This piece was originally written for my monthly Taste of Terroir column, an excuse for me to talk about geology and geography, for Glug magazine in 2023. To sign up for their excellent wine club, visit their website.
Fifteen million years ago—give or take—Hungary was a world of roiling lava lakes and plumes of ash-heavy clouds, a land where the thin firmament between the living earth and the unworldy molten chaos below was fissured. The separation between the searing hot makings of a planet and the thriving ecosystems of the Miocene era was almost non-existent. At any point, ash would rain down, lava could flow. From this uncertain period, Hungary’s rich volcanic soils were created. Even now, hot thermal springs and mineral water sources all over the country show off the seismic activity happening underneath the peaks of the now bucolically-extinct volcanoes.
The wine region of Somló, in the northern part of Lake Balaton, is actually one single volcano, protruding out of the flat countryside as a blackened, forested hill, craggy and imposing. At over 400m elevation, the hill provides steep slopes for vines to grow on, but more importantly is the black soil made from basalt—rock formed from those lava flows that would have once coloured Somló all the colours of fire. Now, millions of years after its extinction, Somlós lava gives the wines made all over its 800ish hectare region a stunning and unique minerality—colours of a different kind.
In Badacsony, the iconic hills that strike odd shapes against the sky are also the remains of lava-filled craters, covered up by ash and soil over millennia, which then eroded leaving the hardy basalt behind. There was once a vast lake here called the Pannonian Sea, and it was this shallow, marshy body of water that cooled the lava quickly, forming basalt soils all around the region.
Grapes were once grown here for the Hapsburg empire, and were deemed classier and more potent than Tokai. Now, after decades of decline in interest, winemakers are returning to the slopes to make wines with indigenous Hungarian grapes in traditional styles, rekindling a love for wine that reaches deep into the heart of the Hungarian landscape.
Bright, cheerful celebrations in town I seem to always forget about. Not anymore.
The people of Preston love their town. They love their markets—yes, plural!—and their ever-growing vibrant food scene. They are proud of their pubs, and they are keen for you to visit them. Perhaps that’s why Preston Pub Fest was created then, not just to have a grand old pub crawl, but to entice people to visit, to get more people talking about Preston.
The thing about Preston is, I used to come here to buy school shoes as a kid, and to visit my first boyfriend at college. I don’t know what he did there, he worked at a scrapyard. I didn’t like it much. It was grey and damp, just like Lancaster, which I also didn’t like much. You don’t like many things when you’re a teenager. Maybe KFC and Richmond Superkings. So it’s taken some time for Preston’s first and second impressions to wear off, and I’ve spent my life sort-of appreciating the vibrancy of its food and drink businesses from afar—I visit my friends at Plug & Taps occasionally, I sometimes make plans to travel in for coffee and shopping and never end up doing it. It’s not the easiest place to get to for me, I always said.
I was wrong, because currently a £2 bus takes me there in under an hour. It was Tom’s idea: there was going to be a pub festival. Should we go?
As the map shows, (sorry I can’t add links, I’m using the janky web editor on my phone) fourteen pubs and bars across town were joining in, from the Victoriana-trad Black Horse to the shiny holiday vibes of Bar Pintxos. You might also want to keep hold of this map for your next visit to Preston. Wink.
Our first stop was for coffee, and we hit the jackpot at the market where we found Jonah’s. Third wave coffee even I could get on board with. The batch brew (my standard order) burst with raspberries and honey. We chatted for a while, Tom nerded out about beans, and then it was time to get to the good stuff.
After Jonah’s we stomped straight to Plug & Taps. It was already busy, and we saw familiar faces right away. I had a beer blended with Ortega grapes that was beautiful, all limes and sour sweeties, and, of course, an Augustiner Helles. I love Plug & Taps, it’s the sort of pub I’d love to run, full of smiling faces and tons of taps pouring perfect beers. We stayed much longer than we meant to catching up with Ben the Bar Manager, so our next couple of pubs were scratched off the list and we darted directly to Bar Pintxos.
Look at that classic Spanish bar. You’d believe you were in San Sebastian. The only thing missing is a leg of ham—and that’s only out of shot because delicious salty slivers of it are being shaved onto a plate for my lunch. Bar Pintxos is an approximation of a dream to me. Okay, without the beer festival extras that had been brought in, the beers offering is lager or lager (not a problem for me, just saying), but the cocktail menu had kalimotxo and tinto verano on it. Hallelujah! An Iberian place that gets it!
