Sunday lunch with an American flavour

My brother, the lucky sod, just got back from America where he declared he has never eaten so well. The fact that he has eaten a meal with me, cooked by me, nearly every week for nigh on 10 years did not hurt my feelings. No Sirree! I am made of tougher stuff than that ( you really can insert your own joke here, I will no doubt make my own later). Still having reasoned that I had nearly been responsible for the demise of his dog, and that we have Sunday lunch together every week that perhaps I should up my game.
So I decided on Pork Belly, a) because everyone who eats meat likes it, and b) because it is terribly hard to mess up. I did decide to go the extra mile thouigh, and braised it gently for two and a half hours in a roasting dish into which I had chopped two carrots, two large mushrooms, one large onion and, after placing the scored piece of pork belly ( about 1.5 kilos in all) on top, poured over chicken stock to which I had added a glass of white wine. The stock came to about the top of the pork belly, I then covered it in foil, and popped it into an oven which I had preheated to 200 degrees, set a timer for the required two and a half hours whilst I tackled the laundry mountain which had unaccountably appeared in my house.
 However, whilst I was preparing vegetables to go with the meat I chanced upon some maple syrup, and just knew that if I mixed two tablespoons of it with an equal amount of butter and some thyme leaves, salt and pepper it would be perfect for roasting carrots in. However, knowing that my brother had been in the land of the free, I finely chopped some smoked bacon-inspired by their coupling of pancakes , maple syrup and bacon- and added that to it as well. I mixed the syrupy butter with the bacon, ( about 3 strips for the record) and about 500g of carrots cut into batons, and roasted in the same oven for about 40 minutes, the results were wonderful, even if I do say so myself.
After the pork had braised for the required time I was meant, according to the recipe I was (very ) loosely following to press the pork belly flat with a weighted board for at least an hour, preferably longer. So I did this for about twenty minutes, got bored and moved to the next step which is where you place the pork belly scored skin side down until the skin has browned and some of the remaining fat has rendered, which means you can see it in the pan, or if you are as fortunate as me, have it kindly spit on your arm to inform you of its presence.
Whilst the pork belly is filling your kitchen and house with a faint covering of smoke, take all the cooked vegetables in the pan with the poaching liquid and blitz them into oblivion with a blender. This will act as gravy, and most delicious it is too.
Once you have decided that if you open every window in the house you may get rid of enough smoke to be able to see, and you have disabled the smoke alarm with a nifty swipe of your broom, then return it to the cleaned out pan and brush the now browned skin with a glaze made from 2 tablespoons of maple syrup mixed with an equal amount of dark soy sauce. Return to the oven for about 25 minutes, whilst the roast potatoes you have placed in their earlier are crisping up nicely and you rustle up something in the way of a green vegetable.
And what did my brother have to say when I asked him about his best eating experiences?
 "Mortons in San Francisco, for sure I ate their three times in one week. And this little Mexican place in Hollywood, they did the best ribs I have ever tasted, the meat just melted into your mouth." ( uttered without irony as the pork belly I had so lovingly prepared was doing the same)
Seems that sometimes you just can't  bloody win still, I enjoyed it, and hope you do too.

Clearing out the closets....

