Ghetto dinner

My favourite moment last week was at about 9p.m. Wednesday. I had two Australian friends staying, friends I'd made in Italy, who are on their way to start their own Life from Scratch adventure in Scotland. My brother and his fella were at home. I'd just picked up our weekly order of organic veg from the city farm down the road, and so we had to use up all the old veg to make room for the new stuff. I call throwing together a meal with whatever is in the fridge ghetto dinner. 



Ghetto dinner is so much better with a full house.



We roasted leeks and mushrooms and potatoes and mashed up carrots and swedes and drizzled quinoa in oil and lime; we lugged the kitchen table into the living room and found make-shift chairs that were wonky and too small and we sat on them anyway; we lit a few candles and opened multiple cans of cider. We told stories, and laughed, and watched the clock turn past midnight into another unknown day.



It was impromptu, unplanned, and exactly what I imagined my London life would look like back when I allowed myself to wonder.

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