Best ever cheese on toast

Hmm. Potatoes; cheese; cups of tea; lighting  fire. OOOH. There is proper snow outside, but I am fading a little so for an emergency tea, something in bed alone or when just ravenous...

Get some good crusty brown bread. Don't make it too thick or too thin. I like to toast it very lightly first. Now layer thick slabs of mature cheddar over it and grill until bubbling - possibly with the edges just a little charred. Transfer to a plate - preferably a warm one - and then douse it quickly with Worcestershire ( Worcester!) sauce. Not drown, mind. Eat quickly, probably with drops of the sauce running down into your lap. This is excellent with some thick slices of unsmoked back bacon to one side, too.

That's it.

The cup of tea

THIS BLOG IS BACK. I TOOK A LITTLE BREAK BECAUSE OF OTHER COMMITMENTS. BUT SPREAD THE WORD AND PUT THE KETTLE ON

BECAUSE

I have been disturbed, in recent months,  by the fact that I have gone off cups of tea. This has been due to morning sickness (number three on the way) BUT HOORAH! While green pesto -or in fact the smell of basil in any setting- and -horrors- chicken are out for the time being, the tea is back. THIS IS IMPORTANT. Like Dr Johnson, you see, I prescribe cups of tea for refreshment, solace and general good cheer. My mother was big on sherry for this, but obviously that's out right now and one cannot be imbibing sherry through the day. So here is my prescription for you. OH: I fear I am so very British.

Put on kettle and, simultaneously, radio 4. Go to cupboard and select a mug. Again THIS IS IMPORTANT. I am instantly depressed by the thought of a cup of tea in a thin mug. You know; one that looks a bit delicate, with a spindly handle. Technically, it might be from your 'best mugs' collection, should you have such a thing, but right now it doesn't cut it. I apologise for the slight vulgarity of the simile, but my mother once said (this must have gone in deep) that thin lips suggested meanness. You know; like a limp handshake (unless you were actually dying)? So, drinking tea from a thin little mug, however pretty, would be, for me, like kissing a man with thin lips. It would not suggest abundance and generosity.  I prefer a solid little willow pattern cup and saucer or a chunky-looking mug with a good thick rim. My two favourites of recent years have been the gloriously tacky 'Georgia Peach' mug with the revolving peach on the handle and, also from the Southern U.S., a thick pink mug sold by an old fashioned family restaurant and diner at Fancy Hill, just outside Lexington in Virginia. There's a picture of a cadillac on it because it hails from 'The (pink) Cadillac Cafe'. It has no handle because, well, this ain't no couture mug and it wasn't stuck on properly. But I don't care: I love it and it speaks to me.

Now, I wouldn't complain if you made me tea with a teabag just in that thar mug, but best of all, is for you to use either loose or tea bag in my blue teapot - which you have warmed - and that you then leave it to brew properly. For here are some more depressing things done by friends and family of mine. A certain friend: one tea bag between two and then just a quick dip in the water. NOOOO! A certain person to whom I might be related by marriage: similar concept, but the tea bag is also left on the side of the sink (albeit on a sweet little saucer) ALL DAY. I think that tea bag just does one person apiece. But even so. NOOOO!

Leave that tea to brew and let it be known that, in our area of deep lime and its attendant hard water, I favour the brand called Yorkshire Tea for hard water areas. I could go on about all sorts of teas but right here, I won't. Good and strong and a little bit malty. Pour the tea into the mug first then add the milk. But leave room in the cup or mug for plenty of milk. Strangely enough, I favour quite full-bodied tea, but I like plenty of milk. I have been told this is a bit common.

Sit in a soft chair and continue listening to radio 4, ignoring all chores and outside interference.

I am suppposed to say, I think, that if you are up the duff (sic: pregnant), you should keep your caffeine intake low. But, also, babies like you to be happy. So have a biscuit or some sort of slab of fruit cake it with it.

Watermelon

The watermelon. Just how beautiful is it? Happy July the 4th yesterday, by the way. "Oh say can you see" some very cool things to do with your watermelon?

1. As is. Just cut it into what, in our house, is known as a watermelon smile. A big slice. Dig in.

2. As before, but cut around the rind, score and then cut perfect little chunks. Serve them in a bowl with a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds (even more beautiful this) or a sprinkle of dried ginger and maybe just a few shavings of lemon peel.

3. Keeping the chunks, as before, stash them in in the freezer and have them ready, like lovely pink ice cubes, to slosh into a vodka and tonic or a martini. Experiment and see what you like. You could whizz them in the blender, of course.

4. Make a fine smoothie with watermelon chunks and an orange.

5. Refer to earlier in this blog for a fine watermelon pickle.You use only the rind for this one.

6. Whizz up the chunks with some lemonade and lime zest for a non alcoholic party drink or, sod that, just for you.

7. Try  a few cubes of watermelon with some a little finely ground sea salt and a few grindings of black pepper. You'll either love this, or you won't. Also excellent for dysentery - when you're over the worst!

Thanks to Stephen Depolo at flickr for his watermelon photos!

Headline: jacket potato gives hug on difficult day

To left: don't roasting things cheer you along? In the picture: large chunks of squash being roasted with a splash of olive oil and some black pepper at the house of Mrs Pat Jones: aka one of my marvellous aunts who cooks and totally ROCKS. Having no mother in my adulthood, these girls are very important. As is their cooking. But I digress, because I'm blathering and you might want to know what to do for your tea.

Right: take as many jacket potatoes as you think you can eat, rinse them, pat dry carefully and then massage them with sea salt. Put them into a hot oven and cook for about 30 minutes, possible more. The sea salt should have crisped up the skin and, inside, the potato will be soft and fluffy. Now, after about twenty minutes of potato cooking time, put into the oven (in a baking dish) a big handful of cherry tomatoes, a whole fresh green chilli, chopped as you might like,  it plus a sliced medium onion. Make sure you have put a good tablespoon of olive oil in with the vegetables.

So, take out the potatoes when they are done, cut into them, add a dab of butter if you like and then pile the tomatoes, onions and chilli on top.

That's it. Simple but manages to be quite luxurious and a sort of hands off sort of dinner. In fact, what I just cooked for myself just now while answering reproachful-sounding '"ring me" messages and attending to children .

Chick peas (garbanzo, gram, etc...): get a bag for your cupboard

This is a big rustic salad which I made a few minutes ago. It's very good for this time of year and the flavour packs a hefty punch.

Take a bag of chick peas - about 500g. Soak them for three or four hours, bring to the boil then simmer until they are still firm, but not hard. That is, without a hard centre but still with plenty of bite. If you cook your own you'll have something with plenty of texture. I could be wrong, but I've never found tinned chick peas any good and they tend to be overcooked. So, after you bring them to the boil - and presuming you have soaked them, they should be done in about twenty five minutes or so.

Drain the chick peas when they are done, rinse them under cold water and drain carefully. Now stick them in a big bowl with three chopped spring onions, half a chopped cucumber, one finely chopped green chilli, a couple of teaspoons of drained and rinsed capers, a good squeeze of lemon juice, a small piece of grated fresh ginger, six chopped cherry tomatoes and lots of freshly ground pepper. Taste for salt. If you want to, add to the salad's instant dressing with some sunflower oil?