Our little pintxos you can see here are freshly baked Spanish bread, pork cheek, and pan con tomate. There is also a little salt cod croqueta too. All were completely delicious, and I can’t wait to go back.
After we ate our delectable morsels, Tom said someone was joining us “as a surprise”. Our secret guest shows up moments later—our mate Judson, homebrewer turned brewer, who apparently saw one of Tom’s beer photos and thought, “I want a bit of that.” We all headed off to Chainhouse Brewing Co. tap room, which for me was a first time visit. Shamefully. As I said, I always seem to find reasons not to go to Preston. Manchester is *just there*. But here is my friend’s tap room, not an hour away by bus, and I’d never been before. I’m a disgrace.
Anyway. The place was packed. We found space on a classic oktoberfest bench and drank freshly brewed NEIPAs. It was amazing to see it so busy here, a wonderful insight into how well Chainhouse has been embraced by Preston, a town I wrongly assumed was into either older pubs or Aperol spritz dispensaries. That people were willing to stand in an archway taproom just to be there speaks volumes. In Clitheroe we sometimes couldn’t get people to stay in our bar because the table by the window was taken.
Preston impressed me. I found it visibly unchanged in parts from when I was almost a toddler, with some of the shopping streets and shopping centres still rocking their 1980s/1970s signage (FAO. Ray). There were sections that felt noticeably new though, contemporary in how they were being used, like the market, which still had jumble sale tables out under a Victorian roof, but also had glass cube buildings housing The Orchard pub, Jonah’s, and many other small, independent businesses. It’s possible to walk down a shopping street and see only closed units and vape shops, but round the corner will be leafy seating areas for restaurants and bars like Bar Pintxos. Like anywhere in the north, Preston had been left to rot for a long time. But tired with this long, drawn-out fate, local entrepeneurs and business owners, creatives and makers seemed to decide, nah, I’m not having this. Preston deserves better. We deserve better. I felt a huge wave of positivity in every place we visited, held buoyant by the people crowding the bar and laughing at their tables. You might not call it a boom time for Preston, but there’s never been a better time to visit. And that’s coming from me.
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It’s a year since my bar Corto closed down. Don’t worry about it.
It’s one whole year since my bar Corto closed for good. It was such a pleasure to pursue our dreams for three years. Thank you to everyone who drank with us, ate our grilled cheeses, supported us, and came to share their beers and ciders with us. I miss our special place every day.
Set out your intentions clearly before you start. What type of bar do you want to open? What will it look like? What will its atmosphere be like? Make lots of mood boards and fill notebooks with ideas. You’ll need them in a few months when things get on top of you and you forget why you opened up in the first place.
Set aside some budget and time to create proper HR documentation, EDI provision, and plan out any and all staff training that might be needed. No bar has ever been authentically welcoming and accessible to all without putting in serious work in the background. There are industry professionals and consultants you can pay to help you do this—you don’t have to do it alone. Remember, you won’t just be serving pints, you’ll be a manager and business owner, and responsible for the welfare of your team and your customers. Take that seriously.
Flashy branding isn’t as important as you think it is. In fact, if it’s too polished, people might assume you’re a chain, and avoid you. Get some nice colour schemes together, create a logo (or pay someone talented to make one for you) and then use that for everything you make, from social media posts to merch. Marketing experts make it sound hard, but it’s not. It’s just really time consuming, which is why you probably want to pay a designer, but that’s up to you.
Decide who your customers are and pitch your business to them using social media. You can’t be everyone’s favourite bar, so figure out who you’re opening for, and talk to them directly.
Make sure you’re buying stock that other people want to buy.
Don’t be afraid of gimmicks, but make sure you’re doing the basics perfectly.
Keep your cellar and lines immaculate. Keep your glasswash immaculate too.
Put on events that bring people together. A truly successful bar is one that enables connection across different social groups.
Kick out any and all dickheads. Don’t pander to anyone who is disrespectful to your staff, to you, or to your other customers. You are in control of your environment. Remember, you might not be directly upset by someone’s aggression or language, but somebody else within earshot will assume this sort of behaviour is accepted in your bar. Do you want the dickhead to come back, or your other customers?
