Atkins dieters may wish to skip this entry. Yes, Mister Pesce, this means you.

Because I have to say that after a hard evening’s drinking (two pints of pear cider, two!) at my newly discovered local dive bar with its amazing and unsuspected garden, there is nothing, absolutely nothing nicer than bringing a bunch of rowdy friends back to the house and boiling up masses of wholewheat spaghetti and pan-frying broccoli and zucchini and baby spinach and cherry tomatoes and sweet corn in several glugs of olive oil and grating cheddar and pecorino romano and gruyere over the whole mess, and eating it with a fresh hot baguette and a bottle of Penfolds Koonunga Hill Shiraz. And then polishing off two pints of ice cream for dessert. I swear, it was just like that manipulative Coke ad that always used to make me sniffly, only it was real.

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