Serve straight away if you've used tomatoes and cucumber; if you didn't, then the salad can sit for a few days.

I'd serve this as is, but it would be good with grilled fish or chicken. Maybe from the barbecue? Also, if I had not added the ginger, I might like the salad with some grilled halloumi cheese OR I might add crumbled feta cheese to the salad. Cut everything really finely, add a pinch of green mango powder, a couple of teaspoons of cumin seed, leave out the capers, add a couple of cloves of finely chopped garlic and then some roasted black urad dhal and you would have a very fine South Indian salad. Check out the selection of dhals (or dals) at www.spicesofindia.com

Watermelon rinds?

Well now, what have we here?

In my view, the watermelon is one of the most beautiful fruits. We have just carved one into huge slices and so we have some rinds left over. Now, in the Southern United States, these rinds might be used to make a pickle. You may well see the same in India. Here is what I just did although, let it be said, it does not make a terribly long lasting pickle.

You have eaten your watermelon. If you didn't wash the rinds, do it now. Cut them into strips and then into little squares. Put them in a big bowl. Take a big green fresh chilli (the contrast -not too much contrast, though.-is very pretty). Cut the chilli, seeds and all. into fine pieces, add it to the rinds with a big pinch of sea salt, lots of freshly ground black pepper and, say, a hazlenut-sized piece of ginger root which you have grated finely. Mix it all up with your hands, then add the juice of a lemon, its finely grated peel and two teaspoons -but taste and taste again to see if you'd like to add more -- of  chaat (or chat) powder, one specifically marketed for fruit chaat which, like anything else with chat/chaat in its name, is a snack food. Chat is usually  spiced with aromatic flavourings, such as black cumin and pomegranate and green mango powder.  Might be a fresh peach salad (which you need tio eat straight away because it wilts fast!)or perhaps a potato salad. More on which soon. You can find chat powder easily enough in Asian supermarkets and shops; I tend to get mine here www.spicesofindia.com I like the 'shaan' brand best!

Mix everything in with your hand and pile into jars. The pickle is ready to eat after two days but will keep for a week. To make it longer lasting you'd need more preserving liquid, but that's jot quite what I'm after here. Keep it in the fridge. I will be serving this pickle with lots of South Indian snacks next weekend.

The photos you see are all mine: of the pickle itself, but also a few images from my kitchen showing some balti dishes hanging up, the plate of chilli and ginger which is invariably sitting on top of my big salt jar, plus one of my piles of thali dishes. I like the colours of my watermelon pickle against the vintage 'Ball' preserving jars. I collect these and you can still get them for just a few dollars at flea markets in the U.S. I've bought mine in Virginia and Georgia. Ball is still is business, the jars are still great but not, alas, in the same lovely colour.Clear these days.

New Book will be out at the end of August

Hi everyone. Been a bit busy with, among other, things, my fund raising writeathon athttp://www.rainbowoverbengal.blogspot.com/ but just a message to say that..

1. An ever so slightly different version of My Mother's Kitchen, my Father's Garden Volume One (that's Spring and Summer) will be out in August. Priced at £6.50

AND

2.  Volume two of this text (Autumn and Winter) will be available at the same time. There will be two different versions of the text. One, a black and white text copy at £6.50; the other is a full colour text with some lovely photographs, the price of which I will let you know soon. Texts are available from me and from local independent booksellers in England and Wales -- plus a range of shops, at www. blurb.com - and I am waiting to hear from Amazon and other online sellers. Will advise of ISBNs and stockists in more detail when I get a moment. xx

Re new media section

An update

If you want to see a sample of my freelance journalism pieces, plus the odd piece on me, I've put a selection in the new media section of this blog. Also, book number one is being edited for re-release at the moment and I  have just finished book number two. Volumes one (Spring and Summer) and two (Autumn and Winter), then, of My Mother's Kitchen, my Father's Garden, based on this blog with additional text. Perhaps a publisher would like to take on one or both -- in two volumes or one big fat one? The first book sold well with just yours truly as its publisher and promoter! Don't forget, if you are a business and reading this, that I also handle press releases and publicity!

Photo by Giles Turnbull of jugs on my kitchen window ledge: most of them from skips. Treasure.

Gleanings: a chapter from A handful of Broken Biscuits

Again, this is a chapter from my late father's book, which I have latterly been editing. If you buy my next book (out at the beginning of May -- I will pass on info about stockists for this and my previous book, which is curently being reprinted, nearer the time), you will find this extract where it should be -- with Autumn! But enjoy it here, now. 

The sections of the book which intercut my writing are all about the getting, giving and making of food -- memories of a childhood in the 1930s, which my father felt abrupted by the beginning of war. The text is set in and around Burrington Combe and Langford, in Somerset on the edge of the Mendips. My father is characterised as 'John'; my grandmother as Beth and grandfather as Ed. Here we have walnuts, blackberries, hazelnuts and mushrooms.

There was always someone ready to collect whatever bounty the countryside offered and there were particular places where each windfall fell thickest. In early September walnuts bounced and split open under the big tree on Havyatt Green or the one leaning across the hedge that bounded Hillier's orchard. Since the throwing of sticks was vital in bringing down a shower of the finer, more elusive nuts, the boys of the village were always happy to be of help.

Blackberries ripened in every hedgerow, on waste ground or around the ponds, but they grew in greatest profusion in the wild, tangled triangle of open scrubland immediately below Mendip Lodge and alongside the old driveway. The bushes rambled freely, and the big, glistening, darkening fruit gave off a sweet, distinctive perfume after the smell of late summer. The gleaners, wearing their oldest clothes, moved methodically  from patch to patch, rolling the sweet luscious fruit into their baskets, fingers staining ever-deeper-red-purple as they picked. They reached with crooked stick, drawing the furthermost branches to them: picking or rejecting with smooth, deft and unhurried movements. An afternoon's basket of six or eight pounds would provide pies and blackberry and apple jam in plenty.

As the Autumn days became misty and the leaves began to change colour, the long tall hazel hedges in the deep lane at Bourne clustered thickly with nuts. It was essential for the timing to be right. Go a few days too early and the nuts were not ripe enough; shaking or whacking the bushes with sticks would not bring many down. Go a few days too late and many would have fallen into the undergrowth to be nibbled or gobbled by mice and squirrels. But arrive on those few crucial days and the nuts came down like hail -- a harvest that meant a hoard of nuts to be put aside for Christmas.

Pearly-necklaces, low-slung cobwebs, a thin mist on the field, and a warm humid morning were the sings that mushroom picking time had arrived: the feel of the air was just right. Up with the first light of dawn, on with the wellingtons, a two pound basket on the arm. Then a steady, methodical travrsing of the field, moving the sheep along as you went. Folding sheep on the land encouraged the growth and spread of mushrooms, it was said, but John didn't know the truth or otherwise of that lore. yet he was prepared to believe it as he walked in a line gfive yards parallel to his father. The darker grass circles and crescents were the give-away signs of mushroom presence and suddenly he would find a patch of three or four, of fresh grey-white with a  scattering of small buttons.

