I Can Multitask - but sometimes I think I shouldn't

Look closely and you can see the chain marks

I like to multitask; I think it’s the mark of an active mind and I’m pleased that I can do it. That said there are definitely times when I should just focus on one thing. Like cooking; I adore cooking but I also like to chat and many a meal has suffered because of this. Now I pay more attention.

            Cycling is another activity that requires my full focus – I’m fully aware of that and consider myself a fairly proficient cyclist – I know the danger spots, wouldn’t dream of cycling with headphones, always wear reflective gear. This is when I’m on the move, when I’m stationary I expect that I can do other things.

            I went for a bike ride today, I have to – I’ve entered a race in November and the last time I cycled was July. So as you can imagine, I’m on a tight training schedule in a desperate attempt to become race-worthy in five weeks. I love training, I love the feeling afterwards when you think you’ve done a good thing and you actually deserve your dinner but I don’t like the last 700 metres. I live on a hill, it’s actually 1.2 miles to the bottom (or the top whichever way you look at it) and those last 1925 metres home are positive agony. I can will myself through the first 1200 – I have to, they’re in the public eye – but as soon as I round the last bend (pass the last house) I allow myself a breather. It’s a bad habit. I should try and break it but some days I feel it is the only way to get me over that last hurdle – and it is a steep 700 metres.

            I always stop in the same place. If I’m running you’ll find me bent double (my legs look thinner from that angle) or if I’m on my bike I’ll have my left foot up on the kerb, maybe sipping my last drop of water. Today I stopped just as normal but, recalling that I’d had a text about five minutes previously, I decided to check my phone. It makes it look more legitimate that way – like you’re not nearly dead – you’re just taking an important call. Now this shouldn’t be a problem, I was stationary remember – and youths can text whilst cycling, in traffic, with headphones on (don’t try it, it is dangerous). I’ve watched professional cyclists cycling along, one arm extended into a med-car whilst the team doctor stitches a gash, just so that they maintain their position in a race – so pulling over, unclipping your left foot and balancing on the kerb (which is at perfect height) so that you can read your text is easy. It has to be. I’ve done it before.

My knee took the fall

            Today was different. I’m not entirely sure what happened next but I think maybe I leaned into my right hand as I tried to work my phone – and my right foot was still clipped into the pedal. Suddenly I could feel myself falling to the right but – clipped in as I was – I was unable to stop myself. Until my right knee hit the ground, my phone flew across the road and the bike chain managed to slice an interesting pattern into the back of my left leg.

            Luckily I don’t think there were any witnesses.

Why I Adore Public Transport

I love travel, for me the holiday begins the second we leave home – even if that means seven hours on various motorways traversing the length and/or breadth of England. (Actually the reason it takes so long is I never traverse England without a stop somewhere interesting so don’t feel sorry for me.) But if I can get anywhere by public transport I will do. Buses mean you can work, read or people watch; trains mean the same but you can also drink wine on a train without being frowned upon!

So I thought I’d share something I wrote on a recent train journey to Preston.

I am sitting pressed against the window, the fields flashing by in the corner of my eye, trying to distance myself from the smell of urine and the noise of the large family at the end of the carriage. In the seats directly in front of me a very overweight woman is talking noisily across the table. I cannot at first tell if she knows the lady to whom she is chatting or if these are casual train acquaintances.

            “Oh, by the way, you know that £200 grant I get for clothing?”

            “Hmm, no…”

            “You know, to help buy clothes for interviews – you lose that.”

            “Right.”

            “And the £40-a-week grant, you lose that; I’ll be £40 a week worse off if I work more than 16…”

            Her voice trails off into the distance, my mind wandering between the repeated shouts of “SIDDOWN” (a new word in my vocabulary) and memories of other train rides.

            The smell of cinnamon as the chai-wallah (tea-seller) darts up the carriage, the crunch of peanut brittle – a sweet, salty explosion – shared with the family of six squashing onto the bench seats with you. The feel of my knee pressing against my husband’s – the awareness of clammy skin in the early morning heat. The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks and the sight of a row of dark bottoms all attending to their morning toilet on the opposite track as we approach the edges of Mumbai.

           

Today I sent a competition entry, it wasn’t travel writing, but please keep your fingers crossed for me. Any comments on my writing - what you like/what I could improve would also be gratefully received.

Square Pegs in Round Holes?

Square pegs in round holes at Carnac

I didn’t go to nursery. I stayed at home with my mum and we did fabulous things instead – like oil paintings, trips to the park, picnics and watching Pebble Mill at One so I know I didn’t miss out on anything. Except perhaps those games where you have to fit a square peg in a round hole (or is that what you’re not supposed to do?).

            The other day I spent ten minutes in the kitchen trying to fathom out why the lid (which I had only 3 minutes ago removed from my rice container) would no longer fit. Ten long minutes – albeit with a glass of wine so I wasn’t worried about the matter – but ten minutes nonetheless that could have been spent more usefully. The answer did dawn on me eventually (just as I was about to find the Selotape and consider taping the lid to the box) – it was the wrong lid. I guess this is why kids go to nursery.