Give in to your silly urges. Put on a 90s pizza party for Hallowe’en. Have a skate club on a Sunday. Do a shandy tasting session. Show Eurovision and play Eurovision bingo for prizes. Get a smoke machine.
Spend time getting to know your customers. They will become your friends.
Remember that if some people hate your place, but the vast majority love it, you’re doing something right. You can’t please everyone, and nor should you.
Start off with loads of money. This is the one thing we didn’t do, and that’s why we’re not open anymore.
Come to my Oktoberfest beer tasting at The Royal Oak, Cartmel
I’m hosting a Fell Brewery Meet the Brewers event at The Royal Oak in Cartmel. What a great excuse to visit the Lake District, if you ask me.
On the panel will be Director of Sustainability Tim Bloomer, Head Brewer John Bernard Major, Lead Production Brewer Imogen Beedham and Lead Technical Brewer Scott Larrabee.
Tickets include 6 x half-pint measures of different beers as well as food parings to go with them. Think – nibble, sip, listen, nibble, sip, listen…
An evening with friends, pints and wedding chat is well worth 14 hours on a National Express bus.
The Robin in Stroud Green, near Crouch Hill, London, feels like a happy house party. I’m sitting in the window, which is all the way open to the London traffic, enjoying the last half hour or so of warm sunshine that took all day to break through heavy rainclouds. I have a pint of Five Points Pale in front of me, and rather than block out the world with my headphones, I’m enjoying the atmospheric rise and fall of conversations all around me, a real after work crowd revelling in their freedom after another day’s graft.
My Pale is light to the touch and Citra-zingy, perfect after an afternoon of studying different cider varieties. Before I know it I’m halfway done, and I have to check myself before I wreck myself. Tonight is going to be a late one. But it’s just so delicious, so perfect in this moment. Savour it, I tell myself, knowing that I can’t. I’m not a savourer. I eat in big bites, drink in big gulps. I want the best things all in one go, now. The noise in The Robin continues to grow as it fills with larger groups, and I feel as though I’m part of the action, even though I’m on my own. I watch Deliveroo scooters and e-bikes zoom towards Crouch End, and pedestrians manoeuvre their way past each other on the packed pavement—city stuff. I don’t get any of this at home.
Katie Mather’s The Gulp is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
I’m waiting for Claire to arrive. Claire is one of my oldest beer-world friends, and we try to meet up every time I’m in town, which isn’t often. This meeting is more exciting than usual—of course, I’m always excited to see her, but that’s not why I’m buzzing. I’m staying in her beautiful spare room while I’m here, so we’ve already hung out and put the world to rights. I’m watching the door because I can’t wait for her to walk through it and scream at me, arms up in the air. She’s been wedding dress shopping today.
I finish my pint, but I don’t replace it, waiting for her to arrive before I plough into another. It starts to rain in beautiful long raindrops that fall vertically like pearl drop earrings from a partially blue sky. The light is stunning, a golden hour hue tempered by deep shadows cast by the passing shower. Here she is.
Pints now replenished we—Claire, her fiancé, and I—sit at a different table away from the window and after some chattering about our days and what we’ve had to eat, Claire scrolls through the dresses she tried on today. I am married, but this is an experience I’ve never had. The idea of walking into a boutique and trying on thousands of pounds worth of lace and silk makes me a little breathless. I imagine how regal it must feel to have a seamstress pinning a gown to your form, as you turn this way and that in the perfectly lit studio to admire how the material falls on your figure. I shout at each picture: “Fuck OFF!!”, “Holy shit mamaaa!”, “YOWZA”. She’s like: I know. I know!!
A friend joins us after seeing that we were here on Instagram, and he brings even more enthusiasm to the party. There’s this one gown she looked incredible in, a waterfall of sequins, that brings tears to my eyes—he’s clapping. We love this. We cackle and finish our pints, get new ones, and look through the collection again, whooping and hollering, and discussing cuts and styles in great detail as only three-pints-in-experts can. We hug and I talk about my wedding, and our friend his, and offer our advice and recommendations. We sip Pale like we own the place, and in this moment, surrounded by imaginary diamonds and chandeliers, it’s as exquisite and refreshing as Bollinger.
