Escape!

This time last week, I escaped.

Ran out of the office, into the waiting car of a handsome man, and disappeared to the seaside. Ate fish and chips and felt the salt breeze in my hair. We stared out at the sun playing on the sea, holding hands. The only sound we could hear was bird song and the crashing of the waves.

Or, in less fanciful terms - I had a half day at work. The Husband met me outside and we drove over the Forth Bridge to Fife, and carried on till we reached the beautiful East Neuk.

We went to Anstruther, and ate fish and chips at the Anstruther Fish Bar, which has run out of room for all its awards, but is meant to be the best chippy in the UK. It was indeed pretty special - chips crisp on the outside and fluffing inside, and the freshest, crispest batter. I was amused to see a whole crew of ambulance workers ahead of us in the queue though - surely if anyone knows that fish and chips aren't the best idea, it's the people who take Scotland's heart attack victims to hospital?

The weather was beautiful - the sky was the deepest blue, and it was warm enough to leave your coat open.

We decided to follow a part of the coastal walk along to Pittenweem. Although it took us a while to find it, and even when there were signs they were a little confusing, it was worth it when we did. The walk was just a mile but I couldn't have felt further away from Edinburgh, from work, from the Husband's job hunting and the stresses of everyday life. It felt like a whole holiday in half a day.

I took lots of pictures on my phone - here are a few of them.

Shells embedded into the side of a building on the main street

Less-than-clear signage

But worth persisting. Can you believe this picture was taken in Scotland in March?



Soup of the week: cheat's pea and ham

I love pea and ham soup, but rarely bother to cook it. The version I tend to make is a time-consuming process: split peas have to be soaked overnight, and either a ham hock boiled for hours, the stock reserved and the meat carved, or I need to have left over boiling liquid from a gammon joint and leftover shreds. And that's before I even cook the peas or make the soup! The result is delicious - salty, thick, comforting, filling - frugal, and absolutely the perfect thing in deep midwinter. But to be honest, I can rarely be bothered to make soup that needs me to plan it out the day before.

So when I saw this Heston Blumenthal for Waitrose recipe, using garden peas, skipping stock and frying bacon with the onion instead, and chucking in bought ham hock at the end, I was tempted.

But then I looked more closely at the method. Um, thawing peas on a baking tray lined with kitchen paper? It gave me visions of peas everywhere but the tray. And as for the mint oil and careful sieving - for a dinner party maybe. Not for a weekday packed lunch.

So below is my heavily modified recipe.

You'll see that we start with the same ingredients, minus the faffing round for mint oil doubled up as ever to make eight portions, although I didn't double the ham hock because I didn't want to pay for two preprepared packs, and I used a 275g pack of bacon, rather than the 320g that would have come from strict doubling, because that was the size of the packet in front of me.

To make 8 portions I used:
Splash olive oil
7 shallots (the amount left in the bag in my drawer)
1.5l veg stock
275g unsmoked bacon
One 180g pack pulled ham hock
1.8kg peas

Rather than carefully defrosting the peas, I just didn't put the bag in the freezer when I got it home from the supermarket!
An hour or so later, I fried up the diced shallots and scissor-cut bacon in a splash of oil to stop things sticking before the bacon gave up its fat.
I then bunged in the stock and brought it to a rolling boil.
Then I added the peas, which were still pretty much frozen, and waited for the mix to come back to the boil, which took a while. Long enough for me to wash up everything else!
I left it boiling for a minute, mostly because it had taken so much effort to get it there I wanted to leave it for a bit.
Then I got out my trusted stick blender, and ta-da!

Yeah, I'm fully aware it looks more like I've pureed Kermit the Frog than a kilo of peas, and that not sieving it has left it distinctly rustic looking. I've made my peace with that.

I then divided up the soup into containers, and popped bits of ham hock on top.

As you'll see, there was still plenty to go round, even without doubling up - in fact, there would have been far too much for my tastes if I had.

The result was completely different from the pea and ham soup I normally make. Fresh tasting, and predominantly sweet, because of the peas and the unsmoked bacon - I think next time I might try smoked to add another flavour it. And although it had much more actual meat in it than the version I usually make, which relies on stock for flavour, it had less of a ham flavour. To be honest, I think it would be nicer - as well healthier - made with a ham stock, rather than by pureeing up all that bacon, all the bacon was a very useful short cut.

But I like the simplicity and the lurid colour that comes from using frozen garden peas rather than yellow split peas, and will try that again next winter.