Alot of things have changed for me since January, and recently I have had a veritable downpour of changing events regarding friendships, relationships, work, and as I can see from the devasting effects of a howling wind outside my window, even the weather is proving mighty ornery.
Ah well, previously these sort of circumstances would have had me hiding under a heavily scented duvet ( doona for our Australan friends) and asking myself what I had done wrong.  Now I am no doubt not blameless, in some of the many messes I create, but I can at least exit stage left with a bit of dignity and respect. Besides, I have a box set of 'Downtown Abbey' to watch, and those discs are not going to watch themselves.
So I did some metaphorical house keeping, and have decided I need something comforting, yet hopeful for dinner. Caesar salad it is then, with chicken, and bacon just this side of crisp as to almost-but not quite- be burnt. I kid myself this meal is healthy, but after adding chicken, bacon, grated parmesan and lots of dressing ( I use Gizzi Erskine's recipe from her 'Kitchen Magic' book when I make it myself, and Paul Newman's version when I am not being quite so good, but I reassure myself that the profits from my laziness go to charity, so it's not all bad).
It's so simple, put the chicken and bacon into an oven around 180-200 degrees-if you place the bacon over the chicken you only really need to add pepper, as the bacon will be salty enough. Then chop your Cos lettuce into easily forkable sized pieces ( for the ultimate in feel-good you want to be able to spear a piece of chicken and shard of bacon plus a piece of leaf onto your fork each time with no need for other messy time consuiming utensils-although it just occured to me that I must look pretty lazy if using a knife or spoon is seen as hard work) Wait until the chicken and bacon are cooked, tear them up into the afore-mentioned bite sized pieces then toss together with your chosen dressing and a large handful of grated parmesan. If you are feeling particularly indulgent sprinkle more parmesan over the finished salad, retire to a comfortable lounge and dig in. Which is exactly what I am going to do now, thankyouverymuch.

Guilty Pleasure...

Ok, I know I come across as a committed carnivore, but actually I eat vegetarian alot of the time. I love quorn, I even like smoked tofu, but it has to be hard as opposed to silken, as yet I cannot pursue a love for the silken stuff...maybe one day. Today I am in the process of cooking curry, well many curries in fact. Two sisters from Queensland had the absolutely fabulous idea of portioning all the herbs and spices, in bags labelled in the order they needed to be used, to create a perfect curry. One of these sisters was a school friend of my ex-husband, and after separating we decided to take on a franchise, selling their wonderful products in the area we live in. Hey! I never said I was conventional. So I have spent the last few days grinding their wonderful spices, and making batch after batch of curry for a tasting party on Sunday. So when I was shopping today, after my Indian nights filled cooking excursions I caught sight of a pack of chicken livers...and knew, just knew I had to eat them for dinner. Dr, Atkins would have been proud. Ok, so after children had enjoyed home-made burgers and salad( guess who??) and corn-on-the-cob, and my latest curry was simmering away I put a frypan on to the heat to get REALLY hot whilst I prepared everything else. The livers went into a freezer bag Nigella style with a handful of flour, and lavish amounts of salt and pepper. I chopped some garlic finely, then put butter with a little vegetable oil into the by now smoking pan, quickly added the garlic, one quick stir, and then chucked in the bag of floured livers. Now the casual cook will be tempted now to stir, or generally mess about with the livers. DO NOT. leave them for about 2 minutes, then turn over, you will be so happy when you see how they have got gorgeous crusted bits here and there on their surface. Leave the livers for 2 minutes on the other side, then add a glug of brandy, or white wine, or even sherry I guess, listen to that fabulous sizzle, and smell all that alcohol burning away ( not something I would normally rejoice over-so you know it is worth it). Remove from heat, and leave for a few minutes in the hot pan, the booze will get all syrupy, and coat the crusted browned livers. Now you could add salad, and to be fair these are so rich that rocket, watercress, or even endive dressed simply with olive oil and lemon juice would work. But I am greedy, and still nursing a dog who for all his charm, is as destructive as a land grenade. So I just tipped them onto a plate, ate what i could, and then blended what I couldn't with some cream( about a tablespoon) and more butter, and I have tomorrow's toast topping for breakfast. Divine, and for everyone who is thinking, "eewwww", I can only point out that if you eat pate then you have no reason to judge, and all the more to give it a go, think of it as deconstructed pate, but better!!!  And if you are wondering why my spelling of pate does not have the fabulous accent on the 'e', well it is because I do not know how to put it there, not because I do not know it needs it!

Moving on....