Each time he found and picked he was conscious of the beauty of the early morning. There was a hush, a newly-washed innocence all around. The wild creatures that crawled, scampered or flew were up and doing, but doing it quietly. They wanted time and the world to themselves and had no wish to rouse the lie-abeds. John smelt the pleasant,  faint fungoid smell and touched the beautiful pink-brown suffusion of the newly opening gills. It required an effort of will to be up so early to join Ed in these forays, but it was worth the quiet, calm sensuous pleasure he enjoyed. By half past seven Ed and John were back in the house and soon the delicious smells of frying mushrooms and streaky bacon signified a satisfying early morning journey.

A Handful of Broken Biscuits

Intercutting the prose of my last book are excerpts from the book my father wrote when he was dying. My mother helped with the editing; his devoted former school secretary typed up the entire text. I am continuing with this work now and hope to have it published by the autumn of this year, with beautiful woodcut illustrations by a local artist. Watch this space.

Now, the title of the book refers to early memories of my father, growing up first in Burrington Combe and then in Langford in Somerset, on the edge og the Mendip hills. His mother, so careful about housekeeping, would always order broken biscuits from the grocer. My father felt it was a way of life that was vanishing in this place. Of course, those excerpts I included in my own text were about food memories: they play an important part in the book, whether it be a description of a sweet shop, my paternal grandmother's exemplary food stores, or, as here, Christmas and the whortleberry harvest. Read on over the next few posts for these extracts. Should you read my next book, you will find that Christmas and harvest are, seasonably, in the right months of the text!

A Handful of Broken Biscuits

Chapter 13: Christmases gone.

The smell of hot cloth and spice,a seven year old face i, or a few well-sung bars of any of those old traditional carols have a strange and moving power. Again, Beth is boiling her cloth-capped basins of pudding in the scullery copper. Again, Ed is plucking the big savage , spurred cockerel that will be Christmas dinner. Again, Miss Constance, Elsie and Sally are standing by the tree, lapped in the lemon glow of the fairy lights. Back come visions of the once a year exotica, the dates and the coconut ice, the Brazil nuts and the figs, and for the adults the bottle of sherry which will last from Christmas to Christmas.

For Chris the butcher: steak and kidney pie.

Chris is a local butcher -- one of very few. So here is a recipe made with things I have just bought from him, with his recommended amounts -- judged by eye, you understand. I bought stewing steak and -- the proper stuff, as he says--  ox kidney for this. I may sound as though I eat a lot meat. I probably eat red meat at most once a week and usually chicken once or twice a week. When I do eat red meat, it needs to pack a punch. This pie does because it's solid and speaks of home and, when it's in the oven, the house smells wonderful. I must confess that my young children were not overly keen on the ox kidney, but did justice to the rest of the pie. And here it is, still warm.

A note of pastry. I think the stuff you can buy ready made is pretty good, but what I generally do is buy puff and filo pastry and make everything else.

Steak and kidney pie. Four 4 with possibly a few seconds. To serve with potatoes -- which could be new ones, now-- and some greens. This time of year, make it a British brassica.

500 g puff pastry, defrosted if frozen and rolled out to about 1cm thickness
1 egg for glazing the pie before it goes in the oven
3 large carrots, roughly chopped. Not traditional, but I like them
1 large onion, chopped into rings
1 wineglass of red wine. I happened to have some recently opened Cabernet Sauvignon
1 bay leaf, if you like
plain flour to hand
500g stewing steak
250g ox kidney, sliced or cut into cubes: generous ones; not dolly mixture size


First sweat the onion in a little sunflower oil in a large pan until the onion  is golden. Take it out and put it to one side. Now, brown all the meat. You may want to do this in a couple of batches, because you want it to seal and brown, not steam. Just brown it and let it catch here and there. Then add the onion to the pan, mixing well, plus the carrots cut into smallish chunks. Sprinkle on a tablespoon of plain flour and mix well. Then, pour on the wine plus enough water --or beef stock or vegetable stock if you have it-- and raise the heat until the liquid thickens. Cook gently for five minutes, then into your dish it goes. The choice of dish is up to you, of course. Today, I cooked this in a oven dish 15cm by 30cm. It might look jollier in a big round dish, perhaps?

Put your pastry on the top, allowing for shrinkage, so draping it over the edge and crimping it firmly against the dish. Neatness is not the name of the game here. I think it should look quite roughly done. Now, if you wanted, you could raise the centre with a little pie funnel or maybe an egg cup, but I don't mind if it sinks a bit, so I didn't bother, just cut a couple of slits in the middle of the pie, as was my mother's wont, and brushed it with beaten egg. Cook it it a hot oven --at 200, then, for 40-45 minutes, by which time, the meat should be tender and the pastry golden. If you want your stewing steak so soft that you could cut it with a spoon, cook it for longer before it goes into the pie dish, but add the kidneys just for the last few minutes because you don't want to overdo them.

And here are some tins I mentioned in some of my much earlier blog posts and in my book. These are tins from my paternal grandmother's kitchen. She might have added the contents of either to the gravy for such a pie. Later, they came to house shoe tacks and small nails. Now, they sit -- still full of shoe tacks: in his spare time, my grandfather used to mend people's shoes in his Mendip village-- in an alcove on our stairs.

As a postscript: I should say that my grandmother would have baulked at the use of puff pastry and not suet and as for the wine. Well...

Chicken for Kate.

K. is a little unsure about cooking chicken, so here is what I am going to show her in a little workshop a deux that her husband Giles has organised for her.

The ingredients that I have asked Kate to have ready:

1 large free range chicken

2 packs of chicken thighs, bone in -- assuming six in a pack.

The Roast chicken

There is plenty about this in my writing already, isn't there? Some further tips.

1. Make it a big free range chicken, organic if you choose but you'll have to pay the price. Note that freedom food isn't quite the same, so I urge you to do a little reaserch on labels and what these things actually mean. Your only guarantee, really, is that it explicitly says free range on the label. Or, of  course, if you saw the chicken. Now, I know I said big free range, but it doesn't necessarily have to be a fat one: a little scrawny chap may be very tasty and with plenty of flavour. Chickens may have slightly different builds or appetites, after all!

To begin cooking, bring the chicken to room temperature first and then cook it in a hot oven -- that's 200-- allowing 20 minutes for every 500g and then about 20 minutes more. In practice, you will probably cook most chicken for 1 and half hours. Your chicken is done when the juices run clear: test by inserting a skewer or sharp knife where the thickest part is -- where the side of the leg meets the breast. If you are in doubt, just use a meat thermometer and stick it in here and there -- including this thickest part.

It isn't essential, I suppose, but I cook my chickens upside down first. Which is to say, breast down. Turn it over after about 40 minutes. This is simply to allow the fat deposits, which are most plentiful in the back, to percolate down through the drier breast. So no stringy meat for you. Having said that, I don't mind a chicken I can get my teeth into. Never got the hots for capon for this reason. Don't get very excited about eating young lamb: rather chew on a hogget.