A friend who loves F1 and knows I don’t get it recommended I listen to this BBC podcast from 2022 about SPYGATE and corporate espionage within the F1 teams and honestly—it’s addictive.
My Stuff
Join me for a pitching and self-editing workshop on Wednesday 23 September! Book your space now.
Katie Mather’s The Gulp is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
I needed something violent to do, and my freezer pushed my buttons.
It’s fair to say that the past few weeks have been bad ones. In-between my Granny getting sick and then dying, and then hosting her funeral, I forgot to take my medicine a few times, and had a lot of missed nights’ sleep during a busy period of work. Altogether, I haven’t been on this planet.
Usually when I’m not feeling right I cook, but I haven’t had the energy. When bad things happen to me I get angry, and that makes me tired. I do this thing, right, where instead of processing traumatic events or dealing with stress, I just fall asleep instantly to avoid them. I call it aggronapping. I’ve not looked into it too deeply. Trust me, you’d rather I was all tucked up in bed in situations like these.
I finally came out of my pit at the weekend, and yesterday, I felt like cooking. That’s a good sign. It shows the clouds are clearing. I love to cook. Even though I find myself thinking about patriarchal models of behaviour while I’m finely dicing onions, I know that in my heart, the kitchen is my safe space. I’ve got food to make, snacks to eat, wine in the fridge, and weapons, should I need them. It’s a haven.
On Mondays—and this is my top tip of the month, by the way—supermarkets often have good joints of meat in the reduced section of the fridges, because they weren’t all bought up the day before for Sunday roasts. That’s how I managed to come away with 1.5kg of pork shoulder for £4.65.
What would you do with a kilo and a half of pork shoulder? Spear it with garlic and roast it? Coat it with chipotle and paprika? Chop it into manageable pieces and freeze them?
I did what I thought was the only option open to me at the time. I made carnitas.
I did it properly too, using lard and orange juice, and a little bit of milk. I saved the savoury fat, and used it to make refried beans. A sense of satisfaction as thick as the smell of rendering pork still sits in the air around my house, 24 hours later.
It takes a long time to let carnitas cook, and I got bored. I opened the freezer door to put away some fresh chillies and saw that the annoying over-frozen patches had all joined together to create a secondary lining like a vault, covering the drawers, making it impossible to get at anything inside. Aggravating. I suppose anything can be seen as an opportunity though, and this was an unexpectedly great one—the chance to make an incredible mess, plus, the god-given right to smash some shit up. I lay some old tea towels on the floor, and got to work.
I chopped and I stabbed at the thick layers of ice with an old butter knife, frosty growths potentially years in the making shattering into homemade snow. I threw away practically every item I rescued from its wintery jaws, making a mental note to stop freezing packs of wholemeal pita bread—I will never eat them. I cut my knuckle on a sharp icicle, which only spurred me on, whacking away at the shelves to loosen up the compacted debris. By the time I was done, it was like a new appliance, all white and shiny, with no loose peas and old bags of thyme dusting up the place. I chucked the chunks of ice into the sink, mopped the floor with the tea towels, and threw them in the wash. It was like my rage was never here. Completion! Victory!
There’s nothing like tackling a doable task to get your spirits up. But in the case of my freezer, there was also extreme violence. A double whammy of self-help.
I’m running another self-editing and pitching online workshop on Wednesday the 25th of September.
Here’s what a member of the last workshop said:
“I went on the first one of these a few weeks back and it was amazing! It was super practical – Katie is very generous with her time and answers. Highly recommend.”
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Being paid to write means that I can afford to visit more places, which in turn I can then write about! It also means that I can live, which is also nice.
I’ve been travelling to the Isle of Man since I was very little, but until last month, I’d never had the pleasure of visiting Woody’s, The Woodbourne Hotel; a local pub that I’d never heard of until a friend suggested we all meet up there after the day’s racing. Or not. As it happens, this year’s Manc GP was plagued by terrible weather and unfortunate fluke incidents—a sewer burst all over the road at Union Mills, for one thing—so we had been drinking tinnies in O’Kelly’s, a private front garden on Bray Hill, waiting for delayed races to begin for most of the day.
It’s a fantastic spot. You stand in the driveway and hear the roar of engines through the radio commentary, then, half a minute later, you hear it for real. Your racers fly by one by one, inches from where you stand, bikes compressing down into the dip and then nipping over Ago’s Leap and onwards to Quarterbridge.