Dog watch, day 6, dog is fine, coffee tables, not so much -please don't ask-, all cushions, bed linen,  also not doing so good. So, as we needed to keep a beady eye on said mutt ( my own dog for all previous thoughts of ever moaning about him is now, and for the time being at least, blameless-it can't last Chewie, so enjoy your moment in the sun!!) we needed, the children and I, something we all love, but that kept us all vigilant, and created room in the freezer for curries for curry party on Sunday ( tomorrow! I will explain tomorrow). So chicken wings it was; now I know, they are cheap and cheerful, but done properly, oh how I love them. First of all, every recipe I have ever read says 25 minutes to 45 minutes of cooking time which I think may be why others do not have the love for them I do. Absolute rubbish!! These guys need to crisp up, and become chewily scrumptious, they may be cheap, but they take love and time to bring them to perfection. So for the children, a mixture of salt, pepper, thyme and lemon was sprinkled ( I can't lie, pretty lavishly) and said wings were placed sans oil into a baking dish skin side up. Mine had chilli, salt, ginger,and lime juice, but were treated in the same manner, The oven was set to 200 degrees, and then 'boot-camp mummy'-I am quoting from one of my beloved children- insisted on boring things like homework, chores ( well; recycling, bins and emptying lunchboxes, they were not down at the creek doing the laundry with stones). Then I got stuck into Empire magazine, whilst the children ribbed each other good naturedly over whose turn it was to use the computer. So- one time out later of 20 minutes apiece whilst we worked out how to resolve conflict in a peaceful manner, after the initial 30 or so minutes that the wings had already enjoyed in the oven, and I was ready to turn the oven down to 180 degrees , drain the excess fat out of each tray, and grab whichever sweet chilli sauce was available to drizzle on mine, and honey and lemon for the children. This way the skin was crisp, and the coating didn't burn to a crisp. 15 minutes more of 'I'm so hoooongray' later, because patience is, after all, a virtue I need to become better acquainted with ( in the meantime I had boiled up corn cobs with a dash of milk, and grabbed baby wipes and an extra bowl for discarded bones, I tried to make use of the witching hour I really did). Just when it appeared that our household was going to be a viable proposistion for reality televison producers: 'Balgownie Blowouts' perhaps, I presented all the lovely burnished, sticky, and -best of all- time consuming to eat- wings and corn. Happy children, happy diet ( Ruth Watson can back me up, chicken wings cooked properly take a long time to eat, and with fat rendered off them are quite good val for cal) and after I had hidden all meds for dogs in stripped off skin and flesh it would appear I had pleased everyone. This cannot possibly last, so treasure this entry. I will. Oh no, did I just type that out loud??
On a happier note I can thoroughly recommend, without hesitation, except perhaps for my mother, that Samuel L. Jackson's audio reading of the almost instant classic "Go the F**k to Sleep"  made me laugh so much, when everyone had actually gone to sleep, that I think if you have similar tastes to mine, and want to hear a pseudo bedtime story read in the voice of possibly the only parent in the planet from whom that request would be listened to and obeyed, whilst being said with love, is the best night-time lullaby for any adult. See you tomorrow.

Back from the Brink...