One last point. When the chicken comes out of the oven let it rest for ten minutes or so before carving it. That's to allow the meat to settle. If you go to straight away, lots of precious juices will escape: those would otherwise have been reabsorbed by the meat.

Variations:

1. For extra succour, put lots of garlic cloves, peeled or unpeeled, inside the cavity. Shove lots in the tin, too. I just pick them and eat them whole, skin and all. But you could squish that beautiful caramel-coloured garlic puree ont to your plate as you eat. You could also put half a lemon up the bottom of the chicken.

2.It can be nice to rub the chicken all over, inside and out, with olive oil (or a bland flavourless oil), sea salt and black pepper.

3. You might like to try making a spice paste and rubbing it into the chicken. Go Middle Eastern by trying this with sumac powder, salt and pepper; go Indian by doing the same with a mixture of cumin, coriander and, if yoiu like it, fennel. All of these ground or as powder. Or what about a mix of chilli flakes and Chinese five spice powder? Skin the chicken or not, as you please.

The chicken thighs: two suggestions.

1. Just chuck them in a roasting dish with thumbnail-sized pieces of peeled ginger root and lots of unpeeled garlic cloves. Add a few glugs of Kikoman soy sauce and a big fat pinch of red chilli flakes. Toss this around and put it in a hot oven for about 45 minutes.

OR

2. Do the same, but do not add the soy sauce, adding instead tablespoons of cumin and coriander powder, a fat pinch of asafoetida and a tablespon of nigella (otherwise known as kalonji and sometimes onion seed: both this and the asafoetida are easy to get in Asian markets or try the online supplier www.spicesofindia.com

3. Finally, using more South East Asian spices, keep the garlic and the ginger but tuck in four or five lime leaves,  a bashed and chopped up stalk of lemon grass, the juice of half a lemon and a good couple of glugs of Thai fish sauce. A teaspoon of sugar would be good to balance that addictive Thai mixture of sweet, sour, hot and salty.

The leftovers

1. That roast chicken would do a roast chicken dinner --all the trimmings or just roast potatoes and the juices! keep using the meat for a couple of days in a pilaf, a salad, soup, sandwiches.....Then make a rich stock by covering the carcass with water, add a few peppercorns, a stick of celery and a little onion, bring to the boil ann the simmer for slowly for about 1and a half hours. Season, strain and eat as a lovely broth with some tiny pasta, or freeze it and use in umpteen recipes or for soup.

2. Any leftover chicken thighs would make superlative sandwiches, if you pull the meat from the bones.

And for all these recipes, keep the juices and fat and use to roast some potatoes or winter root vegetables later in the week.

Feeling mnore confident?

xxx

Easter Lunch

For Ned

"Rise Heart"

(George Herbert)

If you read my book, you may remember a somewhat weepy memory of Easter lunch under the willow tree as a child. Well, here I go again, only with less weeping. I picked this card because it reminded me of those my maternal grandmother used to send to me as a child.

Easter lunch for me and the boys and maybe you too.

I like to cook lamb at Easter, so here's an easy way to do it. This is what we will have for Easter Sunday lunch.

Roast lamb with accompaniments and a cheerful rhubarb pudding.

For 4, I have allowed a 2 kg leg of lamb, which will give you plenty plus leftovers. I like cold roast lamb in sandwiches with mint jelly.

Rub your leg of lamb all over with a little salt and pepper and olive oil and then make about 10 little slits in it. Into these slits pop a sprig of rosemary and a fat sliver of garlic, peeled or unpeeled. Then -did I say "bring the meat to room temperature first"? -- put it into a medium hot oven to roast. Meanwhile, try this.

A dish of roast vegetables.

Peel an assortment of seasonal root vegetables to include potatoes, carrots, parsnips and swede. Stick them in a large dish and chuck in some olive oil, sea salt and lots of black pepper. Mix well with your hands. Put to one side.

Some greens.

This time of year, just go exploring and find a nice dark cabbage. I'd probably use a savoy cabbage here. Pull off any dodgy-looking leaves and then shred it finely. Put it in a deep pan and barely cover with water. Add a little salt just before you cook.

Poached rhubarb

Right, while the lamb is cooking, prep your pudding. At this time of year, you may well be able to get lovely forced rhubarb, all pale pink and pretty. I would get about 1 kg, chop into pieces of several cm each with around 3 tbs of caster sugar. If you have bought the full blown rhubarb, you will need more so taste, taste, taste. Poach the rhubarb with the sugar, just covered with water.When it is soft, add a good punch of ground nutmeg and check again for sweetness.

When the lamb has had about 40 minutes, put the vegetables into the oven. The lamb will take another hour, by which time the vegetables with be soft and caramelising at the edges. A couple of times, take some of the juices from around the lamb and put them on the vegetables, tossing in a careless kind of way. 25 minutes later, cook the cabbage.

To serve, let the lamb sit for ten minutes, then hack it into generous pieces and serve with lots of vegetables and the cabbage. You'll see I haven't made gravy. That's because there will be plenty of succulence from the lamb and because you will have soft vegetables, seasoned with some of the fat and juices from the lamb.

Oh, while you are eating, keep the rhubarb warm in the turned off oven and, for pudding, serve it with lots of Greek yoghurt or, if you like, custard. Followed by an Easter egg hunt.

HAPPY EASTER!

Image courtesy of seaside rose at www.flickr.com Thank you.

Hot cross buns. Reclaim the bun!

Within the past week, I have had conversations in street and bus with older folk about how they object to the ubiquity of hot cross buns. Once, they appeared at Easter or you made them. You did not get them all year round and, though memory may not ratify here, apparently they did not used to be so doughy and squashy. I talked to an eighty year old chap about this on the bus last Thursday. He was on his way to hospital, his wife had died recently and he had just recovered from pneumonia. He was on his way to hospital because of the aneurism, though. They thought he was better now, but he was going for a follow up. "One of these days I won't come home", he said.."I don't get out much either. Although I did go to Asda to get some hot cross buns and, well, I was so disappointed by how doughy and soft they were, not like....".

So here, and I hope you are home and feeling a little more cheerful, is a hot cross bun recipe, just as my mother kept it. They are soft. but substantial and you can also get the top crisp. They have plenty of spice. Give them to all and sundry with a cup of tea. And have two for you.


For 14 hot cross buns

25g dried easy blend yeast
300ml warmed milk
1 teaspoon of caster sugar

Then
400 g plain flour, sieved, with 25g of unsalted butter rubbed in (although I reckon my mother used lard)
pinch of salt
50g caster sugar
1 or 2 teaspoons of mixed spice
50 g sultanas
To make the glaze and get the cross on top, keep to one side 2 tbs of water and 2 tbs of caster sugar

You just add the yeast to the warmed --not hot--milk and then mix in the flour followed by everything else. Leave this to rise in a warm place for about t 20 minutes, add a little more milk if it seems too floury and knead it just a little. Make the dough into 14 balls and put them on to prepared (i.e. greased) trays. Cut a cross in the top of each one with a very sharp small knife, leave for another twenty minutes (they will grow!) and then cook in a hot oven until they are golden. About twenty five minutes, during which time you make a simple syrup for the glaze by dissolving the sugar in the water. While your buns are still hot, you apply the glaze to the cross. Eat while they are still hot or toast later. A triumph! Not the mass produced supermaket squishy bun! Hoorah! Oh: if you want some extra spice, dust them lightly with cinnamom or nutmeg before you serve and maybe even sprinkle with golden caster sugar. But just a little.Best served with butter in the middle, too.

