This Week in Food Porn: Milk, Cookies, and Quail

Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon, just when you thought a chance has passed, we go and save the best til—well, Saturday. That’s when we bring you—the busy working champions of the world—a thumb-saving scrolltopia of the most delicious dinners, dishes, and desserts to be uploaded to Instagram this week.

You know Instagram: the porn-friendly filter App that allows you to send photos of yourself halfway through a spinning glass looking like a something from a Young MC video, rather than the sweaty, glistening, Roald Dahl character you really are.

It also goes great with food. So, enjoy this week’s selection. And if you don’t like it—well, sashimi.

Because I don’t tend to have sex under a set of mirrored ceiling tiles, I’ve never been totally sure how I look mid-way through the throws of passion. I’ve never really seen my “O face.” I’ve never been too sure if you can spot the bits I missed with a razor. I’ve always wondered what gravity actually does when you’re at that angle. Well, now I know.

It’s nice to see that Caravaggio is alive and well and, in fact, living in Hackney, dicking about with egg whites and the odd soft fruit. Shame he hasn’t got hold of an iron yet though, poor lad.

It says quite a lot about my level of domestic capability that I thought that was a typewriter up in the top left hand corner, surrounded by Scrabble tiles and an egg. Still, if Martha ever needs someone to help her wipe up all that messy flour, I’m more than happy to help.

The day I eat a breakfast that’s under 500 calories is the day you might as well just take me away to be shot. If that breakfast is a cold “spinach and egg pot” sold out of a metal cage on the way out of a train station, then don’t waste the bullets: I’m already dead inside.

If you turn your head a little to the side and squint, this is actually a pretty good rendition of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” enacted entirely in meat.

If ever there were a flatulence diagram to illustrate the ratio of hydrogen sulfide to methane this, my friends, would be it. If ever I were to design a two-colour national flag to celebrate a horizontal veg bloat this, my friends, would be it. If ever I were to get a Scout badge for blowing up the paraffin heater with my own arse this, my friends, would be it.

Deep fry the world and sprinkle it with spices. Plunge me in a bubbling pool of fat. Make me crisp and call it Spring (onion time.)

Poor Sebastien. His light shone so bright. He brought us such joy. He had such an intrinsic understanding of Caribbean culture and he put up with that fucking bore Ariel for so much longer than we ever could.

Soft, earthy, and melting may well be the way I describe the contents of a catacomb but, for Uncle Nigel, these are the corners of the perfect triangle of aubergine, yogurt, and cucumber. And if you dare make a joke about crying over spilt milk I shall personally shave off your eyebrows.

OK, that’s it. That. Is. It.