I didn't sleep much last night. It's the excitement. Sometime today, the delivery men from Currys (who, if they are anything like their in-store counterparts, will be nice but stink of fags) are coming. They will bring with them my ticket to culinary freedom. I cannot wait.
I've long been equipped with pestle and mortar, good knives and the best plug-in items that messrs Kenwood and Magimix can provide. But, since leaving home for Manchester in the late nineties, I have never had access to a proper freezer. Those crappy ice-making drawers at the top of normal fridges have been my lot in life; the one we have now is capable of keeping a tub of Cherry Garcia frozen yoghurt solid for about 36 hours, which creates occasional, intense bouts of ice cream frenzy, followed by long fallow periods.
The decidedly mid-range fridge freezer we chose at the weekend is ostensibly because of the baby. I'll be able to freeze little cubes of carrot puree, refrigerate his milk, and get to things without bending down because, well, I can't. There's also a theory that women should spend their maternity leave cooking, labelling and freezing big batches of nutritious meals for the weeks after birth, because otherwise they will end up living on Cheestrings and their beloveds will leave them.
That's all very well, but at the moment I can only see frozen fun and frolics. An ice-frosted bottle of gin with ice cubes rattling alongside. Chicken bones frozen until there's enough to make stock, rather than chucked heartlessly away. Blackberries picked down near the Priory. Blobs of biscuit dough ready to bake at will. Orange sorbet frozen in the hollowed-out shells for when my sister comes round and we remember holidays in France. Ice cream that can be eaten, rather than drunk, after two days at Hale and Hearty towers! Excuse me. I've just got to look out of the window and see if the men from Currys are coming.