Ah - the sweet, fresh smell of farming...

Courtesy of The Guardian

One way or another our water source has been contaminated this week. We first became aware of the fact when my shower smelled like cooked Pig Sty – not the kind of aroma you want clinging to your skin on a Saturday afternoon. Still, I’d bought a magazine with a rather smelly free sample of moisturiser and I think (after caking myself in many layers) that I managed to get away with it! We’re now drinking corporation water (purloined from kindly relatives) and my skin is very, very soft – though whether this is the added effluent in the water or the copious use of fragrant moisturiser I guess I will never be sure.

            So now, for the first time in ten years, I am using non-environmentally friendly washing powder. The kind that comes with special scents included – I believe this one is something like fresh air and white lilies. Oh and it smells delicious and it’s so exciting hanging my washing up and inhaling the artificial delights of scented shirts and sheets. I feel like a regular 21^st Century woman! And I feel terribly, terribly mean. My washing is cleaner, smells great and I’m polluting the environment – I’ll be buying veg in plastic bags next and leaving my Bags-4-Life at home. Or putting bleach in my toilet.

            Joking apart, this whole episode has reminded me how much we take clean water for granted in our comfortable Western lives. It’s now a year since the Cholera epidemic decimated Haiti and still the people suffer; Pakistan is again suffering from terrible floods and the situation in Bangkok and Ayutthaya Province gets worse each day. The people of Bangkok have particularly been in my thoughts these past few weeks. Please spare a thought for all the people across the World who suffer insanitary conditions and/or yearn for clean water whether as a result of natural disaster or the disastrous politics of their countries.

            Bangkok is one of our favourite cities and we engineer visits en-route elsewhere whenever possible (it’s not on any of the Manchester-France flight-paths so it’s now five years since we were last there) and the pictures and videos that we have seen of the disaster are a fitting reminder of why we love the city and, indeed, the whole of Thailand. In the face of the most desperate adversity the people still smile, still take the time for each other – their Buddhist philosophy and kindness shines through even in these terrible images. I just hope that next time we do visit, our favourite street-stall will be there selling DIY soup-on-coals (just on the corner, past the temple with the blue stars on the ceiling) and that we’ll still be able to enjoy a banana pancake for supper.

A Chicken at the Kitchen Sink

I could start this blog by telling a small lie – but I won’t. Rather, I will admit straight off, that the photographs which I have lately been taking are flat and non-dimensional because I’ve been using my camera like a Muppet. The lie would be that I’m an artist – and the resulting photographs are art.

            Take for instance this rather fetching photo of a deer (all jokes gratefully received). This was taken with my zoom lens, carefully honed in on the deer that was taking its morning stroll in our garden. Technically, it shouldn’t have been there – it’s actually in our tree plantation and was probably nibbling bark off our young trees – we should have been trying to get rid of it (which would have brought a whole new meaning to the phrase 'getting the perfect shot') but, fortunately for the deer, we instead admired it and I struggled to get the perfect shot (of the other variety).

            Note also this lovely photo of a chicken at our kitchen sink. Rob was not impressed – apparently I should have been getting the chicken out of there, not taking photos. See the flat quality to my photograph? The lack of depth?  I spent five minutes trying to adjust things – until the bird got fed up of looking at my pots and went on its way. Five minutes of wondering what was wrong but failing to note the readings on my camera – the focal length of 4.5 or the shutter speed of 40 – important readings which would have told me that I had my camera set on Macro (close-up) yet I was taking a picture at a distance? Arghh. Why did they start making cameras that have brains? Think how lovely my deer pictures would have been if I’d had it set on landscape – or even just on auto and left it up to the camera.

            Now, if you’re at all interested in how far you can stretch the boundaries of visual representation and call it art; take a look at this year’s Turner Prize winners. Whilst George Shaw’s humbrol enamel paintings of Tile Hill are, for me at least, spectacular; I have to admit to being left rather stuck for words at Karla Black’s sculpture which, being crafted from soap bombs and peeling paint, is possibly not even there now.