I say next winter, because I think soup of the week may be about to take a bit of a break. It's getting warmer and sunnier here in Edinburgh. I've got some holiday coming up, which means I won't be needing weekday lunches for a bit. And when I come back, I think it might be times for salads, cous cous, bulgar wheat and other warm weather alternatives. I hope so! I'll blog the ones of these that feel more like recipes and less like desperately thrown-together mixtures. Although I'll share the good ones of those too.

A kitchen cupboard drama.

The Husband and I had been house hunting casually for a couple of months when we first saw the Gin Palace. A couple of weeks beforehand we'd stepped it up to serious after he proposed, because we are the sort of masochists who enjoy moving house and planning a wedding at the same time.

We'd seen several flats. And, Edinburgh's housing stock being what it is, even back in those overheated times, many of them had been lovely. I'd thought more of them lovely than The Husband did - being an architect, he's boringly practical about things like, I don't know, not having room for a wardrobe in the master bedroom and having to keep it in the second bedroom, him not being able to stand up in the bedroom because of coombed ceilings, or kitchens too small for two people to stand next to each other - even two very much in love recently engaged people. I do apologise to each and every householder we sickened.

But when we saw the Gin Palace it was different. As we walked from room to room, admiring high ceilings, huge windows, stripped floorboards and storage space, as well as walls that whispered "We want to hang your pictures, we want to store your books" we didn't dare say anything, and just gripped each other's hand tighter.

There was, however, one small hitch. The kitchen. It's small. It's not tiny by Edinburgh standards - although it was once a cupboard, it's also got a good slice taken off the second bedroom. Two people can cook in it together so long as they like each other. The morning after a dinner party, one person can cook a fry up, one wash up, and one dry up drinking tea telling stories about how baffling men are. But there's no room for a stool, let alone a breakfast bar, and a dining kitchen is still very much a far-off dream. Meals are carried the length of the flat and eaten at the dining table in the living room.

And while the décor is fine, it's not great. Blue and yellow checked tiles that owe a lot to the late 90s. Slightly battered wood-effect units that don't have nearly enough room to hold all our junk, and stop a good two feet short of the ceiling. There's no room for a freezer, just a tiny compartment in our fridge, and no microwave. The lighting is dim, as you may have noticed from my pictures

Just after Christmas, we'd decided to take advantage of interest free credit on Ikea and get it redone. We had plans for high gloss floor to ceiling units, teal splash backs to match the Le Creuset (I know, I know), and a little magic with the design to fit in a freezer. No microwave or dishwasher quite yet.

We'd made an appointment for a designer to come out and then… my husband lost his job.

Ikea, bless them, refunded us the £20 deposit for the appointment. And the plans went on hold.

Until. Last week, I acknowledged two basic facts: I am never again going to feel comfortable getting into debt for something I don’t need, and it's going to be a long, long time before I feel comfortable dropping £3000 or so, even if properly saved up for, on something I don't need. And: a lot can be done with our kitchen to make it better for a tenth of that. A lightbulb moment for which I thank this post on the Tiny Assed Appartments blog.

So I've started making plans. Plans involving specialist primer and tile paint, storage solutions and labels, LED light fittings and electrician's quotes, and a stout hammer to fix a couple of the more shoogly units.

The Husband rightly pointed out, as I was making lists with a demonic look in my eye, that starting to paint the units last weekend would have been insanity given that we were both knackered. That's on hold, probably until the Royal Wedding long weekend, because I appear to have joined the ranks of people who think an extra Bank Holiday is an excuse for DIY.

But I did drag him to Ikea. And we did fix part one: the junk on top of the units. Here are some before pictures - bear in mind that our kitchen is strangely photogenic, especially with a flash on - it's not that nice really. All the colours are more saturated.



Kitchen sink, array of pans, and shoogly cupboard



Yes, we did tidy for this. Junk on top of cabinets, part one.

Junk on top of cabinets, part two. Kitchen too small to get far enough away to get whole wall in shot!

And here it is now, with neat storage baskets. We're planning to hang old-fashioned luggage labels on them so I can distinguish the box of tuppaware from the box of baking utensils, and find the emergency tonic stash. The baskets are these ones, £13.27 from Ikea.



It's getting better, even if my baking gear does still peek out

In case you're wondering - we keep a set of small steps in the hallway, and keep things we use slightly less often up there. To be honest, it's much quicker getting things down from a box on the top of the units than out of the back of the corner cupboard.

It's a start, and it makes the kitchen feel much less cluttered. But there is more to come.