An aside: foods which I do not like. (There are few.)

I will eat anything that is put in front of me. However, there are three examples that make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I mean, I have plenty of friends who won't eat meat unless it contains no skin or bone, those who will not eat fish because of the texture or any seafood because it just looks, well, too creaturely, I suppose. Then there are those who won't touch food they think will be (chilli) hot, who dislike leaf coriander with a passion, offal haters and those who reject cumin, tumeric in curries, Thai or South East Asian food because of the hit of fish sauce (which I love). Folks have all sorts of predilections. My husband will not be persuaded to eat beetroot in any form or peppers, unless ravenous. So back to me.
1. Heart. I am an offal fancier, but just cannot eat this. My mother would serve it up about once a month throughout my childhood. To me, it has a rich, slightly sweet, metallic and somehow bloody smell that repels.
 Do you have any suggestions? The best way I ever found was to stuff it with herby breadcrumbs, but even then...
2. Lychees. My family is well aware that I regard these as the fruit of the devil. I dislike the texture, the cloying smell and the slight squeak they make. I don't even like the name of the thing, stopping, as it does, somewhere between lice and leeches. They have been served up time and time agai in fruit salads to me, particularly because of the South Asian influence on my family, where I have been served them as a fruit salad after a range of curry dishes. But, well, yuk. They look like congealed vitreous humour in syrup.
3. Tripe. O.k. Big sheets of it. Billowing around in white sauce with onions and served with boiled potatoes. It was a favourite of my father and was cooked at home because it was a dish which his mother, Beth, regularly cooked for him. So, again, this probably appeared at least once a month when I was growing up. I would eat the onions in the white sauce and lots of boiled potatoes and then attempt to eradicate at least some of the tripeyness (this is an invented adjective, of course) by the application of malt vinegar and lots of pepper. Which went some way to improve things. The texture. Well, I don't mind excercising my jaws. Neither am I remotely squeamish about the fact that it is the lining of a stomach. And yet, it does look as if you'd unrolled a wad of bubble wrap and pressed it down and then boiled it and I profundly dislike the way it manages to smell a little like a damp sock when cooking. A smell which pervades each room of the house.

BUT there is a caveat to this one. It came the first summer I discovered Elizabeth David's books and thus, when I went to France, tried to eat some of the things she so beautifully described in French Provincial Cooking. May I tell you about the dish called Tableau au Pompier -- or fireman's apron? You take a piece of cooked tripe about the size of your hand (you would have poached this in a little seasoned water) then you cover it with melted butter, roll it in seasoned breadcrumbs and put it under a very hot grill, turning once, so that the outside is very crisp and blisteringly hot. Eat immediately. If I had to, this is, I think, the way to go. For me, this little curiosity makes the best of a crisp exterior and the soft chewy texture of the tripe within.

OOOH: I think there may be hope here. Since thinking about this little article, I have been looking, in particular, at the use of thinly shredded tripe in the wonderfully aromatic Vietnamese soup, Pho. Now there's one to sample. I'm wondering whether, for me, the meat will lend itself so much more to Chinese and South East Asian food. Will experiment.

The picture above is by James Cridland and shows a shop in Smithfield market: note the Tripe Dressers in the title. www.flickr.com Thank you James.

In honour of a new cooker

Well now: when you buy a new cooker -- here it is, except mine's cream coloured-- I suggest you have a cook in. What would I do? Try this.

1. A roast chicken. I know, I know. I am forever roasting chickens.

2. Some roast spiced potatoes. I'll call them masala potatoes.

3. Some proper cakes. Or one substantial number. With a bit of spice for the time of year.

4. A casserole or two.

Are you terribly impressed? I did a cookathon in between teaching lessons at home, making a 'Medieval Day' costume for a five year old (tip: pillow case, red and gold paint; giant sequins and curtain tieback...) and writing an article and it felt like a triumph. I am not, may I say, competitive mummy, but I do like to feel I am at home. Less of the blather and back to the recipes.

1. The chicken. Free ranger; roast upside down for the first 40 minutes or so and allow about 20 minutes for each 500g and then another 20-30 minutes  But do I ever time thus? No I don't. Give yourself time and you'll just know when it's done. It's instinct. The juices should run clear where the thigh meets the breast.

Variations thereon: try smearing the breast with buter between skin and chicken, rubbing it all over with a mix of best unsalted butter and good green pesro or rubbbing in a mixture of butter, ground cumin and coriander, salt and pepper. You could stuff the cavity with a stack of unpeeled garlic cloves and add sprigs of robust herbs such as rosemary branches plus a little sage. Tarragon is great with chicken: stuff the cavity with it, or strew it over the bird twenty minutes or so before coing time is up. Ditto thymes of all sorts. Great hot with the usual suspects, warm or cold. Remember to give yourself first dibbs at prising away the little stucky bits that have stuck to the roasting tin.

2. The masala potatoes. I've prepped these (just to the coating in spice stage) but will cook them later. Just peel or not, as you can be bothered, and then cut in half. Floury potatoes are what you want, not waxy ones. So, get a dish with a thin layer of sunflower oil piping hot and shimmering in the oven. Meanwhile, coat your potatoes in black pepper, flakes of sea salt, red chilli flakes and a heaped tablespoon or a garam masala mix. I like the Rajah or Bolst brands. Now, chuck the lot in the hot oil and roast until they are soft on the inside and crisp on the outside and sticking to the dish here and there. Cook them in a hot oven and possibly turn up the heat later to blitz them so they get really crisp. You will know your oven best.

3. The cake. I got all nostalgic here. So here, in honour of my late mum, is something she would have liked. It's based on one from a book she used: Been Nilson's The Penguin Cookery Book. It is an almond fruit cake. To me, anything with almond in it feels like a celebration. You need a moderate oven and an 8'' tin then...

MAKE A SPICED ALMOND AND FRUIT CAKE

Cream 200gm of unsalted butter with the same volume of caster sugar. Then add 4 large eggs, 200g of ground almonds and 100g of plain flour. Mix all in well as you go. To this you add 150g of sultanas and the same of raisins and then 75g of mixed peel. Again, mix it in well. Now you have a choice: either 25 of preserved ginger or a tablespoon of ground ginger and then, finally, the grated rind of half an orange and the grated rind of half a lemon. Stick the lot into a tin which you have lined with greaseproof paper and cook for about 3 hours. At this point, if you put a skewer into the centre of the cake, it should come out clean. Turn it out of the tin when it's cool.