            And so for some food. I thought I’d spend some time on light meals – the kind of food where you enjoy the flavours but feel virtuous afterwards (and you can glug an extra glass of wine without wrecking your calorie count). But, even if healthy salads aren’t your cup of tea – please do try the beer bread – it’s great with everything; in fact I’d go so far as to say, beer bread is the new black.

Recipe: Warm Goats’ Cheese on Beer Bread Toasts with salad

Inspired by: Something we ate in Café Rouge many years ago

Ingredients:

(for the bread)

225g Strong white bread flour

115g Rye flour (plus extra for dusting)

1 teaspoon salt

1 packet fast action yeast

225ml ale or stout

1 tablespoon of olive oil

2 teaspoons of runny honey

Here’s What I Do:

(Use a mixer if you have one as this is a very wet dough.) Combine the dry ingredients, then add the oil and honey. Stir well. Slowly add the beer (you need to make sure the froth has died back so that it’s measured accurately but also add the beer slowly – you may not need the full amount). Knead the dough in the mixer for several minutes then finish off by hand on a cool work top. As this is a wet dough you need to persevere if you can but if you really have to then add some flour. You are aiming for a smooth dough though it probably won’t get as silky as a traditional white dough. Shape it into a round and place it on greased and floured baking sheet. Slash the top with five deep slashes. Leave to prove in a warm place until doubled in size. Bake in a pre-heated oven at Gas Mark 6/200°C for 20-25 minutes. (For a less rustic but less stressful loaf you can make this in your bread-maker – if yours doesn’t have a beer bread recipe, just choose one of the Rye bread recipes and substitute some or all of the liquid for beer.)

(for the salad)

Good goats’ cheese (usually)

Salad ingredients to your liking

Plus

Onions

Tomatoes

Garlic

Olive oil

Here’s what I do:

Put the tomatoes (quartered if large) in an oven proof dish and roast with olive oil and chopped garlic. Thinly slice your onions and caramelise them in a frying pan with olive oil (and a dash of sugar towards the end if you like). Grill the slices of beer bread. Assemble your salad ingredients on your plates. Depending on the type of goats’ cheese you may or may not wish to grill this (I like to let the firm, log style ones melt down a bit). Plate up the meal so it all looks nice, adding salad dressing or olive oil as you prefer to your leaves.

Chimpanzees, Children and Chickens

I’m back – after two weeks of story writing, deadlines and then illness. And (as I’m rather late for my post-Diwali story) I thought I’d kick off with this one.

Whilst reading Last Chance to See I was reminded of the fact that chimps can count. What surprises me with this is the amount of research that scientists will put in in order to confirm such a fact. After all, it seems obvious really – given that much more lowly animals are also fine in the counting stakes. Take my hens, and particularly my cockerel – not only are they very family oriented and protective but they do a mean job of counting too.

            Each morning when I let them out of their cabins (the younger ones still insist on sleeping in a separate cabin) they all undergo the registration rigmarole imposed upon them by their very loving (though rather bossy) cockerel. Before he will touch a morsel of grain he runs around, taking a count and checking they are all present and correct. It’s a lovely sight. Similarly at bedtime, you will see him carefully rounding them up – and he won’t stop and go to bed himself until he knows they’re all accounted for.

            So if a lowly hen can count then it really isn’t much stretch of the imagination to think that chimps would also be able. Of course, You Tube reveals that chimps recognise numbers – and I haven’t seen that replicated in hens yet so maybe there is a point to the research.

            What I did find interesting was the following experiment – a test to see who are the better learners, chimps or children? Watch carefully.

            Now I’m not sure the researchers have covered every possibility of why the children fail to learn for themselves – I think there are other issues, not least of which is that the researchers talked a lot when they were showing the children how to tap and slide (they don’t do this with the chimps because they don’t expect them to understand spoken language). Were the children given the chance to learn for themselves? Did the artificial setting alter their reactions?

But I thought it was worth sharing and as far as I know, no animals were hurt in the making of this film – though the chimps do appear to be living behind bars which is a shame.

I guess we were blessed

Diwali in Udaipur

All the Diwali celebrations and newspaper reports remind me of our time in Udaipur (the Octopussy city – and still cashing in on it). We arrived in Udaipur after a traumatic overnight coach journey. You are supposed to sleep on such journeys but, with front seat views and a chaotic driver, sleep was never going to be easy. (Perhaps I have always had insomnia?)