I know I meant to be writing far more regularly that it would seem I have been. However I have mitigating circumstances that will hopefully gain me some breathing space. I have been looking after my brother's dog for him, whilst he is on holiday. Well, I say looking after, but I don't think the story that follows will have any readers beating a path to my door begging me to take good care of their beloved animal companions whilst they rest and recuperate on much needed holidays. I have to confess the day of my first entry, the X-men inspired day, should have raised warning bells in other, more sensitive-or perhaps just sensible-individuals than myself that perhaps this was going to end badly. You see, as we ( my two children and myself) entered our empty home,  well empty except for the two dogs we assumed were guarding it with their lives, my daughter was attacked from behind by what appeared to be the living, breathing embodiment of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Until we realised it was my brother's dog. Once I had resuscitated my daughter ( I considered a sliver of xanax, but honestly I am not really a terrible mother for all my joking and decided an extra ice-cream would do just as well), I was able to ascertain that he had dug a hole -'The Great Escape' style- under the smallest patch of earth under an 8ft fence, enough for him to scamper playfully in the dark scaring the wits out of passers-by and then-oh what larks we have!-us. I should say the dog in question for all his dopey wonderful lovability is the size and shape of a small racehorse. So his looks are deceiving, to say the least. Anyway, not deterred by this failure to remove himself from our care to have some fun, he waited until Friday afternoon before he smashed through the panels of the other side of the aforesaid 8 ft fence and then gamboled playfully into the path of a passing car filled with such caring individuals that they not only hit him, they screeched off, hopefully, towards a huge speeding fine, or an encounter with something larger than themselves as well, just so I can believe that they, too, had the opportunity to join in the fun and games. Needless to say taking a wounded dog to the vet, with weeping children, being reassured that they will do all they can, leaving him there, going back to the small panel of women you have invited for an informal get-together to aid a younger relative's school project, takes a certain amount of dash and elan. I possess neither, so I just drank white wine, forgot to eat, waited for everyone to go and cried alot.
The children spent the weekend with their father, which is probably just as well, as I was a tear-soaked mess, but even a tear-soaked mess needs to eat. In states such as these I can highly recommend that you do one of two things. Number one, put some water on to make spaghetti in, whilst spaghetti is cooking, gently melt garlic which you have gently chopped ( Ok I am lying, I used my pestle and mortar to to smash it to oblivion) along with some anchovy fillets and a dash ( remember I am a bit reluctant to burn my mouth beyond repair) of chilli flakes into a generous slab of butter. Once your pasta has cooked, drain it, toss it in the butter, and use as much Parmesan to make you feel slightly better. The second alternative is to remember that you have halloumi and chorizo in the fridge that whilst you were selfishly guzzling wine like Henry the VIII in his heyday you had forgotten all about for your guests. Take and slice the halloumi into coin sized slabs, cut the halloumi into squares roughly the same size as the discs of sausage, and put sausage on to a baking sheet, topping with the cheese. Pop it into a hot oven until the cheese has browned and the sausage has crisped. Poke cocktail sticks through each and eat off a large enough platter so that you will have at least one other thing to add to your truckload of guilt. It has been revealed I enjoy the odd drink when I am happy, so I will leave you to surmise that these meals were also accompanied by more than a thimbleful of crisp white wine. Anyway, the dog is ok, apart from needing icecream or fillet steak in which to secrete his medication, and tomorrow I shall cook a proper dinner, and recount us back to the path of what counts for normal in these parts.  Which I am sure by now you have realised is not very normal, but may, after all, be more entertaining for it.