Once the roads opened—you can’t cross the course roads during race time for obvious reasons—we set off en masse from the front garden to The Woody. My friend Pete told me it was his favourite pub on the island, and Anna-Marie, whose garden we’d been skulking in all day, told me it had the best atmosphere of any pub anywhere. And she’d know—she works there. The walk to The Woodbourne took us through residential streets I’d never had cause to walk down before, revealing parts of Douglas I didn’t know existed. There are whole Victorian squares set back from the promenade, with pretty parks and towering beech trees. Pete made us all stop and look at one house to admire its curved glass windows.
In amongst the terraces of Victorian villas we came to The Woodbourne, a gorgeously presented red brick 19th century pub.
The tower-turret on the corner took my breath away. A castle of a pub! Could this really be the “old man pub” I was promised? I said I wanted scruffy and friendly, and was assured that this was it. The immaculate frontage told me something else.
“Get inside!”
I was too busy taking blurry photographs of the brickwork and exterior decorations to realise that everyone had gone inside already and I’d lost them to the pub. In the picture above you can see Anna-Marie coming back outside again to tell me to hurry up.
The first room on your right is a glowing surprise. The highest ceilings sit loftily over an imposing marble fireplace, a bay window table nestled perfectly into the corner turret, and a gorgeous curved bar polished to within an inch of its life. Natural light soaks the room, despite the clouds outside. Scruffy? Never. Before I can order a pint I’m called into another room by one of our growing group, and on the way out of the stunning front room I glimpse the pool room. I’m being dragged to the “Gent’s Bar”.
As deeply chestnut as you’d want it to be, the Gent’s Bar is open to all now, but the unspoken rule is that this is where the locals sit. If somebody wants their seat back, you have to give it to them. This snug in the centre of the building feels like an Edwardian train carriage, everyone packed in together amicably, its little booth seats overlooked by cartoons and paintings that know the secrets of this town, and well-used hand pulls that serve Woodbourne Street’s locals the beer they need to do some much-needed gossiping.
We weren’t staying in the Gent’s Room though. It’s too small, and we were too noisy. I was led further down the corridor to the back bar, where somehow we’d multiplied into a rowdy bunch of 12. Basic white walls and a well-stocked bar on first glance became signed photographs of TT racers and etched glass windows. It took my eyes a little time to adjust from the burnished glory of the Gent’s Room, but once I could see it for the perfect little boozer that it was, I was at home. Behind the bar, every single team member was friendly and happy to chat about anything at all. Nobody complained about our constant roars of laughter. A man I’d never met before chatted to me about how much he loves the Isle of Man Southern 100 and made me promise to visit for it next year. The pints were cheap and fresh-tasting and served in whatever glassware was to hand. This is not a criticism. Somehow on top of everything, this added to the experience. The vibes were immaculate. I never wanted to leave. Neither did Tom, which is highly unusual.
According to local historian Mark Shimmin, The Woody used to generate its own electricity in the basement back in 1895, and provided electricity to some of the surrounding neighbourhood too. This video interview with Mark and the Woodbourne’s landlord Trevor Latus was broadcast by Isle of Man TV that details more of the pub’s pretty fascinating history—and it also has footage of the pub’s original plans which are just beautiful.
And if that doesn’t encourage you to watch it, this screenshot of a newspaper article about the pub’s refurbishment might.
A monthly roundup, now available to all because I’m nice like that.
The month of August always stinks. There are far too many anniversaries of endings at this time of year, and this time around I also contended with the death of my Granny. Granny was excited by nature, and I am sorry that I’ll never again walk amongst a cacophony of flowers she planted, or be chased by ducks she fed. She was a powerful and inspirational woman. Even to the last, she cared that we all took care of each other, understanding that nobody should shoulder anything alone.
I was honoured to be able to lead her funeral service, writing for her a eulogy I imagined was more like a lifetime achievement award than a final goodbye. Her coffin—why was that word so difficult to write? It’s just a box—was decorated in gorgeous garden flowers. It was as though she was in the room. At the end of my eulogy I wrote:
One of my favourite poems, The Summer Day by Mary Oliver, ends with the lines:
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I will live it, Granny.
And I hope I can keep up that promise, because the past couple of weeks have been difficult to wade through. We’ve done it though—we’re in September now, and the leaves are changing, and the nights are colder, and there are different things to look forward to.