            It was on this journey that I first encountered communal women’s toilets – this had always been a recurring dream of mine so I was understandably astounded to find that they actually exist (I just hope the monsters under the bed, the plane crash in my back yard and the day when all my teeth fall out simultaneously don’t turn out likewise). I had thought that this was going to be the worst part of the journey but I was wrong.

            Like all journeys by coach in India, and indeed most of South East Asia, it was carried out to the soundtrack of Hindi music and incessant horn blowing. The music I don’t mind – though it isn’t well loved when you are trying to sleep on an overnight journey – the horns are another matter. Sure, in the daytime you can get over them and it is only the dull ringing in your ears as you retire to the bar for a teatime beer that reminds you of the cacophony. At night it is another matter. It’s not the fact that they’re blowing them that matters – it’s the why.

            In India they generally drive at night with their lights extinguished (actually, I’m going back ten years now so perhaps they’ve updated their safety regs – you could Google it and let me know). I think it is to save fuel and prevent light pollution – I’m only guessing. So they blow their horns at night to warn of their advance and, should they hear a horn, they generally fire their lights onto main-beam in a last ditch attempt to avert a crash. It’s fun (in a kind of Tarantino, black humour kind of way) – imagine, you’re pounding down a rough road, headlights off, interior lights on and suddenly your driver lights his lights – just as the driver in the oncoming coach lights his. You don’t sleep.

            We passed a crash on the journey – we should not have passed the crash – we were in a huge tailback. But our driver decided he wasn’t being part of the tailback and instead pulled onto the opposite side of the road and passed every car, van, wagon etc. At one point we were in a stand-off with another wagon, coming (quite legitimately) in the other direction – on a head-on course for us. Our driver won. So we arrived in Udaipur, as scheduled, at 5 in the morning.

            I guess we were blessed.

            Tomorrow I will actually write about Diwali. We were blessed then too.

A bad workman always blames his tools

I am well aware of this fact and would never dream of blaming my tools. Clearly if something isn’t working then I’m doing something wrong – unless I’m dealing with a computer, photocopier or vending machine. Then it usually just needs a swift kick. Or, in the case of the computer, which is luckily too high for my feet, I find that shutting it down (for a few hours or even days) and praying hard usually works. If that fails then swearing, slamming things and audibly wondering how you are ever going to make ends meet as an aspiring writer when you’re computer won’t even work generally does the trick.

            Two weekends ago when I tried to make an alioli following a Rick Stein recipe (I’ve often made my own but I’ve never felt I had the balance of salt/garlic/creaminess just right) so on this occasion I faithfully and carefully measured out all the ingredients exactly as Rick suggested. I had a new mixing bowl and, to save my arms, I decided to use my new electric hand-whisk. I drizzled the oil in as slowly as you could possibly imagine, I whisked, I changed hands, I whisked some more. I let my mixer have a breather because it was getting very hot and emitting that strange, burning plastic/electrical smell that you get from very over-worked motors. I changed bowls because I wondered if it didn’t like being in stainless steel. I added another egg yolk just in case. And I wondered if perhaps the Spanish favour a very runny type of alioli that looks like garlic floating in gallons of cloudy oil.

            In the end I made a different salt-cod recipe (delicious nonetheless) and couldn’t get the alioli out of my mind. I compared other recipes – Gary Rhodes uses roughly the same oil but more egg yolk. Someone else did a blend of vegetable/olive oil (as in most mayonnaise recipes) but still I could not pinpoint what could have gone wrong – for it had gone wrong, the Spanish do not favour a pourable version of alioli.

            Facebook users will know that this Friday I had to make a strawberry soufflé at the last minute when we had a wine mishap and opened a €13 wine on what was just going to be a simple supper night. I quite enjoyed rising to the challenge and love separating eggs so I was not perturbed. I think I’ve heard that egg whites whisk better in steel bowls (but I don’t know if it’s true and haven’t bothered to google it) so I put the whites in my new bowl and proceeded to whisk. With my electric whisk. And they would not form peaks. Now I’ve done this a million times so I know that you don’t need icing sugar, salt or anything else – if you have a clean bowl they will form peaks. I tilted the bowl, I changed the speeds – I even had it on full speed with the turbo button depressed (or was that me depressed?) but all I got was frog spit.