            That said, I can make the square peg fit – it’s just a combination of brute strength and determination (though admittedly some things then break beyond repair) – so I guess there’s no need for me to worry.

            Having just returned from France my next few recipes will, naturally, be French inspired. I was going to give you the delicious Sauerkraut one (the French call it choucroute which I think is a much more delicate sounding word) but I’ve no photos of that yet so instead I’ll give you a lovely speedy fish recipe. Beurre noisette is usually served with Skate wings (and it goes well with them) but for this recipe (where you flour and fry the fish) you can use any tasty white fillets. If I were using Skate I would probably poach them in wine rather than fry. I used Sea Bream fillets which were literally being given away on Bury Market yesterday (visit around 4:00pm for bargains). The crushed new potatoes (photo) were a disappointing accompaniment; I think it would have gone very well with rice (Carmargue if you can get it).

Recipe: Fish fillets with buerre noisette

Source: Inspired by countless French bars but see What I’m reading now for a good French recipe book.

Ingredients

Sea Bream (filleted – one fillet per person)

Fennel bulb(s) (one medium one per two people)

Caper berries (sliced)

Fresh Parsley (flat or curled)

Fresh Dill (or use the feathery bits off your fennel if there are enough)

Salted butter (a few knobs)

Unsalted butter (100g for 4 people but you’ll need 75g for 2)

Olive oil

Plain flour

Rice or potatoes to serve

What I Do

Quarter the fennel bulbs (removing the fronds for later) and put them in an oven-proof dish. Drizzle generously with olive oil and then dot with a few knobs of salted butter. Put in the oven on Gas Mark 6 until tender (at least 30 minutes – you can always keep it warm if it becomes tender sooner), about ten minutes before the end you may want to sprinkle brown sugar on the fennel (this is optional but can help enhance the flavour). Cook your accompaniment (rice or potatoes) as you normally would).

Meanwhile put a few spoons of plain flour on a plate with some seasoning (if desired), I used black pepper and then grey salt which is a Normandy speciality. Lightly press the fillets into the flour, coating both sides. Cut off the knob of unsalted butter (you don’t need to weigh it, it’s a guide – use the lines on the packet) and chop your herbs and caper berries. Have these ready by the hob as it’s one of those meals you finish quickly.

When your fennel and accompaniment are nearly done, dust off any excess flour and fry the fish on both sides – this won’t take long but will depend on the thickness of your fish. When cooked serve on warmed plates along with the fennel and potatoes/rice. Drop the unsalted butter into the frying pan you used for the fish and melt, do this over a medium heat, stirring the butter down. Once melted allow it to go brown in colour – don’t let it burn – you’ll know it’s right because it should start to smell nutty. Remove from the heat and then stir in the herbs and berries (it will spit a lot at this point so be careful). Drizzle this over your fish and on the plate so it looks nice.

Just a few words from France...

The harbour at Vannes

We are savouring our last coffee in France (for the moment). The sun is just rising above the rooftops and soon we will be bathed in autumnal beauty. We can't have coffee on the ferry as we had to travel P&O and they serve Costa- which is awful.
A few travel tips before we depart, there is so much more to see than guidebooks recommend- we ditched things like Lonely Planet years ago and favour the glossy books with heaps of photos. But even they can't do a country justice and this holiday, having tired of the recommended towns (which are generally touristy and full of chocolatiers and expensive coffee houses) we decided just to use our atlas. We have a Michelin and every town has a star system by it's name, ranging from 0 to 3 stars. This is how we found Rochefort en Terre and Fougeres (spellings to be confirmed when I'm home). Both were beautiful, relatively quiet and steeped in history. If you're planning a trip to Brittany visit these towns.

Fougeres Castle

Another useful tourist device is to make use of the brown signs on motorways and major routes- do judge the town by its picture and take an hour or two out of your schedule to visit these places. This is how we stopped at Caudebec-en-caux, to be fair that's also where I ate whelks but that shouldn't put you off.



To finish our trip we've just spent the morning in Notre Dame de Boulogne sur Mer- and almost missed our ferry as it is a beautiful cathedral. Foot on the gas now! Will be home later, full of photos and ideas for food- starting with a sauerkraut and fish recipe inspired by a meal in Auray.

A beautiful sunny Sunday in Dinan

Whelks are good to eat if you are a seagull...