4. Right: a chicken casserole. Would you be horrified to know that, a while ago, I had in front of me almost 6 kg of skinned chicken drumsticks? That's the cooking ahead thing; if I don't do it, it'll be tits up round here by Wednesday. But say you had 3 kg, which would be more than enough for 4. Try this

First, brown your chicken pieces in a large pan. You may need to do this in batches. Or, hey: just skip this stage altogether. Put to one side. In the same pan, add a little sunflower oil and then add 2 finely chopped celery sticks or hearts, 3 chopped carrots, four finely chopped garlic cloves and a finely chopped onion, much in the manner of an Italian soffrito. Cook gently until all are softened. Now, add the chicken and toss it all about. At this point --because we are going for an all in one so that all you have to do is dole everything out at the table (or wherever) with no extra fuss-- add five peeled and roughly chopped potatoes. You want these to be in substantial pieces so that they do not disentegrate into the casserole, though. So maybe better in half or whole if they are small. Stir carefully, add a big fat pinch of sea salt, lots of freshly ground black pepper, a couple of bay leaves and then cover the mixture either with a decent white wine or half and half water and white wine. Something dry, I think. Alternatively, cover with water, but add a couple of teaspoons of Marigold bouillion powder and stir carefully. Bring the pan to a high heat and then either turn it right down, simmering for an hour on the hob or a little more if you transfer it to a casserole dish, as I would, for the oven. Making it a proper casserole, then. Because it's the acts of baking and roasting that make me feel better, most of all.

Green shoots

This time of year, I am foraging in our garden. Here is what I have found and eaten today.

To Libby, with all my lovex

My chives are about four cm high, so I snip a few off. I add to them the wild onions --look for the little green shoots growing everywhere!-- that seem to grow so abundantly in this part of  the world. Then I add to these some tiny dandelion leaves and some of the new sorrel leaves that are coming on strong already. I add this to a big bowl either of cold cooked chick peas and salty feta cheese, with a little olive oil, sea salt and black pepper, or do the same with some other white bean which I have soaked and cooked. You might try cannellini beans or haricots. That is it and it will give your system a fresh charge, I reckon, because raw food does you good. Hell, I sound like an eat yourself healthy cookbook.

The beans will be creamy and nutty and contrast with the lemony acidic twang of that sorrel and the little bite of the dandelion. The onions make it more savoury, I think.

Tea on a proper cold night

Now, I'm not one to whoop about spring coming and everything being all right now that soon we won't be cold, as I love winter in Britain and always have -- much as I relish warmth on my back, butterflies on buddleia and  and bees on thyme bushes when we have the balm of those first warm days. But I like cold, frost and winter mornings and fires in the evenings. And I love winter food. Try this followed by this.

SAUSAGES ALL IN -- IN THE OVEN

Buy as many sausages as you think you will eat, which is to say allow two per person and then probably another one each. For two, that is what I did. Get the best sausages you can find. Pork ones from happy piggies. Then stick them in a big roasting tin WITHOUT having pricked them. No no no. Never do this with a sausage, otherwise they won't get properly sticky. Add to the pan some diced unpeeled potatoes, some peeled chunks of swede, ditto of celeriac, some chunks of  carrot, a couple of good pinches of red chilli flakes, ten cloves of unpeeled garlic, a teaspoon or so of cumin seeds and a glug of sunflower oil or a mild olive oil. This goes into a medium hot oven and, about an hour later, emerges to warm you through to your toes. It needs, though, to be well cooked and hopefully the vegetables should have caught a little here and there. Serve it with some green vegetables. I'd favour some wedges of a dark green brassica. How about some savoy cabbage?

Pudding. I hope this does not offend. I see that it is a little unsophisticated. Offer up a bowl each of some good thick Greek yoghurt --low fat Greek yoghurt can be pretty good-- with a dollop of the best strawberry jam you can find in it. But get this wrong and it'll be way too close to your primary school dinner. So good ingredients. You could add some lemon zest and some grated ginger or nutmeg, if you like.

I was very happy with this.

OOOH, SPEAKING OF OVENS...I have just purchased a new one after one false start and some  unexpected plumbing issues. I became sadly, sadly obsessed over the choosing of said appliance because, this time, I was going just a little upmarket and trying to buy something that was, in fact, rather beautiful. This is not something British cookers do well. And cheapo ovens? Caveat emptor. But this one. Well, I am sure I am boring you, but I went not for the biggish range of my dreams, but for the smallish, compact champagne coloured baby range and....I will be stroking it when I am alone. It is a Stoves mini range dual fuel in, well, champagne. With big knobs.

Pulling mussels from the shell

Pembrokeshire. This is a view from Stackpole Quay, a short walk away from Barafundle Bay, which reminds me...we are speaking of the sea and the wonderful things it produces --some of which you would find might in fine fettle right now.

Mussels are a good buy in March. Actually, March is a good month for British seafood generally. February, too. My rule of thumb here: NOTHING surpasses a little butter, possibly some lemon juice and perhaps some garlic with such riches.  However, I may tinker a but -- as follows. Hmm, Mussels. Could be a last meal. No, wait: that would be a whole crab, with a little melted butter to one side, to tear, limb from limb. Back to the mussels.

1. Have a big pan ready. A big wet pan. Having rinsed your mussels --I am assuming they are in the shell-- and given them a quick scrub if you deem it necessary, just chuck them in said pan. Put a lid or plate over the top. Over a moderate heat, they will steam and their shells should open up. Just a couple of minutes. If you have one which does not, it is already rather dead and needs to go in the bin. Then, add a fat slice of unsalted butter and two cloves of finely chopped butter, toss these around and cook for another couple of minutes. They are done and will be divine.
2.   Do the same two minute steam and then pull half a shell from the mussels, put a little butter and garlic on mussel in its remaining half shell and grill for a minute or two. You could also add some fine white breadcrumbs. I once ate these with a fine grating of paremsan, too.
3.   Moules Mariniere. Well, I just chuck the cleaned mussels in a deep pan, add a little butter over the heat and a couple of cloves of finely chopped garlic. Toss a couple of times and then add a decent dry white wine to cover. One that you like and would drink! Bring to a moderate heat and cook for three minutes or so, and you are done. Again, remember to discard any mussels that do not open.
4.  Mackerel. Good stuff this time of year in Blighty. I do not believe in fussing about with mackerel. Just get it gutted and cleaned, head on or off as you wish (on, in my case), sprinkle it with salt and pepper, roll it in seasoned flour and then fry it gently in a pan in a little sunflower oil or roast it a high heat. Eat with bread and butter and no fannying about with accompaniments. Now, I do quite like to use Indian spices with mackerel (top tip: if you are going to Goa, check it out -- but posssibly not at a traveller's haunt where they sell banana pancakes, if you get my point. You'll need to forage or go inland. Maybe to Paniji, the state capital?). I'd suggest rubbing the mackerel with sea salt and pepper, a little cumin powder and some turmeric, plus plenty of red chilli. It can take it. Rub it in inside and out and then roast in a little sunflower oil. The idea with fried or roasted mackerel is, importantly, to make sure the inside is succulent but that you get crisp skin. I have never in my life cooked a mackerel fillet.
5. Oh, oysters. There's something else to explore this month. Natives, I mean. The rudest kind of shellfish, somehow: need I elaborate? Remember, that it's terribly silly to swallow them straight down when raw. You need to acquire the skill of shucking without injuring yourself (an oven glove is my top tip: I'm sorry, I'm giggling now) or get a fishmonger to do it for you. Then just pull each one from the shell, chew and taste the sea. Ideally, you'd have a glass of champagne to ne side. But man, if ANYONE ever put this on for me, I'd keel over in delight. Divine. Where was I? You could add a little lime or lemon juice maybe a hunt of the original Tabasco sauce. But that's it. If you did want to cook them, they remove from the shell and give them just a couple of seconds in a hot pan so that the edges curl, perhaps trying a little of the Tabasco sauce with them. But just the tiniest little drop, mind. I don't ever want to turn them into soup or fritters. Tomorrow: more piscine adventures.