            I gave the machine a rest, I tried to tell myself that the frog spit was getting thicker and then it dawned on me. These were not balloon whisks staring back at me – I was trying to form soft peaks in my egg white with two very feeble looking dough hooks.

            So that also explains the alioli.

            Does this mean there are times when we should blame our machines? Or is Rob correct?  He simply looked across and said,

            ‘It’s not the tool but the tool that’s using it’ and carried on drinking the very delicious wine.

So I wondered about writing a cookbook

But it seems you have to be a celebrity to get anywhere with one of those. I was quite curious about the number of celebrities who are popping up with cookbooks – and on the whole I think anything that gets people cooking is a good thing. So you may not be convinced about Tana Ramsey’s need to cook – given that her husband is a professional chef – but if it helps you get the food on the table for you and your kids whilst your husband plays away then fair enough. Or if you’d like to know how yummy mummy Gwyneth Paltrow  keeps Apple and Moses happy and well-fed whilst still finding time to exercise, make blockbuster movies and keep the house tidy – well there’s a book on that too.

No, I am not being cynical – I have hundreds of cookbooks (maybe that’s an exaggeration but I have over thirty) and I don’t stop buying them. If each book only gives me renewed enthusiasm for cooking and one or two new recipes then they have been money well spent. Except…

In another of this month’s magazines (again I won’t name it) there is a celebrity interview with Eva Longoria who (despite being recently divorced) still looks young, sexy and is making films (how do these rich, celebrities with personal stylists manage it?) and cookbooks. Her book is called, Eva’s Kitchen: Cooking With Love For Family & Friends and she describes it as a ‘memoir of my life with food’ (quoting from page 40 of said magazine). I find this interesting because on page 42 she then explains in more detail about her diet. She is quoted as saying,

‘I get food delivered by a company called Sunfare. The bag arrives every

morning: breakfast, lunch, dinner, two snacks. Perfectly proportioned and calorie counted.’ (Eva Longoria as interviewed by a well-known UK monthly magazine - there is more, should you wish to purchase the mag.)

            Hmm, so now I’m really interested to read her cookbook.

           

There is a similar company operating in the UK (The Pure Package - it may only be London so far) and for £339.50 for ten days you can get this whole deal – and apparently it saves you money as well as time – as you no longer have to shop for your food, just wait for your daily delivery. And if you think this is the way forward you can sign up for a full 90 days at the special price of £2965.50. Please keep in mind that this is for one person – not a couple, not a family but one person. It does not include alcohol, tea, coffee, cleaning products, toilet rolls and all the other things you tend to buy on your weekly shop. It doesn’t include cat food, dog food, rabbit food (though you may be forgiven for thinking so when you look at the sample menus) – am I over-reacting when I think that this is a gross waste of money and even a little bit sad? And what do these people do if a friend drops by just before dinner – do they scramble around in their freezer to see if there’s any oven chips so they can eke an extra portion from the day’s meal?

Ah well, I think Eva can keep her cookbook for the time being but I must admit if Gwyneth’s book can make me look like that then it may be worth a sneaky peek.

For any of you still inclined to cook – here’s a Spanish inspired recipe. Please don’t be put off by the looks of the dish – as I’m not a food stylist I am afraid it was not easy to make this photograph look good, it really tastes delicious though.

This is really normally a starter or tapas but as I was serving it as a main meal I kept it a bit saucier – if you do make it for tapas I suggest you reduce the sauce much further so the livers go really sticky.