A Recipe....Finally

I am sure you have noticed that up until now I have talked the talk in a devastatingly convincing manner, but have yet to supply anything in the way of goods as far as recipes are concerned. I do have some, honest guv! I was just trying to establish a rapport with this whole writing into the ether business, but as these few days have gone by I feel ready to bring something to the table, so to speak, and with apologies for the dreadful pun. I could not begin to ask anyone to cook anything, if I had not given them the recipe for my most favourite meal in the whole world, which is my mother's pasta and meatballs. I know, you are going to think :"C'mon, really, all that build up and then this" Bear with me, this deceptively simple recipe is quite simply everything wonderful about home for me. I only have to smell it cooking, and I feel I am near my Mum, no mean feat seeing as I live in Australia and she lives in England (but is a proud Hebridean and don't you EVER, ever forget it). I make this when I feel homesick, or when I am feeling greedy. My children love it, I had to give the recipe to my ex-husband to make sure he could cook it for them. I have to admit my version is a little different from my mother's. She is not a work-shy fop like myself, nothing is ever too much trouble for her. I have a favourite aunt who used to ask my Mum to help with the staff coffee mornings and arrive at the house at 7.30 am to be greeted with an array of baked goods that would give any small town bakery a reputation that would ensure business for all eternity. You see, I picked this cooking bug up by osmosis really. My mother was an adventurous cook, I can remember her making authentic currries when most people still relied on a hideous mixture of generic curry powder and sultanas to provide excitement to their meals. Her desserts are legendary, and will remain so until I trust you enough to share them. Long before Jamie Oliver extolled the virtues of home-cooked meals my Mum made everything herself, so we were very, very spoilt. Possibly the biggest gift my mother gave me was letting me have the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon to bake a cake, any cake, from the books I read all week, planning. Now there is one, huge, essential difference between myself and my Mum, she is a naturally clean person, and this is reflected in her home  Through her almost seamless steady hard work, surfaces remain dust-free, and her kitchen in particular would sparkle. I always joke ( but actually half believe it) that if they made a perfume that smelled like bleach my Mum would love it. For me however, although I can cook, cleaning is not, how to put this charitably, my strongest suit. I create disorder even when I appear to do nothing but sit and write for hours, I look up and there are piles of debris as far as the eye can see-and if the eye can't see very far it is probably because of the rest of the mess. So to turn over a kitchen to an enthusiastic, yet hopelessly messy, 9 year old was an act of motherly love proving I am one of the luckiest people on the planet. Every week I would make a cake, wait the seemingly endless hours before it had cooled and then ice it and present it to everyone. The only rule was that I had to clean up after myself...but I have a sneaking suspicion that my Mum waited until we were all dutifully eating cake to set things straight. So when I give you this recipe, I will give my own version, whilst telling you the correct way to do it if you wish. I am more idle than my Mum ( as if that hadn't already been made apparent) so choose your version, or indeed, combine the two to make your owm. Either way, make this once and I PROMISE you will make it again, and again. My daughter can make this, my son will learn and I hope one day their children will too.

My mother makes her meatballs in the same manner as I do, then painstakingly dips each one in first egg and then breadcrumbs before frying them off and adding them to the sauce. If you are possessed of a more active disposition than myself, and don’t have time constraints or a new book you just HAVE to get back to reading, then do this.  If you do use my Mother’s original method  you won’t have to add breadcrumbs to the sauce itself, as some will remove themselves from the meatballs naturally and thicken the sauce for you. The ingredients list looks sparse I know, but food doesn’t always have to be complicated to be very, very good.

 500g Pork Mince ( if you can’t obtain this you may use the mixture of pork and veal, or beef)

6 cloves of garlic finely chopped.

1 tablespoon of dried Oregano

1 tablespoon of dried Basil

1 egg.

Salt and Freshly Ground Black Pepper

250g breadcrumbs ( fresh or dried- this is family cooking, not Michelin cheffy fare)

2 tablespoons of Olive Oil ( ordinary is fine)

1 bottle of Tomato Passata (500 ml), or 2 cans of good quality Crushed Tomatoes

 1 teaspoon of sugar.

In a large bowl combine the mince, half of the garlic, the dried herbs, the egg, and half of the breadcrumbs. Season to taste( I don’t mean taste it of course, just add however much seasoning you feel is appropriate for your needs). Form into balls of about a tablespoon each and set aside.

 Into a large saucepan put the rest of the garlic, breadcrumbs, and the oil and cook on a low heat for a couple of minutes. Keep an eye on this, as burnt garlic does nothing for anybody, once the garlic begins to smell  fragrant and you can see that the mixture is the pan is lightly golden, add the passata or the cans of tomatoes and cook gently. Season, again to taste, and add the sugar- the sugar just makes the sauce taste like even the most basic, mouth- puckering of tomatoes have had a modicum of loving care in their  growing methods, even if you and I know they came from the value section of the supermarket ( I do feel compelled to tell you that my mother insists on canned cherry tomatoes, so please use these if you can).

