Loveahappyending.com author Sheryl Browne re-launches Recipes for Disaster…

Recipes for Disaster

The shortest way to a man’s heart.

Mix romantic comedy and step-by-step cooking instructions. Bake at 200 degrees for an entertaining read and handy guide.

She’s a single. He’s a widower. She wants him. He wants her. She wants to impress. So does he. There’s just one catch – she can’t cook. To get him, she needs to get past the big fish – his mother. Lucky her, she’s got an Ace up her sleeve and all she’s got to do is impress this one time. Bad luck, though, her new guy can’t cook either, her dog Rambo is on the loose and now they’ve got to pull off the big lunch at the club. Will it be a match made in heaven? Will they be able to pull off a culinary miracle? Will their combined efforts result in love at first bite? Or is it simply a Recipe for Disaster?

Publication Date: 1 February 2012
Format: Paperback. Also available on Kindle
ISBN: 9781908208057

Available from: Amazon, any local bookstore, or direct from Safkhet Publishing Price: Paperback: £6.99, €7.99, or $9.99 respectively

Author website: http://www.sherylbrowne.com/
Twitter A/c @sherylbrowne: https://twitter.com/#!/SherylBrowne

Author Facebook page: http://on.fb.me/AvJ2qg
RNA page: http://bit.ly/xgSxQo

Amazon.co.uk Buy: http://amzn.to/yhC15N
Safkhet Publishing Buy: http://www.safkhetpublishing.com/

Taster of Recipes for Disaster:

“One cup red or green seedless grapes, three cups shredded chicken…”

“OK, got it.” Phone wedged between shoulder and ear-hole, I scribbled down the ingredients Becky was giving me — while frantically spraying Febreze to disguise the stench of dead fish.

“…cooked,” Becky added.

“What?” I knitted my much furrowed brow.

“three cups shredded… cooked… chicken.” She spelled it out, slowly, as if talking to an incompetent. I might have taken umbrage, but for the fact that my domestic Goddess gene wasn’t so much deficient, as it died, probably at birth. A slave in the kitchen I was not. Slut in the bedroom I could do. Or would quite like to. Somehow, though, I doubted the new man in my life would want to make mad passionate love to the girl who’d just killed off his mother.

“Honestly, Lisa…” Becky sighed. “It has to be cooked before you shred it. You can’t shred raw chicken, can you?”

She was taking the pee now. “Obviously,” I dripped, indignant, though there was a good possibility I might have tried.

“And make sure it’s a happy chicken.”

“Ri-ght.” I paused to ponder. “Cooked and shredded, I should think it’ll be highly amused.”

“Oh, ha-di-ha.” Becky didn’t sound impressed. “I meant, an organic chicken, plucked and without giblets. Wash it under cold water, then place the whole chicken in a big pot, cover it with water, and bring it to boil over a high heat.”

“By which time it will be positively ecstatic.”

Silence.

“Ahem. High heat, got you. Go on.”

“Make sure it doesn’t boil over,” Becky continued, after an audible humph. “Once it’s boiling, you can turn down the heat. Let the bird cook for at least one hour and then check if it comes off the bone easily. If not, turn off the heat and leave it in the pot until it does. Depending on the size of the bird, this might take a bit longer.”

“Becky, slow down!” I scrawled frenziedly and tried to keep up.

“Right, got it. I think. Next?”

Becky emitted another despairing sigh. “Order a takeaway.”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind.” She sighed — again, pointedly. “Repeat back what I’ve just said.”

“Hold on.” I turned to kick the back door closed before I got frostbite, then grabbed up the saucepan containing the culinary catastrophe I might have poisoned new man Adam and his mum with — and tipped it in the dog dish.

Then padded back across the kitchen and fell over the dog.

“Ooh, God! Three cups shredded cooked… absolutely delighted …chicken!”

I snapped, straightening up from the work surface, which mercifully broke my fall before I parted company with my teeth. “Good boy, Rambo,” I cooed, more sweetly. “Din dins, hon.”

My midget Jack Russell looked at me, looked at the dish — wherein floated a monkfish head, sniffed it, curled a lip, I would swear, then beat a hasty retreat to the hall.

“What else?” I asked after the next ingredient, while heaving out a sigh of my own, then trying hard not to breathe back in. The Bouillabaisse — traditional Provençal fish stew (Easy Fish recipe book now in trash) — I’d decided to serve for the brunch Adam had invited himself and his mother to, smelled horribly pungent while cooking. Burned, it could strip the lining from your lungs. I shudder to think what it would do to your digestive tract.

“Patience, lots of… on my part,” Becky went on wearily, “one cup thinly sliced celery, half a cup thinly sliced green onions, half a cup chopped, salted roasted pistachios…”

“Pistachios?! Where am I supposed to get…”

“Kitchen cupboard, right hand side. At least, that’s where they were at Christmas.”

“Oh, right.” I nodded and wondered whether I should also do an inventory of my kitchen cupboards… sometime.

“Next…” Becky went on efficiently: “…a quarter cup of fresh chopped mint leaves. And, yes, you have got some,” she assured me. “You bought it when you got the parsley and thyme for the Bouillabaisse. You’ll also need … two cups cooked couscous. If you like, you can use Bulgur or rice instead.”

“Is that it?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead as well as odious smells.

“For the salad, yes. For the Curry Chutney Dressing, you’ll need…”

Tescos, I thought wanly.