“That’s the magic of the hills. Not that they appear to be doing any meaningful cheeriness themselves, as clouds continue to slowly drag themselves across the valley roof and Langdale Fell broods darkly in the shadows. I think about erosion, and time. I think about the fallen boulders on the valley bottom, as old as the Ice Age. The hills widen into a perfect scoop, as wide as a village, and soon there will be no other way to go but up.”
Things I’ve Done
Working behind a bar again
This month I’ve been behind two bars, almost exactly a year since Corto closed (I told you this time of year was the worst for Bad Anniversaries.)
The first was a long shift throughout Clitheroe Food Festival on an outside bar for The Ale House, Clitheroe. It was fun, I got to see so many people I’ve not seen since we closed down our bar, and I learned that people still say the funniest things to bar staff. One lady thought it was £5 for a whole bottle of wine and refused to pay once she realised it was for a glass. My answer of “in what decade?” didn’t help the situation.
Bar work. Never change.
Took on freelance editing work
August saw me connecting with an author and beginning to work with them on editing their first memoir. It’s the first time I’ve ever worked on a book project, and I’m grateful to Martha Bullen for seeing potential in me and putting me up for the job. I’m very excited about it.
Visited the Isle of Man for the Manx GP
A flagship event in my personal calendar, I was super jazzed to be able to visit the Isle of Man again this summer, this time for the Manx GP. A much smaller event than the TT, it’s a special set of races attended by a special set of nerds. Sadly the weather was absolutely atrocious, the worst they’d seen in 20 years, and many of the races were cut down to one lap—hence why I’ve no real reports written about the trip. It was mostly rain and naps. Still, we saw the bikes go out on Bank Holiday Monday, my friend Shaun Anderson won the Classic Senior race ahead of John McGuinness, and it was important for me to be on the island just after the funeral. Granny loved the Isle of Man.
Represented Nightingale Cider at Rivington Farm Trip
Farm Trip is Rivington Brewing Co.’s annual festival held on their idyllic family farm in Rivington (believe it or not) and despite its amazing reputation, I’d never been able to attend before thanks to work. This year I was asked by Sam at Nightingale Cider to pour for him on his behalf at the festival—what a treat. The weather was perfect, the guests were super interested in cider, and we sold out before the end of the last day. What more could you want?
Things I Read
I’m reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver
To Be Alive by Gregory Orr — a poem that says everything I need to say
Bats circling my head in the woods above Robin Hood’s Bay
A bucket full of crabs in Whitby
My family all sitting in front of me while I read out a eulogy
Milky Quayle live-narrating an on-board lap of the Mountain Course
A pirate grave (or more likely, the grave of a Knight Templar)
Things I’ve Drunk
Charcoal Burner, a deliciously complex but easy to drink cider by Nightingale
Two bottles of a Lidl Sauvignon Blanc called Sunny Day
Twisted Metal, a 13% ABV Imperial Stout by Blackout Brewery, aged in Dalwhinnie Single Malt barrels
Thornbridge 90/- Amber Ale, brewed on their Burton Union kit
A very excellent cappuccino at Mr Cooper’s Coffee House in Whitby
A lot of Old Peculier
Things I’ve Eaten
In Whitby I had Lindisfarne oysters so creamy and huge I could barely chew them. This was at The Magpie, Whitby’s best fish and chips restaurant. Highly recommended.
In Douglas, I was incredibly shocked to learn that the carvery roast dinner at 1886—widely regarded to be the town’s premier “let’s get shitfaced” nightclub—was absolutely banging. The restaurant upstairs in the rafters is classy and clean, the pork was tender and delicious, and the service was friendly. Who’d have thought it? Of course, on the way out Tom did come across a man yelling at himself in the bathroom mirror, but that was after we’d eaten.
I’ve not been very creative in the kitchen this month for obvious reasons, so my sandwich obsession has returned. Any mortadella producers who would like to become my official sponsors, please get in touch.
Call me gullible but I just bought some birthday cake flavoured protein powder because I think it will work well in things like banana bread. I have never managed to successfully bake something using protein powder, but something tells me this time will be different.
That’s this month all lined up and done with. This time next month I’ll be in sunny Lanzarote—who likes reading about macro lager and calamari???