Yesterday we stopped at a bar on the banks of the Seine and, being right by the water I thought it was a good idea to order bulot (whelks). Now it wasn't a problem with my French that led me to do this, I have a great dictionary app so I never need to be confused. It was more a problem with my wildlife (or aquatic life) knowledge. I was picturing cockles or clams, something small and sweet (in that salty sea water way) but anyone with a better grasp of sea animals will know they're more like a snail. Their arrival however was not a disappointment, I like snails so I tucked in readily. It's the next bit where you need to take note. The whelk shell is rather like a Tardis inasmuch as you start to tug on the whelk (with your handy little needle thing they provide) and then this huge animal, huge springy animal, starts to emerge- in most cases the creature inside is twice the size of the shell. Still unphased I popped the morsel in my mouth to discover it was cold. That was the first surprise, followed shortly by the foot, which is crunchy. You then chew for a long time- no melting in your mouth like a nice warm marinated snail - before you finally manage to swallow the thing. Then, if you're polite - and brave (like me) you eat the other 13 (I gave one to Rob) and add it to your list of experiences.
Please note, I am blogging by iPhone so grammar, layout and spellings may get mixed up (it's not easy typing with two thumbs on a minuscule qwerty pad), I'll correct any errors on my return.

En France

I am safely holed up in the most beautiful little hotel in Dinan. If you're ever this way then do check into L'Hotel de la Tour de l'horlage - the owners are very friendly and the breakfast is superbe (in a very French sort of way). As I'm currently posting this via my iPhone I will sign off for now but will be back as soon as I get WiFi (or on Thursday). Meantime, here's a photo of Le Pont de Brotonne.

Kicking the bucket...

I had wanted to give this the title the day my niece kicked the bucket but apparently it’s not funny – even though I cried laughing when it happened. My youngest sister and I share an aversion to death, probably a lot of people do but the aversion for us is particularly pronounced. Thus, if either of us has a string of missed calls then we instantly worry that someone has expired; we now have a scheme to help in this – if I should call my sister or she me and the calls should be missed more than twice we then send a ‘no-one dead’ text message. It helps.

            One day I answered a call from my youngest with the words, ‘has anyone died?’ but this led to a long discussion of what would the caller say if that was the reason for the call? Actually, because I don’t sleep a lot, I pictured the various conversations that could ensue and all were mildly amusing (in a kind of darkly humorous Tarantinoesque kind of way).

            Last week my middle sister left her phone at work and asked me to call the youngest as she knew she would be worrying. As soon as I answered the phone I said, ‘Don’t worry, Claire’s not dead.’ She didn’t like this opening – apparently it caused her to worry.

            Picture my delight then when I was allowed to look after my nieces for half an hour on Saturday whilst my sister ‘dashed’ to Tesco. (I’m not often allowed to look after them – the first time I did the elder niece bust her lip open; the second time I took them for a picnic but forgot coats, and it was on a high hill, in the cold.)

So, I was entertaining my nieces whilst cooking sponge and Rob came in from work, pig bucket in hand – which he placed on the step whilst he removed his boots. My elder niece came running over to see her Uncle and, yes, kicked the bucket. Delighted at this turn of events I grabbed my mobile and proceeded to text…

Oops, [niece’s name] has kicked the bucket. C x

To which came the reply…

You are really not funny tho I bet you are laughing so much that you are crying? X

            She was correct, I was laughing a lot. I still am.

Home-made cordial

I’ve noticed there are lots of English raspberries on offer at the supermarkets at the moment. Here’s an idea for using raspberries up, it’s great with sparkling water (pink lemonade) but it’s also good with still and with hot water – nearly as good as hot Vimto!

Source: Nearly all chefs put ideas for drinks and cordials in their books.

Ingredients:

2 lemons (sliced)

2 punnets raspberries

300g caster sugar

Here's what I do:

Put the lemons, raspberries and sugar in a pan with 300ml cold water (from the fridge is best as you want it to heat up slowly). Bring to the boil, pushing down on the fruit several times to extract all the juices and flavours. Once boiled turn off the heat and continue to press for a few minutes, then allow to cool. Sieve into a dish (use a large sieve to start) and keep pressing the fruits, forcing as much juice as possible through the mesh. Now using a fine sieve pass the liquid through again, do it gently this time to prevent pips going through. Put in a jug. It will keep for around a week in the fridge but I bet it’s finished before then.

 You can obviously mess around with this - I did a version with lemons (I used 6 lemons on that occasion) and ginger, that was lovely but I'd make it more fiery next time. Just have a taste as it's warming up and adjust as necessary.

Baked Ricotta with Caramelised Nectarines

This is a Gordon Ramsay creation though I’ve changed the fruit to make use of what I could find. It’s such a brilliant little recipe though as you can change it lots of ways. Perhaps frying fruit in butter and adding alcohol or just using lovely berries (soaked in alcohol again). I’d probably try the cheese with vanilla seeds for a change as well.