Recipe: Sherry glazed chicken livers with Carmargue rice and salad

Source: Marks and Spencer Spain (don’t know if these are still in print but they’re lovely)

Ingredients:

Chicken livers (thawed – one pot, about 200-250g, will serve 2 people)

Olive oil

Sherry vinegar

Sherry

2 shallots, finely chopped

Garlic, chopped

125ml Chicken stock (home-made if possible)

Fresh thyme

Fresh Parsley

Honey

Cayenne pepper

Salad ingredients

Carmargue Rice

Here’s What I Do:

Cook your rice (this can be a long time with Carmargue). Prepare your salad – add any ingredients you like, as there is a nice sauce with this meal I dressed the salad with just olive oil and a sprinkling of Carmargue salt. I topped it with a few shreds of Manchego cheese because I love any excuse to eat Manchego. Trim the livers – they’ll have sinewy bits that aren’t nice to eat – then pat them dry with kitchen towel. Heat the oil in a large pan and fry the livers in a single layer until brown on the outside and just pink inside. Transfer to a warm plate and keep warm in an oven. Add the garlic to the pan and as soon as it starts to smell fragrant add the vinegar, sherry and shallots and bring to the boil, scraping any bits from the bottom of the pan. Add the stock, thyme, honey and a pinch of cayenne and bubble until reduced (if you are doing this as a main meal, reduce by about half, otherwise for tapas reduce to around 3 or 4 tablespoons – it should look thick and sticky). Return the livers to the pan, cover in the sauce/glaze, check for seasoning and then sprinkle with the parsley. Serve with the rice and salad.

On High-Fives

My sisters, nieces, mum and I all try to meet once a week for coffees on a Friday – mainly we manage though life does sometimes get in the way so that one or more of us is missing but we do try. This week we made it. I think it is a lovely way to spend the end of Friday afternoon, it introduces my nieces to café culture and being sociable and it means we all stay in touch – face-to-face – as opposed to the more modern methods of texting, tweeting and status updates (and not forgetting blogs of course).

            Last Friday we met and had a lovely catch-up in a well-known coffee chain (I actually have to go to an independent coffee shop prior to the meeting so that I can get my caffeine fix as said chain brews disgusting coffee). It’s lovely to be there at around 5:30 and see how busy it is, there is every age-range, nationality and gender represented in that one coffee house every Friday and it warms me to think that we are not losing the gift of good conversation, enjoyed over something that doesn’t involve alcohol.

            An elderly couple had the tables behind us and from the way they were chatting to the manager they were clearly regulars there – I felt all warm and hopeful and pictured myself at 115, still active, still mobile, still doing Sudoku and frequenting the local café bars for a coffee and a chat. It’s a nice image.

            They soon got chatting to us and playing with my youngest niece who delighted them with her appreciative giggles as they tickled her and told her how beautiful she is (it’s true). And it reminded me of how saddened I get at the way society’s belief that strangers are evil/dangerous etc. often clouds our nation’s views and actions. I can’t count on my fingers the number of times each run that someone ignores my jovial ‘good morning’ – I teach my nieces to say it to passers-by and they too are normally met by strange looks.

We should be pleasant to one another, our world is not filled with mad-men and murderers (as tabloids would have us believe) and anyway, the dangerous ones are usually the ones we know. I’m not saying we shouldn’t teach our children the possible dangers of life, or the all-too important guidelines for maintaining their own personal safety and space but please can we have some realism? The following is what happened to me several months ago, I was so upset by it at the time that I wrote it in my journal.

            A young girl, no more than three, with a mop of bouncy, curly hair sits in a trolley at Asda; waiting patiently for her mum who is not far away, browsing the yoghurts and cheeses, regularly popping something or other in the trolley. The girl watches the crowds (for they must seem like crowds to her) and her face lights up as she realises my trajectory will pass near hers. Instantly she sticks her palm out in that familiar (at least at sporting venues) ‘high-five’ gesture. I reciprocate and her pleasure is obvious, her face suffused with joy.

            Her mother approaches, for she is clearly her mother even from a distance, her face contorted in a mixture of anger and a smile – as if she hates me but cannot face a confrontation. Her daughter is still excited, tells her mother – with glee – how I met her hand and her elation is instantly dashed.

            ‘And do you think that was sensible?’ her mother questions, her voice harsh, her features pinched.

            I walk on speedily; half embarrassed, half saddened at how wrong people’s interpretation of our world can be and at the damage a fleeting moment can do.