Post the Fifth (in which our heroine has her first hangover of the blog)

Bleurgh.  Gak.  Fnghhh.  These are all approximations of my current physical state.  I blame the sisters.  They came, they made me go to the pub, they brought wine.  The upshot is that I forgot to take a photo of the finished dinner.  If you have an issue with that, take it up with them.  Thank God I had the foresight to do most of the cooking before they arrived.

My hangovers are sly bastards.  I usually wake up feeling pretty ok, spring out of bed (kind of), make breakfast and generally think I got away with it, only to find myself on a steep decline into headachey, twitchy, moany horribleness.  While Emmet, who gets one hangover a year, gives me smug "hate to be you" looks.  Unfortunately, I'm also one of those people whose hangovers demand to be fed.  I'd love to be one of those "Oh Gawd, I can't even *look* at food when I'm hanging" people, but no.  I spend the day trekking from the couch to the kitchen and dreaming about Tribeca chicken wings.  This morning I made huevos rancheros for breakfast, had two mugs of tea and three glasses of blackcurrant cordial in mineral water, and was starving again an hour later.  At which time I finished off the baguettes I made yesterday, with real butter, cheese and a packet of chipsticks.  I'm still hungry, though.

In other news, rugby is back!!!  Ok, it's only friendlies, but still.  There has been a giant, rugby-shaped hole in my life since the end of May.  We're six minutes into Ireland V Scotland as I write, and I shall make the following observations:

- the new Scotland strip is very Leinster-esque

- Tony Buckley is shite.  (That's a general observation, and not just specific to this match.)

- Ireland are scrummaging well so far.  I don't have a whole lot of faith in Tomas O Leary, though.

Anyway, last night's dinner was nice, from what I remember.  It's adapted from a Jamie Oliver recipe, but his meatballs are literally just bits of sausage, which I thought sounded a bit crap.  I let the sauce reduce too much, though, so there wasn't quite enough of it.  The demon drink strikes again.

Pasta & Meatballs (or Amazeballs, as Sinead called them) - serves 4

1lb round mince                                       10 cocktail sausages
5 cloves garlic                                          3 tbsp oregano
Salt & pepper                                          1 tbsp red wine vinegar
2 tins tomatoes                                         Bunch of basil
400g pasta                                               3 large sage leaves, or a good bunch of thyme, leaves picked.

1) Snip the skin of the sausages and squeeze the meat into a bowl.  Add the mince, 2 cloves of garlic (crushed), 2 tbsp of the oregano, salt, pepper and the red wine vinegar.  Mix really, really well and shape into little meatballs - think two-thirds the size of a golfball.  Pop into the fridge to firm back up for at least half an hour.

2)  Heat some olive oil in a large saucepan.  Slice your other 3 cloves of garlic as finely as you can, and chop the stalks of the basil.  Add to the oil and allow to soften.  Chiffonade the basil leaves while you're waiting.

3)  Add the tomatoes to the pan, chuck in the basil, season to taste.  Bring to a low simmer.

4)  Heat another bit of oil in another pan.  Brown your meatballs lightly on all sides.  Add your chopped sage or picked thyme leaves for the last 30 seconds.

5)  Add the meatballs to the tomato sauce along with any juices from the pan.  Mix well, add the remaining tablespoon of oregano and check the seasoning.  Allow to simmer until the meatballs are cooked through and your sauce reaches a nice thick consistency.  Cook your pasta, top with pasta & meatballs, add a few parmesan shavings and enjoy.  I also served homemade garlic bread, and was planning to do a salad too, but forgot all about it in my drunken state.

It's 25 minutes into the match now, and still no score.  I blame Tony Buckley.