Source: Gordon Ramsay: Fast Food

Ingredients: (to serve two but easily multiplied)

250g Ricotta Cheese
Butter

43g icing sugar (plus extra for dusting)

1 large egg

Zest and juice of a lemon (check flavourings before adding too much if you’re doubling)

2tbs caster sugar for dredging

2 ripe nectarines (not easy in this country – try peaches, plums or anything that looks like it may be tasty)

Here’s what I do:

Pre-heat your oven to gas mark 6 (I normally don’t do this at the beginning as I’m such a slow cook but this is ultra-fast so you really do have to do it at the beginning) and butter the base and sides of two ramekins. Dust with icing sugar, turning them to make sure they’re well coated.

            Mix the ricotta, eggs, lemon zest and icing sugar in a large bowl – you only need a fork, ricotta is the easiest cheese to mix. When well blended have a little taste to check it’s sweet and lemony enough (or vanillary if you’re using vanilla) and then share between your ramekins. Stand them on a baking sheet and bake for 15-20 minutes (it takes twenty in my oven) – they should be golden and firm, if you just carefully run a knife along the edge it will come away nicely. Allow to cool then put in the fridge until you’re ready to serve.

            Cut your fruit into wedges and tip in a bag to dredge in the caster sugar. Fry in a non-stick frying pan with the butter until they caramelise. Add the lemon juice (or maybe alcohol if you fancy) and deglaze the pan. Remove from the heat. Turn out the ricottas on to individual plates and arrange the caramelised fruit around the sides spooning the pan juices on to make it look lovely.
Points to note:
If your fruit is very ripe (like mine was for this photo) then it will be hard to caramelise, you need to get your pan very, very hot if you want a chance of it.
The ricotta gives a very clean, light texture - I'm going to try it again with mascarpone and see if I can create something more creamy - but the ricotta is great if you're wanting to feel healthy or after a heavy meal.
I used pot ramekins for this photo - I think if you use metal you may get a better colour to the cheese.
Do please let me know how you get on with it.

I did not cry - it was just the champagne that made my eyes wet...

Seeing as this has now been bandied about all over facebook and Rob is busy telling his own version of events I may as well use my own blog to set the record straight. To put this into context I have never cried at a film – other than with laughter of course. Then the tears can be seen streaming down my face. Disbelieving folk have challenged me to watch various films sometimes purely because they wish to dis-prove my theory that I cannot be moved by moving media, others are of the opinion that I am somehow missing out having never experienced the emotional joy of tears from a film.

            I watched Marley and Me for this reason. I didn’t cry although I was sorely miffed that I had wasted two hours of my life watching what simply amounted to a tale of death at the end of a long, full and very happy life. This is what happens to dogs. It is to be expected and, whilst I would have sobbed my heart out at the passing of my own old and faithful hairy friend – remember I spent two hours collapsed in a heap at the top of my drive mourning the untimely deaths of my chickens – I do not expect other people to share my grief. I might desire sympathy but I would not suppose that others would wish to watch two hours of rather ordinary doggy tales to get to the fact that my dog died. That said, the bit where Marley is trying to escape the moving car is funny – you could watch the film up till that point if you really were interested.

            Titanic is another example of a film that could not bring about tears. Before you even go to the cinema you do, after all, know the ending – so unless you’re expecting to see the version where a Hollywood director sees fit to play with history and simply have the great ship sailing merrily all the way to New York with celebration drinks on the other shore you are aware that at some point the boat will sink and most of the crew and passengers will die. It is the mark of a good director that they are able to take a well-known story and still insert moments of surprise – in this case a very rich young woman (who is betrothed to an even richer though rather angry man) falling in love with a poor Irish boy. From this moment on you realise that one of the lovers will die (they won’t both die – that would make an even more ordinary film). If the film hadn’t opened with the old woman and her necklace then you may have been on tenterhooks to see who lives. But it does, so you’re not.

            On Friday we decided to drink champagne as a pre-dinner drink, partly because we’re out of cider and partly because it seemed a good idea. We then had some Bordeaux with dinner and settled down to watch The King’s Speech. This is a fabulous film, well-deserved of its awards and I am certainly not going to give any tongue-in-cheek review. I loved it and intend to buy it. The actors, screenwriter and director have managed to take a story (where again you know the ending) and render it ‘edge of your seat’ stuff – and emotional too.

            What came as a shock to me was the moment where the king returns to the speech therapist’s rooms and gives him (throws almost) his shilling back. At precisely this point water came out of my eyes. Now for someone who doesn’t cry at films this was strange. For such a person also to have champagne inside her it was hard to deal with. What I would normally have done is realised I must hide this fact from Rob and would have managed somehow to brush the water away whilst looking like I was wiping my nose or scratching my cheek – that would have made sense. Instead (and please excuse my blasphemy) I said,

            ‘Oh my God, I’m crying…’ and then proceeded to laugh hysterically for ages – we had to pause the film.

            I was not crying of course, I just had wet eyes on account of having a virus all week. After all – if I were going to cry at a film – I would at least pick a part that is sad. Whoever cried over a shilling?

            I shall be back later with a lovely little dessert you can make when you really crave cheesecake but just haven’t got the time – I’ll be washing it down with a nice bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin and avoiding champagne.