1. 
   

A frittata

Well, there appears to be little food in the house. But wait: what's this? I have found the following items:

Did you get the boiled egg and soldiers thing?  Always have some eggs on hand for cheerful pictures and culinary emergencies, I say. Picture by Giles Turnbull.

six spring onions

three small cold jacket potatoes (that sounds kind of tragic, doesn't it? A bit like Mrs Beeton breaking the heart of a young lettuce)

a handful of cherry tomatoes

we have plentiful garlic and whole red chillies. If I have no other food, I always seem to have these -- plus my cupboard full of spices

half a yellow pepper

six eggs

two sticks of celery

Right: I have it. 

Chop up everything into small pieces, mince four cloves of garlic and, say, half a red chilli. Fry them off gently in a little olive oil in a large frying or saute pan. Meanwhile beat the eggs well with a little sea salt and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Then having made sure that your vegetables are fairly well distributed across the pan, pour on the eggs and raise the heat. Allow all to set and then either turn your substantial-variation-on-a substantial-Spanish-omelette with finesse and elan, or finish it off under a hot grill.. 

Harumph! It is done and, I reckon, it is pretty good fare. I would want plenty of chilli in my omelette and I might also like a little cheese in there somewhere. Perhaps three tablespoons of a sharp cheddar? Pitted olives would, be good, too. Serve with crusty bread or not if, like me, you are not entirely up to speed with the domestics this week.

ALE AND PORTER and then some.

If you are looking for anything about the lovely new Ale and Porter --cafe, patisserie and traiteur, no less, check yesterday's post for text and related recipe! Here, above is Sebastien Rouxel, the chef. Plus for an extra treat, how wonderful is Giles Turnbull's picture of Gary Say, Head Chef at Fat Fowl, below? You can see Gary loves what he does, I think. Check out home made bread and note sprigs of herbs.

Now we are eight.

Isn't this the sweetest thing. Well bittersweet, because today I am the grumpy, shouty mother who, well, should not. Back to the sweetest thing. My eight year old cannot hold a pencil 'properly' for toffee; I've been told more  than a few times that he underachieves in school. But you know what? I respect opnions and all, but that child is highly emotionally literate. My goodness, how highly that counts. And he knows about food. Today, to give his mother a boost, here is what he did. Foods chosen because he thought they were "cosy." Ah: you're wondering about the provenance of the eggs? Spirit of the same. Photo by Giles Turnbull.

1. Plump up cushions in squashy chair; tell mother to put up feet and wait for lunch. Did I want a romantic DVD or a murder book? (Funny, how young boys see their mothers.)

2. Arrive with a menu and a large reserved sign saying "Mrs V. Table three reserved" Table three is the squashy chair. Mrs V is me. He had also written (sic) "You rok!!!" on the bottom of the reserved sign.

3. Sounds of scrabbling and stumbling on stairs up to room. A tray, with a big basin of rice crispies, lots of cold milk and, well, extra milk in the tray -- for which he had brought an extra spoon.

4. A little later, I was given a cheese sandwich and a satsuma for pudding. Today, I let them eat their meals backwards, so that was why I had a cheese sandwich for dessert.

5. Sounds of running. The boy has prepared a flagon of blackcurrant squash. He is now wearing an apron, the previous lack of which he now apologises for. And he brings me a napkin and a raspberry chewy vitamin tablet.

Further details: all white bowl and plate, blue and white napkin. His choice.

The chips below: another comforting sort of food picture. Again by Giles: they are my oven chips and I particularly favour this old enamel cooking tin for their preparation. It's all in the blue rim and the pale yellow interior.

A lovely new venture to taste: traiteur, cafe, patisserie

In our home town of Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire, there is a new little place for you to visit. It belongs to Sebastien and Shanaz Rouxel and it's called Ale and Porter --taking its name after the building in which they are housed. It's writ large on the front! It's a patisserie, cafe and traiteur. Which means that, while you get coffee and a cake, as in any other cafe, or take a little lunch, you can also get food to take away. Here they are: photo by Giles Turnbull, who, let it be known, is what is called A JOLLY GOOD THING. (Neat photos, too.)

There's a wonderfully evocative description of a traiteur's shop in Provence in the writing of the late Keith Floyd. In winter, he saw that it was filled with game and its shelves were stacked with trufflles and pates, with signs in the window offering food to take away. Cooked on the premises were jugged hare, a venison stew and crayfish armoricaine (the name coming --probably-- from the old name for Brittany, not America. Probably.)

So, in France, the traiteur's shop is where you would get --amongst other things-- a selection of foods to enjoy for your lunch or dinner. These would include something substantial so, for example, you might have a wonderful portion of cassoulet to have when friends come round.. In Ale and Porter, you do the same. As I write, you could be eating a  beef daube -- a long simmered beed stew, or a kind of risotto made with pearl barley. Very good for you, you know. While Sebastien is French by birth, the food from this particular traiteur will be more roundly European -- just to give you a taste of more than one country. Not that France isn't a place of genius, you understand. Speaking of which, here is a recipe. It's just a daube, a la moi, but mostly Provencal in nature, I would think. It exploits the French genius for long and patient simmering. Sort of alchemy, then. You could do it two stages, thusly.

Daube. A beef stew (daubes are not only beef!)


Put this meat into a marinade overnight. I'd use 2kg of stewing beef. Decent quality.

The marinade might be:
About 2 glasses of decent red wine
1 medium (say, thumb length?) piece of rosemary on the stem
1 sprig of thyme --maybe even lemon thyme?
1 bayleaf
five cloves of finely chopped garlic
A fat pinch of Maldon sea salt and some freshly ground black pepper
You could add a chopped onion too, because, later it will add aromatic base notes. And I LOVE onions
Take 2kg stewing beef. Decent quality. Cut it into pieces.

Right, the following day, do this.
Get About 250g streaky bacon, cut into little dice. Smoked, ideally. Fry it off gently with a little olive oil. Then drain the meat, putting the marinade to one side. Brown it gently in the pan with the bacon. Oh -- you need a large pan, because you want to brown and seal the meat, not steam it! Take a couple of heaped tablespoons of flour and sprinkle these on, keeping a watchful eye on the heat so that the flour dosen't catch. You do want, though, to cook it out properly. Just a minute or so will do. Stir carefully and then pour in the marinade and 4 glasses of red wine.All you do then is bring to a high heat and simmer for around three hours or you could, at this point, decant it to a moderate oven and let it bubble away.  You could also add a couple of pieces of (scrubbed) orange peel. You may find you need to add a little water, but a daube should be thick -- so have confidence. remember to check and correct the seasoning.

