very—and I mean very—sexy.

Oh yes, you read that correctly: wolf’s milk. As in wolf. Milk. Somebody slid under the fur-tipped teats of a blood-tongued, flesh-toothed wolf and gently squeezed her tits, just so someone, somewhere, could boil up a bit of fish and serve it in a bowl covered in what looks like pine needles. What a wonderful world.

I feel like I’m looking at a mood board for a successful romance novelist’s 43rd virginity party over here. My fillings have started to fizz. Is that the bird from Twitter humping a cup? And, I mean, come on lady, we all like symbolism but an actual rose? Why not just make a hymen out of crystallised sugar and get straight to the point.

Nothing says fiesta like a meat-free, pink-stained beta vulgaris egg. Especially when it’s appears to be floating up my grandmother’s old wallpaper like a sulphuric asteroid.

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill shall come against him.

At my mother’s all-girls boarding school in North Wales—a festival of long knickers and talcum powdered armpits, overlooked by the local mental health hospital—the kitchen served up a truly arresting collection of puddings. They were called things like “Dead Man’s Leg” and “Mixed Bathing.” God alone knows what would have happened to their podgy limbs and tender hearts if someone had served up an actual, ejaculating, chocolate pudding. Premature death, I imagine.

I once ate so many grapes I gave myself thrush. Fact.

I’ll be honest, when I think of “pretty food,” I generally don’t picture four lacerated penises and a square of Victoria sponge. But then again, I also don’t think to coat my dinner with a thin layer of bitumen and serve it up on a prison tray so, hey, what do I know?

As a child of the 90s—much like the Hemsleys themselves—chicken Kievs will always be accompanied in my mind by Golden Grahams, Findus Crispy Pancakes, Pop-Tarts, Gino Ginelli mint choc chip ice cream, and Lion bars. And that’s just peachy.

I don’t know about you, but I always like to start my day with a bowl full of frogspawn and bits of broken shell, eaten off an anatomical drawing of a cricket. I like to mix things up with the odd seasonal twig and scattering of petals. Or, on special occasions, a diagramatic representation of the mating rituals of cockroaches. Delicious.