It's not telling lies that hurts the tip of your tongue...

I’ve had a sore tongue for two and a half days now – in fact it could have been that that kept me awake Wednesday night. I did not, however, get it from telling lies in fact the source of my pain is being a good wife. Now you may have gathered that I like to cook – I do and I’m allowed to do it often. I also like to wash pots but I’m more or less banned from this activity – apparently I don’t do it well. I do try, and as I’m always pointing out to Rob, if there is food left on the plates at least it’s clean food. Rob doesn’t like it this way.

Since I’ve been working from home I have, on literary dry days (I don’t get writer’s block but I do have days when I write less) tried to surprise Rob by doing the pots before he comes home (we never wash up after dinner – that’s a time for relaxation and wine). He then comes in, inspects the glasses and, more often than not, fills the sink and rewashes everything. I’ve more or less stopped surprising him now. But I do try to ease his workload which is what I was doing on Wednesday when I burnt my tongue.

Although I’m not a bad chef, I am apparently a messy one with a proclivity for using every pot and utensil in our house – I’m particularly big on spoons, tasting a sauce then immediately putting the spoon in the wash only to get a clean one out when I want to taste it again five minutes later. So, as Rob works hard and then has to return to do the dishes I have decided to make a big effort not to mess up too much. Ultimately this was to be the cause of much agony Wednesday.

I was busily whisking a nice little sauce that we serve with steak when we want to remember our days in France. It’s basically tons of oil, some Dijon mustard, a chopped shallot and some soft green peppercorns (kept in brine, not dried) and maybe a hint of sherry vinegar if I feel like it, all cooked off in a little pan on the hob. To make decisions such as the sherry one I have to taste the sauce and, not wanting to use a surplus spoon, I had the great idea of tasting it directly off my whisk - my metal balloon whisk which I had just been using to whisk my hot sauce. Do you see the problem? No? Good – neither did I. Whilst Rob was busy seeing to two lovely steaks I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and licked the sauce off the end of the whisk.

Whisks that have been used to bring oily sauces to near boiling point get hot.

The pain was great and there was a sensation similar to when you lick the freezer but this time my tongue was sticking to the hot metal. Far worse than the pain was my instant realisation of how foolish I had been. (I wouldn’t mind but I’m working on a Sci-fi novel at the moment, surely I should be aware of the physics of conduction?) Now normally when I hurt myself I throw myself on the floor in agony and writhe about for a few minutes until I’ve established whether it really hurt or not. This time I did not – I knew it hurt but I absolutely did not want to let Rob know what I’d done.

So I’m writing it here instead. Please don’t tell him.

Spiders are only poisonous if you eat them

The offending camel stool

The same is true of snakes and indeed frogs. Animals are considered poisonous if they make you ill when you eat them. If the animal inflicts its poison via a sting or bite then it is in fact venomous. These are the things you learn if you have insomnia (actually that’s not strictly true as I guess I would have read the fact even if I was reading in the daytime) but it makes a good opening. Another thing you learn when you cannot sleep is that cleaning your house can result in serious injury. As you’ll know, I cleaned my house on Sunday and, as is my wont, I rearranged the furniture and, I might add, was very pleased with the results. Until last night.

            I’m currently having the type of insomnia that I call medium-bad. I fall asleep very well and get at least the two hours necessary for life to function correctly the next day. I then wake up. I don’t mind this kind of non-sleeping too much, I feel safe in the knowledge that I can drive relatively safely on two hours sleep but there are still down-sides to it. Probably the worst is that feeling when it approaches 4am and you know that if you leave it much longer to return to sleep you’ll actually feel worse in the morning. I have been known on summer nights to forget sleep altogether at this point and paint my nails instead.

            Last night I woke at 2:40 after a traumatic dream and (once my palpitations had subsided and my heart removed itself from my throat returning to somewhere nearer the middle of my chest) felt the immediate need to continue my latest read (see what I’m currently reading for details of this). It’s a large, hardback natural history book with lots of colour photos so it’s not the easiest thing to read quietly (as in without disturbing Rob – whose only brush with insomnia is having a wife that doesn’t sleep and even that doesn’t seem to bother him too much, usually) so I decided to take my book and read it on the settee, by torchlight.

            I do the torch thing for two reasons, firstly our house is open plan and using a light would still wake Rob no matter where I was in the house. Secondly I find that if I read by torch in a dark environment it aids sleep – it kind of dulls your senses to anything other than the book and the brightness of the page within the dark surrounds also has a hypnotic effect. Last night I needed only around 60 minutes reading and my eyes were getting heavy again. The downside to my bright light in a darkened room scenario is that your pupils are really contracted so, when you turn out the light, you are effectively blind for some minutes after (the effect of this is even more pronounced if you try to pluck your eyebrows using a spotlight and a magnifying mirror in an otherwise pitch black house). I always turn out the torch whilst still on the settee as I know the layout of my house very well and can return to bed, in silence, without the use of any lighting (and hence preserving Rob’s restful sleep). Until I decide to rearrange the furniture.