When all is done, the meat will be exceptionally tender. Elizabeth David once had tears in her eyes when presented, weary and long travelled, with a daube -- seeing the little branches of thyme and smelling the rich and homely scent as the lid of the daubiere was lifted. I know what she meant.

I would enjoy serving this with plain boiled potatoes and -- because I will never be French and will always inhabit a place sometimes in England and sometimes in Wales-- with a big heap of boiled and roughly chopped cabbage. It might be the done thing, down South, to serve with noodles and a little cheese,

Chicken soup for the soul. For Susan.

Yes, yes: we've all heard this one But chicken soup really does seem to work if you have a cold or flu and, reader, I am feeling dreadful. However, someone came to my door late this afternoon, having removed the children from my care, swung them around the house so as to wear them out for me and then prepared some soup. I will ask her what she put in it at some point, but let me just say that the right food offered by the kind (a good splash of Southern may I say?) soul made me feel very happy. 

And man: that soup was better than mine. It contained good rich chicken stock, chopped chicken --both the brown and white-- and, I noticed, it was cut into neat pieces (unlike mine) which was particularly soothing in the circumstances. Just a nod to what I'll call nursery food. There were peas, neatly cut carrots, just a little celery and linguine which had been snapped into pieces. Well seasoned. Just right. More to the point, she had made enough for two good helpings with seconds so that Nedved (that'll be the husband, if you're not a regular reader) could share it.

As My auntie Bettie in Pembrokeshire says: "I notices things."

Feet up by the fire, dear.

And an update to favourite meals, chicken soup and a tuna tortilla!

Following on from my last post on favourite meals....

My eldest son, Elijah, just 8, says that it would either be a home-made pizza (with a big crusty base, a tomato sauce, some chilli flakes, some spicy sausage, red or green peppers and light on the cheese) or a big bowl of his mother's home-made chicken soup (warms the heart, this). Made thusly.

Elijah's chicken soup. Son, momma loves you.

You have the remains of a roast chicken. Perhaps you have some chicken stock, too. If you don't, it's not the end of the world. Right, strip the carcass with your fingers, missing nothing. Then put the chicken into a deep pan. Cover with cold water and then twice as much water again. Add a finely chopped onion, five roughly chopped carrots, a head of broccoli, torn into pieces, five potatoes, chopped (whether you peel or not is up to you, but I would -- unless they were newies), two chopped parsnips and, perhaps, half a large swede, chunked. Bring this lot to the boil and then add about a tablespoon of marigold bouillion powder for depth and savour. Just simmer slowly for about forty minutes and it is ready. Check and correct the seasoning. Elijah likes this with a big hunk of bread for dipping, but sometimes not.

Two points: the only way that this soup will be superlative is if you use a free range chicken. So much more flavour for your money and we like chickens. I don't need to go on about the alternative right here in a recipe. Just check out --amongst others-- Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall on the subject. Secondly, don't waste the remaining bones. make them into a stock for the next soup by simmer them long and gently with a few peppercorns, a piece of onion and perhaps a little celery. Or nothing at all. Or make the stock first, having stripped away the meat, and use it as a bases for this soup. It's just that I had a vat of it which I wanted to use up. Oh and finally, do keep some of the Marigold stock powder in your cupboard. It's available in low salt and organic varieties and provides a flavoursome stock. Although I wouldn't use it for every soup I make.

Tuna in a tortilla a la Ned. (You rock)

And a thought from Elijah's father. This is, perhaps, an odd sort of thing to have as a favourite, but it makes him happy, so that's dandy. I like it, too. Just take some tuna in spring water (if you can get it. I say sunflower oil, but we allow him his preferences), drain it and then add it to a frying pan on a moderate heat. Your aim is to cook the tuna until you have dried it slightly and given it a little bit of crisp here and there. Then, add plenty of hot sauce. May we recommend another favourite ingredient in our household? Encona Hot Chilli sauce. It's the best. Just mix in as much as you dare -- it's hot and piquant-- and then toss your tuna into a warmed tortilla. That's it! I might like to add a dollop of Greek yoghurt or some mayonnaise and, maybe, some chopped coriander? Possibly some spring onion, too. But I see that this may be taking away from the somewhat basic but very satisfying original (I mean the sandwich, not the husband).

Isaac's (he is 5) favourite ingredients are: tomato ketchup, rice, sausages, mangoes, kiwi fruit and lollipops! Oh -- and watermelon. His father's son. More on this later!

A favourite meal? A fantasy meal? A last meal? A meal to savour all alone?

By this I mean, if you and only you had to choose. If you thought no-one was there to disapprove -- which just might, I think, mitigate some folks' choices. And don't think it has to be posh. It might be Nutella on toast, for all I care. I am just curious -- plus I want to put this into my next book. Anonymously, if you choose. You don't need to think in terms of courses and, if you can write lustily about it, so much the better.

These are my favourites. At the moment, I mean. And amongst all my other favourites. All of a jumble and in no particular order.

An obscenely ripe wodge of  Brie. Or Camenbert.

Porridge. Big bowl. With golden syrup or --get this-- condensed milk.

A Masala Dosa with a coconut chutney.

A really good floury boiled potato. Must be the peasant in me. Or a roast potato. The one that got stuck to the tin and seemed to have collapsed. That was always the one I pinched on Sunday. My eight year old does it now.This makes me feel warm and fuzzy around the edges. Do you know what I mean?

A giant bowl of pasta. It should be spaghetti or linguine and the sauce needs, probably, to be Arrabiata or Puttanesca.

A lobster. A crab. A cone of winkles. A pot of prawns. Pulling mussels from the shell. Skate wings. Oysters. I'd be positively ferral. And I don't want the oysters cooked. Neither do I swallow them whole.

My mother's Sunday roast. Beef, with billowing Yorkshire pudding, Roast parsnips. God rest her soul.

Roast pork. Good crackling. Apple Sauce.Good rest her soul again.

My mother's steak and kidney pudding. With carrots to one side. And a pile of cabbage. Blimey, I really am from Britian, aren't?

A poached egg or two on thick white toast. Or possibly a boiled egg with the same. And a jaunty egg cup.

A bacon sandwich. Nothing else. And with the bread a bit doorstoppy.

Cawl. That's Welsh for soup, that it. With big hinks of cheddar cheese melting in it.

A giant pizza with a crisp crust. And it has to have anchovies on it.

A really hot Thai soup. With prawns. Or a really good Japanese Tempura. Or a proper Goulash or ...I don't know. Cannot decide. But I'll tell you that I love chillies.And I went wild over a cactus salad not long ago....

Just a few that came to mind. Oh --sweet stuff.

Bread and butter pudding, with the edges caught here and there.A proper trifle. Lemon meringue pie. Home made ice cream -- maybe with blackberries in it? Or gooseberry or rhubarb fool? Or apple or rhubarb crumble?

But what would you say?