Now, gently put your uncooked meatballs into the sauce, if you feel compelled to stir do so carefully as you don't want to break them up. Allow everything to cook together on a low heat for about 30-45 minutes, stirring gently so the sauce doesn't 'catch' ( fancy way of saying burn at the bottom of pan wrecking everything). Serve with any pasta of your choice; I would argue strongly for penne, but my daughter would put forward just as strong a case for spaghetti, I rather feel the choice should be yours. A green salad on the table, freshly grated parmesan- although pecorino is also good-and some good bread is all the accompaniment you will need apart from good friends and some decent, robust, red wine (although something softer for the smaller people, who seem to universally love this, is necessarily-and legally- required)

Beginnings....

Ok I didn't cook today, well I made an omelette for my daughter, and french toast and bacon for my son for their breakfast, but they spend this evening with their father and his much loved daddy fried chicken, or shepherds pie, so I took a rare opportunity to go out with a great friend and eat someone else's food -green pepper spiced Thai beef, and very wonderful it was too.
But, today a photograph of myself and my paternal grandparents reminded me of one of the two strands of where my obsession with cooking-and eating-began. My Nanny was the most special person in my life when I was little. Visiting with her meant we were going to eat later, and that meant making both my brother's and my own favourite dessert, custard tart for him, and lemon meringue pie for me. My Nanny came from an era where a Kitchen Aid would have been tutted about as an unnecessary extravagance, and probably would have not been affordable for much of her life. To be honest, even if the money had fallen magically into her lap she would have spent it in far more practical manners benefitting many rather than herself. However trivial details like this did not deter women who had stared Hitler in the eye with a steely glint in their own, whilst raising families and making ends meet. So I was handed a small whisk, the necessary egg whites in a bowl, and encouraged to whisk whilst I told Nanny all about what had been happening in my, I see in hindsight, probably terribly dull life. Whilst I chatted she calmly, and almost without any seeming effort, prepared the rest of a roast dinner for twelve, did three loads of washing and knitted parts of a jumper for one of her grandchildren, the whole time making me think I was the most fascinating creature in the universe. And so I learnt that if you whisk long enough and hard enough egg whites change from slightly glazed gloop into a magical dreamy cloud. I was shown how to beat the sugar in, a tablespoon at a time, until the cloud took on some thickness, then we gently folded( get me! I just knew I had to make the metal spoon do a sloooow figure of eight) the rest of the sugar in. Now sometime in the meantime a pastry case had magically apppeared ( two actually, one for the custard tart, one for the pie), another example of the fact that multi-tasking  is not a modern inventionconsisting solely of being on facebook and twitter whilst conversing with real people and working. Then and only then was I allowed to mix the box of 'lemon meringue pie filling' with hot water until it had thickened. Whether by osmosis, or just plain common sense, my Nanny instinctively knew that when you place the still warm filling, pile on the uncooked meringue, and then place the whole pie in the oven you avoid the 'weeping' of meringue and filling as the heat of the filling cooks the meringue placed directly on it. The pie would emerge lightly browned, the swirled tips slightly darkened, like they were used trimmed candle wicks, and would be left to cool where all could see, before being eaten for dessert by all of us. I never thought the process of making the pie was arduous, or time -consuming. To me it was a way to emulate one of the most wonderful women I had ever known, and to do what she could, the time I spent in the kitchen with her was special, I felt like what I imagined a 'grown-up' felt. (I was wrong, but that is the wonder of  childhood, all adults know the secret of being great...or so we all assume). I am human, I do have days when cooking seems tiresome, but I still find it magical, to cook something and then share it with people I love and like. And one of the reasons is those mornings spent in a kitchen where I felt loved, and capable.