            Last night I managed to crash (shin and ankle) into the camel stool which I had repositioned on Sunday. This is just below the bedroom mezzanine – not only did the stool fly across the floor (rather noisily) but I fell to the floor, clasping my hand over my mouth and fighting the pain, in silence (in the vain hope that Rob would remain asleep). There was a moment of stillness where I tried to determine whether I could still walk – given that my toes had gone numb in pain – and then Rob mumbled sleepily,

            ‘I felt that.’

Which of course strictly speaking – he didn’t.

It's not so much worrying about life's problems that matters, rather we should let our problems solve us....

French Bread

I heard this on Pause for Thought again (I know, I’m a Radio Two bore) but it really spoke volumes. It was Father Brian D’Arcy who was talking yesterday on my way back from my morning swim and his words really moved me. His actual ending was,

It’s not so much that I solve my problems, rather it’s the problemswhich solve me.

And you can read the full passage by clicking on the link (though I don’t know how long Radio Two keep them live for).

            I can’t think of truer words and the idea of just going with the flow – turning your boat round and going in the opposite direction if the current is too strong – at least sounds peaceful, even if you don’t believe it’s the answer.

            So for all you fellow thinkers and insomniacs who perhaps find life’s problems are forever waking you up – if you are thinking of just leaving the problems to sort your life out you could enjoy your rest-time by making some French bread. Now I know, it doesn’t look at all like the baguettes you buy in pretty pink bakeries over there (I’m sure they’re not all pink but my newly passive mind likes the weak alliteration) indeed, I would soon lose my job or my business if that’s what I tried to serve en France and, in the absence of true French flour (less protein) it doesn’t taste exactly like a baguette from across la Manche but, believe me, if you follow this recipe it will be heaps better for you than any of that stuff you buy from your local supermarket bakery and a lot tastier too. And if you’re still not convinced then at least I’ve managed to fit a sentence of 106 words into today’s Blog.

I got my recipe from Liz Herbert’s book, bread and if you’re at all interested in making bread it is one of the best books I’ve come across. I’ve got my copy on permanent repeat from my local library.

French Bread

Source: Liz Herbert’s bread

Ingredients:

350g Strong white bread flour (plus extra for dusting)

115g plain white flour

1 tsp sugar

1 tsp salt

1½ tsp fast action dried yeast

300ml water

Here’s what I do:

Tip the yeast in the bottom of a mixing bowl (use your mixer/food processor to start if you have one) then add the flours, salt, sugar and mix together. Gradually add the water and mix to a soft dough – as with the last bread recipe you need to hang back at the end, you just want to be sure to clean the sides of the bowl and you may not need to use the last few drops. Knead in your mixer for around five minutes (if you’re not using a mixer then you need to skip straight to the hand part) then tip it out onto an un-floured work surface (I know this can be hard as it’s wet but believe me you have to persevere), just keep kneading and eventually it will go silky and elastic. This is why you’re doing it – not just the great taste and additive-free food but the therapy of making your own bread.

            When it’s a lovely, silken, elastic ball lightly oil a large mixing bowl and put it in the bottom. Cover with cling-film or a damp tea-towel and allow to rise in a warm spot until doubled in size; meanwhile grease and flour two baking sheets.

            Divide the dough into two and, without knocking back (losing all the air) roll one half with a dusted rolling pin. I know that sounds odd but if you try it a few times you’ll get the idea – you’re being really gentle with the air in the dough but rolling it into a rectangle at the same time. According to Liz you want a rectangle about 38x30 cm – I’ve never managed this but it hasn’t spoilt my bread. Go with how your dough is working, so long as it’s thin, still airy and roughly rectangular (as large as you can manage) you’ll get some lovely baguettes.

            Now roll up tightly from the long edge and pinch the seams together. Place diagonally on the baking sheet seam side down and make deep diagonal slashes in the bread about 6cm apart (you don’t need a ruler). Repeat with the rest of the dough. Leave to prove until doubled in size again.

            Preheat the oven to gas mark 7 and place a large shallow baking dish in the bottom of the oven and fill it with boiling water. This will make the oven all steamy and gives the bread its characteristic crust. Dust the breads with a little flour and bake for 20 minutes until golden. These need eating same day but freeze brilliantly so always make more than you need and get the spares in the freezer.

I cleaned my house yesterday - I do this once a year whether it needs it of not...

The new layout

I find the whole thing mainly therapeutic though there are problems. I like the sweat I work up as I manhandle the settee, removing every cushion so that I can thump it, plump it, turn it and hoover it before replacing it in a new position. My settee is huge – one of those round-the-corner affairs manufactured round an English beech frame and with two large base cushions (each about as tall as me) and eleven smaller cushions (which make the backs and sides) in varying sizes and patterns. By the time I’ve done all this and pulled the whole thing away from the wall to clean behind and beneath it I’m generally ready for some food and a drink – a stiff drink. But that’s only the start – I still have the rest of the house to clean.

