Baby Frank doesn't mean to be demanding, but his needs are such that it's a very long time since we've been able to commit our culinary misdeeds to blogpaper.
We've done the crimes (Dan Lepard's whoopie pies, a black tie dinner halfway up a mountain, fun with Heston'n'Delia and much, much more) but appear to have lost the time down the back of the nappy drawer.
Anyway, I can just about remember the last proper roast we had in our old house (we've moved a couple of streets over, but we're keeping it Hale) and it was a corker.
Despite a lack of sunlight in the old yard, Mum has very kindly persisted in potting up herbs for us, and the ones which have survived made their way into the classic buttery Ballymaloe herb stuffing which, although supposed to be for turkey, works wonders on supermarket pork (don't shoot me, it's outdoor reared).
Tim cut slits into a bit of boned leg, applied plenty of the stuffing (herbs, white breadcrumbs and onions fried in lots of butter), rolled it up, trussed with string and bunged it in the oven.
A couple of hours later, we enjoyed it between the piercing cries of the new and totally fabulous junior Bowden.
Mind you, we should have taken the string off first.