I need some comfort, and i need it NOW

Today was one of those days when you wish the alarm had left you a 24 hour snooze period. It wasn't so drastically bad that immediate support from the friend network was required, just crappy enough to leave you dis-spirited about matters such as career choice, fair weather friends-all ship shape and shiny in their place but winter, through no fault of their own but their capriciousness and your willingness to go along with it, doesn't show them to their best advantage-accidental flooding of bathroom( that is so a story for another time), 8-count 'em !- loads of laundry due to mopping flood up with whatever is at hand ( all towels, clothes and the occasional soft toy) and then the subsequent realisation that actions have consequences- horrible dull mind crushing consequences. Wonderful children had circus training, and were easily satisfied with home made pizza from cunningly stashed bases made in despair baking frenzy a week ago. Me, however, I needed more. And yet I wanted to contribute so much less in the preparation of said need. As ever, Nigel Slater to the rescue. He has a recipe for a spicy sausage pasta with cream and basil, which I have adapted for my own needs on many an occasion.  First boil up the water for your pasta, if you are desperate this will take longer than you think, believe me. You then ideally take some Italian style sausages- if you have them- remove them from their skins, crumble them  up into a mis-mash of shapes and fry until lightly caramelised. I daresay if you are vegetarian you could do this with a vege sausage alternative, but I would probably go for some good flavoured robust mushrooms myself- as ever you choose, it's your dinner. I had only normal sausages, so i crumbled them with a teaspoon of fennel seeds, and some chilli flakes, I have to admit here, I am a bit wimpy. So I had maybe half a teaspoon of chilli flakes for four sausages, if you like more heat please add more, I will only have respect for your toughness and superiority with the hard stuff compared to myself. Once caramelised put pasta in heavily salted ( see previous posts) water- I recommend penne, shells, or  the one that looks like a thick demented saucer, whose literal translation is 'little ears'. Anyway , having had no thoughts of prior preparation all I had was penne, so penne it was., Now turn your attention to your sizzling pan, and add about a glass of white wine, and then listen to that hubble, bubble, toil and trouble hiss and splutter as the smell of wine fills the air ( Note to self, contact Chanel or similar in morning, have great idea for perfume). Now wait until the wine looks like syrup, it should be just on the verge of disappearing completely, then add cream, I would love to give an amount, but a generous glug-say 200, 250mls should do the job, add more or less depending on whether you have read any Dean Ornish compared to Naomi Wolf or Nigella Lawson- and a tablespoon of whole grain mustard. Let this reduce-which essentially means boil away and thicken- in pan whilst you chop some fresh basil, I know everyone says tear it , blah blah, but we are not chefs so take a knife and hack away. Ok, pasta should be ready, drain it, add it to cream and sausage pan and add the basil, reduce the heat to low and toss together ( Ok  this doesn't ring true even to me, I stirred in a messy fashion, some coated pasta fell out and i had to add 'clean stove top' to my to-do list-happy??). Turn off heat, and serve. You will think the first time you make this, " will I need Parmesan?". You won't, I promise. You can if you wish, but really, you won't. This, plus the rest of wine, the quiet house resounding to my favourite ( so far) episode of Trueblood ( for the record Season 3 Episode 8) and, well technically the day hasn't got better, but damn I feel better, and some days, self- absorbed selfish bint that I am that is all that counts. Hope your day and dinner were great. To all of us imperfect people!