            I usually like to change the furniture round on these days – it’s good to have some lasting proof that I’ve cleaned and also it makes it feel like you’re in a new house. It’s at this point that I remember why I try not to clean too much – it’s just so destructive, murderous almost. I adore spiders, they hold no fear for me and I think they should be held in esteem along with all wildlife. I admit they can be dangerous – I was bitten by one in 1991 and it drew blood, but that’s because I sat on it (I didn’t do this purposely mind) and the poor thing was frightened for its life. Despite this one bad encounter I otherwise enjoy their company and Rob and I have fond memories of befriending a number of eight-legged creatures over the years. Like the one that set up home in Rob’s tractor when we lived in France. That was huge and it was great fun to watch it at work in its web. I think it was less fun for the flies that Rob would catch and throw into the web so that we could witness nature at work but flies are filthy animals (to misquote from Tarantino).

            So yesterday I was, as usual, disturbed to move my pine box, thinking it would look good under a different window (it did actually), and find that the whole of the backside of said box had become home to a colony of spiders. There were no less than eleven huge spider nests there, along with webs of varying sizes and a host of spider debris. Relocating the box meant cleaning it and thereby destroying hundreds of baby spiders, their homes and wrecking their families. That is unless spiders can live happily inside your Dyson.

            I thought I’d give you a recipe which was inspired by James Martin’s veal and cauliflower mash which we saw on one of his tv programmes screened from France. If you’ve not seen these and you love France then I can fully recommend the DVDs, they’re great fun and full of tasty food too.

Marinating Chops

Marinated Pork Chops with Cauliflower Mash

Source: Not really sure but there’s definitely some James Martin influence

Ingredients:

Some really good pork chops from free range pigs (preferably locally sourced)

Fresh Parsley (curled or flat leaf)

Fennel Seeds

Garlic clove (chopped)

Cauliflower

Grated Cheese (I use a good English Cheddar)

1 or 2 lemons

Olive Oil

Here’s how I do it…

Well actually that’s not strictly true because Rob does all the meat part of it but... first you need to prepare your chops. Squeeze the juice from a lemon (you may need two if they’re not so juicy) and combine with some olive oil. Scatter some fennel seeds on your chops along with the chopped parsley and garlic. Pour on some of the oil/lemon juice mix and rub it all over the chops, turn them over in the dish and repeat on the other side. Leave to marinate for at least an hour.

            Heat your oven to gas mark 6 and cook your chops for around fifteen to twenty minutes, seasoning them with salt and pepper just before cooking (don’t season at the beginning of the marinating process as this can dry the meat). If you wish you can brown them first on the hob and this is particularly good for getting a good colour on the fat. 

Prepare your cauliflower by removing the leaves and chopping them – don’t throw them away, the leaf is a really delicious part and this way you have greens as well. Chop the florets and put these into a pan of water. Put the greens into a colander and place this into the pan of water, so it rests on top of the florets. Put the pan lid on top of the greens (inside the colander). Bring the pan to the boil, so that it cooks the florets and steams the greens (if you have a posh steaming pan you can use this of course). When the florets are tender, drain them (you can keep the green leafy pieces in the colander to one side with the lid on so they keep warm). Add some butter to the florets (optional) and mash them – not too much, you want lumpy mash not puree – stirring in your grated cheese at the end so that it melts.

Marinated Chops with Cauliflower Mash

            Plate it up on warmed plates as shown and serve with wine and a good chat.

I get great joy from knowing that I can count to 1023 on my fingers...

But it doesn’t help you sleep – not at all. Now for those of you who are not familiar with electronic language or binary you may be tempted to stop reading here but please don’t. Even my sister (who doesn’t grasp consternation although she can use the word paronomasia in a meaningful sentence) can count in binary and understands the joys of 1023 on ten fingers. As a tool against insomnia you first have to recognise that each digit (thumbs included) represents 1 if it is up and 0 if it down, next you work from right thumb through to left little finger, so you’re viewing the numbers as if they were printed in a book.

            Starting with all your digits down on zero, you raise you’re right thumb for one and then lower it whilst simultaneously raising your right index finger – this is now two.  Then you raise your right thumb and add it to the index finger – making three (this is because we're working in base two remember). For four you lower your thumb and index finger and raise your middle finger – on paper this would be 100 (or four in binary). There are loads of videos to help on You Tube but this is the best I found.  I keep setting myself challenges in the hope that eventually I’ll answer every possible question and then fall asleep.

