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There is a reason I have a year-old leg of lamb in my freezer. Every time I open my ice box it taunts me. I’m telling this tale on its first anniversary before tossing out the frozen object of pain.
 

There’s an old saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so when an Aussie guy I had an unhealthy obsession with brought up the idea of throwing a dinner party at his place 12 months ago, I asked:  “What should I make at your dinner party?” eager to show my homemaking skills. “You mean our dinner party?” he countered. I glowed for weeks.

We decided on leg of lamb — a classic family-style roast with pre-written gender roles that included the man of the house ceremoniously carving meat at the table. Invites were sent and a date set. There was only one problem: I’d never made lamb before. I grew up in America where lamb was not part of the staple diet. But I somehow thought if I could deliver the perfect meal the Aussie would magically fall in lust with me.

I drove myself insane crafting the perfect meal in my head. Nights were lost poring over cookbooks and I even bought a Jamie Oliver DVD set with an episode that showed how to make butterflied leg of lamb. But at my fantasy dinner party, rather our fantasy dinner party, I imagined carrying out an entire leg of lamb to the table. Arrgh! Frustrated, I wrote to Jamie Oliver with my dilemma. To my surprise his staff responded with a recipe.

I ran it by Richard Ekkebus of two-Michelin-starred restaurant Amber. “Well you can’t serve an Aussie that. Jamie’s a Brit, Aussies do it differently,” he told me.  He proceeded to roll out a recipe for the perfect leg of lamb which involved professional kitchen equipment and lots of anchovies. “I’ll never be able to recreate this at home,” I thought.

I bought additional legs for test runs; I set off my smoke detector multiple times smoking oysters for our starter course; I procured artisanal ice from Antarctica for welcome drinks. I was determined it was going to be the dinner party of dinner parties.

On my way to pick up tomatoes ordered from Sicily the phone rang. It was him. “Hey, how’s it going? Everything’s good. Looking forward to our dinner party,” I said coolly. “I made a test leg of lamb last night.”  Shut up! That’s too much information, I think . “Wow, really?” He said. “When I was a kid my grandmother would roast a leg of lamb, it was one of my favourite memories growing up.” Fuck. “She would put…”  at that moment a roaring city bus crossed my path. “Wait, what did you say?” I said, panicking. He mumbled it again but I couldn’t hear over the roaring traffic. The forces were against me. I asked loudly again like someone using a mobile phone for the first time believing he would hear me better if I yelled. I finally said, without meaning to: “I’m sorry I can’t understand your Aussie accent without seeing your lips move.”

Four days and two overcooked legs of lamb to go until showtime and I’m with the former chef of Zest who asks me: “You want to win this guy right? Forget the anchovies, forget the bacon, forget everything. Keep it simple. Fresh mint sauce, rosemary, roast potatoes and gravy. You can do this. You know how to make head cheese for god’s sake.
 

“I think I’m just too nervous and I’ll fuck it up,” I said, feeling like I was about to cry.

“It’s cute how worked up you get. How about this? My kitchen will prepare everything for you. You just need to pop it in the oven. This was cheating. This was so brilliant.
 

No one really cooks from scratch anymore; we think we cook, but all we really do is assemble the parts and we call it cooking. I considered his offer: “You sure you want to be with a guy that drives you this crazy?” the chef asked. All the best ones are a little crazy, I thought. But I didn’t want to be crazy and a cheat, so I turned down my way out of roast lamb hell.
 

The night before the dinner I packed a hand-carried bottle of bourbon from Kentucky, grey salt shaved from the salt banks of Gemunden (Germany), herb rub from Borough Market (London), a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar bought at auction, and a recently purchased gravy bowl in the shape of a duck.
 

I took a day off work to get ready for this fated night. I remind myself to take deep breaths as I was getting my hair/nails/makeup done. Just one more stop at the tailors then I’d head over to his. My phone trilled: “Problem. Need to reschedule. Sorry,” texted my beloved. What?! My scream silenced all the blow dryers in the blast radius.
 

I threw the lamb in the freezer and speed-dialled my girlfriends for a night of consoling. Between glasses of bourbon I turned up the oven, ditched the sauces and cooked the most honest meal to ever come out of my kitchen. It was made with tears, disappointment, heartbreak and relief, not crazy psychotic behaviour. And then we feasted.