Monday Mania

I dont know about you, but mondays suck, I always seek to address the excess of the weekends, bad food, and,( c'mon!), a common thread ( at least in these posts) is that drink on the weekend is not an option, it is an obligation!- so the one day I make concessions to the fact that I willingly choose to and can eat everything I desire at weekends is the guilt-ridden loathing of self on Monday. However it never turns out badly, ever! I today for instance reheated some previously made lentil and vege burgers lavished them with a morrocan spice blend, roasted them with some fresh coriander and lightly olive oil brushed, same morrocan spice blend sprinkled aubergine ( hey it was in my hand-and it is Monday!!!) ( for Australian and American readers I am referring to eggplant) with soya sauce dabbled over them as a last minute after- thought. All of which I know sounds too Gwyneth Paltrow for words, but trust me it really is so yummy. One brief bill paying session at m,y computer later- Mondays the day the fun bus slides out of town- then the lentil burgers, wrapped in flat bread with spicy gucamloe, and the caramelised silky textured aubergine were ready and I feel it is my duty to inform you that privatation felt like a treat! After dutifully cooking lamb cutlets and  potato wedges for the children- who are protected from my voyages into the realms of excess whenever possible- accompanied with my daughter's obligatory salad ( cherrry toms, olives, cucumber, shards of carrots) and the baked beans and chopped up red pepper (capsicum) for my son It was early to bed with a good book, after all the point of Mondays is to make them last for as short a time as possible. So Monday is now considered over...we can only move on up from here!!! See you in food reaction to life the universe and everything tomorrow

Hello

Well, where to begin? I know! I saw "X-Men First Class" last night, and came home with a hankering for dry martinis, brutal scotch ( for full effect drunk whilst affecting the look of swilling iced tea-i know it probably is iced tea- movie props and all- but damn, who doesn't want to look that cool draining the hard stuff!), and rare fillet mignon. Obviously a day of getting up and standing on a rugby field whilst looking semi-interested ( I make no claims to love anything other than my children- not their chosen forms of fun, I don't play pokemon either, but no-one expects me to fake THAT) got in the way slightly of immediate gratification; oh ok, one martini, dirty, but apart from that, I was sooo good. But today was another day. Dinner began with the appropriate frozen gin, with a drop of bitters, I have a vermouth bottle, and I stand the fellas together from time to time but that is the extent of their relationship. So then steak, and I am willing to eat it, but not mistreat it so spent petrol money on a beautiful aged steak, the rest on a bare handful of rocket. Came home and cooked - without complaint-obliged roast chicken( a dear love, but ...later, Spoilers!!) for children. Then when the whole house quiet, and sleeping and not even vermin dared stir, came the steak. Martini in hand, I oiled it lightly, peppered it with freshly cracked pearly, yet wizened, ebony grains, applied Maldon with my usual heavy hand - apparently stress means you can't taste either salt or sugar correctly, I can only conclude with my absolutely normal blood pressure and high desire for Maldon, bordering on jonesing and slight panic if I am in a restaurant and cannot see salt, to mean I may be under some firmly placed denial about stress levels. Then I seared that slab of burgundy meat, 2 mins each side, on a pan so hot Hades himself would have been in some discomfort, then left the beautiful caramelised meat in its pan at the back of the stove whilst I made Bearnaise sauce. My sporty- well sporting at least- children had cubed the butter earlier, everything was ready , I could see my steak, smell it, plus, goaded on by my martini, I knew failure was not an option. Sometimes the fear of failure- mixed with greed and a sense of "C'mon, how much could go wrong???'- is what aids success.  Over simmering water, i took the vinegar and herb reduction, added the organic egg yolks, salt, pepper ( if after all we can do nothing else in the battle to not be disgusting abusers of the planet and all our fellow inhabitants, accept this: Battery Eggs are NOT AN OPTION), and began to whisk in the butter, each time thinking, " oh dear Lord do not scramble, or curdle, or" ( sipped martini, imagined Michael Fassbender awaiting dinner and ...moving on). And you know, it was wonderful. the rocket cradled the steak, the bearnaise anointed the meat with a silky piquant creaminess. Short of a sharp dressed mutant ( or two) and a body that could eat this and live partially in lingerie, life was for a short time wonderful. And when that feeling briefly eased I mixed another martini until it returned to wondrousness.
 I won't always be this exciting or happy, but hell who is? I want to reflect a love of food and life always, even when my circumstances do their damnest to detract from joy in every moment, lets strive for joy in some, comfort in all, and at least sustenance until we are back on form from all others. Looking forward to checking in with all of you.