Now Thursday night last week was a particularly long although beautiful night, when I wasn’t counting binary I was star gazing (and the Anglesey sky is great for that job). In a desperate attempt at sleep I decided to see how far I could count if my toes were as flexible as my fingers – thus giving me twenty digits to play with. I kept getting tired around the third toe in and making mistakes, the answer – if you have all preceding digits raised at this point –  is 8191 but my sleepy counting is not so good. If you make a mistake you have to go back to zero. Luckily you feel tired by this stage and finally drift away – unless of course you’re in Anglesey and you know the stars outside the window are fabulous – then you just wake right up again… still when you tire of stargazing you can always count… actually perhaps counting sheep is better.

Now here’s a brilliant little recipe if you’re pressed for time, you only need three things from the shops and you may just have some of those in already and then you’re good to go. There’s no way you can get a take-out any quicker than you can make this little beauty. I first made this heaps of years ago – before I travelled in fact – so I don’t know where I got it or if I’ve altered it at all but if you want to have a good search through Good Food Magazine archives I would guess I got it there.

Hot Smoked Salmon with Honey Mustard Dressing

Ingredients:

Smoked Salmon (about 100g per person)

New Potatoes

Green Beans

Honey

Mustard (I use a mix of Dijon and wholegrain but use what you like)

Juice of a lemon or sherry vinegar (optional)

Olive Oil

Here’s What I Do:

Put the potatoes on to boil (halving them if they’re large) and top and tail the beans then halve the long ones. In a dish mix together your dressing ingredients – for the two of us I used a teaspoon of each mustard, the juice of a lemon (it makes the dressing looser and gives it a tang), a bit more than a teaspoon of honey and then a generous amount of olive oil. You really have to keep tasting it until you think it’s to your liking. 

When the potatoes are just getting tender add the beans and drain after a few minutes (they should still have crunch). Meanwhile begin to fry the salmon in a bit of olive oil; you’ll need to do it in batches but you’re not cooking it – just making it hot and brown in places. Pile the beans and potatoes in the centre of your plate then top with the hot salmon, the dressing and some parsley if you have some knocking about.

            Infinitely better than take-out.

Which reminds me of the night I spent in the back of a truck...

Our home for the night

Driving home the other morning I met a neighbour coming in the other direction and had to reverse 100 metres to a gateway (which is as close to a passing place as you get on our lane). Now, three years ago, after two years of being a cyclist and then migrating to a rather lovely Audi 100 I may have been a bit perturbed at the need to reverse in our rough lane complete with potholes, hidden drains and ditches, and long grasses concealing loose rocks. Now though, with an environmentally friendly (as much as you can be in a car) Citroen C3 Picasso I reverse like a trouper – well like a seasoned truckie anyway. I waved sweetly at my neighbour, draped my left arm nonchalantly over the passenger seat and, with my right hand somewhere at six-thirty on the steering wheel I proceeded to back-up. Professionally. With not a single falter or despairing glance around me. In seconds I was in the space and receiving admiring words from said neighbour and his passenger. Such professional reversing, complete with casual left-hand drape, reminded me of the Saturday night in May 2001 which I spent in the back of a truck cab.

            What you have to know here is that I have a number of life-long dreams – things I’ve dreamt of doing ever since childhood and sleeping in a truck is up there near the top of the list along with seeing boiling mud (done), walking on a salt lake (done) and living in a cave (still working on this). I first fell in love with the idea of living in a truck when I was very small and became aware of the fact that those trucks parked up over-night usually have some lucky driver squirrelled away inside – no doubt reading a really exciting paper-back by the dim glow of the in-cab lighting system. So in May 2001 I was thrilled when we gate-crashed a cousin’s nephew’s Christening (actually I’m a little worried here as I didn’t note in my diary whether it was a nephew or a niece – if I’ve got it wrong I really did not mean to cause offence) and were given the choice of squatting somewhere on the floor in the very grand house or spending the night in the back of their truck. This wasn’t an ordinary British truck either – this was a fabulous Australian road-train type of truck and I needed a ladder just to get myself into the cab.

            It was all as exciting as I had imagined, clambering up into the cab then squeezing between the seats into that new world – the secret world of the truck driver. The lights were perhaps a little brighter than I had imagined and obviously lighting a candle to add to the ambience would have been foolhardy but nevertheless it was great. The walls were lined with that cushioned fabric – the type that’s stitched up in diamonds – and alright, when I woke in the night they were rather like the lining of a coffin (which did nothing for my insomnia and actually reminded me of one of my childhood fears) but, whilst reading and chatting prior to sleep they reminded you of a sumptuous Mongolian tent (another childhood dream though I don’t fancy the yak-butter tea). Given that I was sharing the cab with Rob it was especially cosy and you certainly wouldn’t want to be sharing one of these with anyone other than your nearest and dearest but if you’re the kind of child who originally wanted to be a snail someday (until you grew a bit older and realised this particular wish wouldn’t come true) then I can certainly recommend a night or two in a cab.

            Now, cooking in a cab is probably not to be recommended – so, on that note I’ll sign off and leave my recipes for tomorrow.