Census, roast chicken, and taking stock

Yesterday evening, while a chicken roasted in the oven, the husband and I sat down with glasses of alcoholic ginger beer (if you haven't tried it, do - it's wonderful) and pens to fill out the census.

We did it the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, because I'd already spent the whole day at the computer doing chores, and he'd been at work. Anyway, it felt more of an occasion doing it on paper, and there was more continuity with the people who presumably did it in our flat when it was first built, ten censuses ago. Must go and find out more about them some day.

It didn't take long, as most things didn't take much thought - although we both put we understood Scots, there was some debate about whether we spoke it, which was settled when I realised anyone who heard me try would think I was taking the piss.

Two people. Living in a flat with five rooms. Married. One cat. Me working in PR, the husband "freelance", a rather elegant way of saying "doing what he can to get by, looking for a proper job." Getting by. Happy, especially when the sun shines.

It set me to thinking where I was during the last census. At uni in Oxford. Room in college, living with parents in holidays and doing work experience, desperate to get into journalism and take over the world. Single. Slightly spoilt. Thought worried about money was not being able to go shopping that week. Making friends and discovering life. Happy, although the lows at uni have been lower than any I've discovered since.

And what will the next census bring us? Two people. More, I hope. Maybe even four? (Crosses fingers, turns round three times and spits). An extra room or two would be handy if we are four. Married, barring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Probably a cat. Probably a different one as Bacchus is ten. I suspect I'll still be doing something PR related, I hope the husband will be back in architecture. Getting by. Happy, I hope, especially when the sun shines.

We can't know what the future brings. There's something both hopeful and melancholy about looking forward. I'm off to cuddle the cat.

I'd love to know where you were ten years ago, and where you think you'll be next time you're filling in a census - please do leave thoughts in comments.

A thousand paper cranes and thoughts for Japan

Last week we went my best friend's wedding. It was a lovely laid-back affair. She and her husband had been together 10 years and when they decided to get married they went from newly engaged to a wedding in just three months, skipping much of the traditional stress along the way.

When they first got engaged her soon-to-be in-laws suggested making 1000 paper cranes for the wedding. Apparently it's a Japanese tradition that if you fold 1000 or are given a thousand paper cranes you'll get your heart's desire. It is also said that it brings happiness and world peace. Certainly worth a small amount of effort, and a lovely thought for a wedding.

At first no one really expected to get to 1000. It was a nice idea, but more a way to decorate the venue than anything else. The husband and I decided to join in to help out and I bought enough paper to make 175.
But the morning before the wedding my friend's soon to be mother-in-law counted up. We had 1300 paper cranes. And on the day of the wedding they brightened up every room with their different jewel-like colours, strung on garlands, perched on tables, even serving as sort of wedding favours as people took them away at the end of the night. It was a charming idea and I hope it brings them a happy marriage and world peace - it couldn't happen to a nicer couple.

The husband and I sat down to make our share of the cranes together on the sofa in front of the television the week before the wedding. When we decided to help out we never imagined that we would be sat trying our inexperienced hands at the ancient Japanese art of origami while watching pictures of parts of Japan laid waste by earthquakes, tsunami and the threat of radiation.

We clearly weren't the only ones deeply affected by the pictures, nor the only people who were reminded of the tradition and wished the people of Japan could indeed get their most heartfelt wish. Someone out there has created a website with 1000 virtual paper cranes. Anyone can create one and send messages of hope. And if you want to give more practical help there are links to donate to the Red Cross. Click here to visit it.

Tea operated? Time to get knitting.

If I'm completely honest, this blog should probably be called Tea Operated. While I do love gin - I'm writing this (in advance) with a g&t to hand - I frequently go days without having any. I don't know when I last went a day without a cup of tea. I have three types of gin in stock, and more than twenty types of tea.  I own two teapots.

You get the picture. I like tea.

But although I have two teapots, I didn't own anything to keep the tea in them warm. So the time came to get knitting.

This is the first, which I'm giving to my wee brother and his partner next time I see them, because he made the mistake of sounding enthusiastic when I offered to knit him a tea cozy.

Details of the pattern, yarn etc can be found on my Ravelry page here.


And this is the second, which I judged much too over the top to give to anyone else, but I love it.

You can see the pattern and yarn details here.

I modified both patterns slightly because I wasn't happy with the finishing - the first pattern was meant to come with a ribbon on top, the second with fewer, smaller flowers. I used the knitted version of the roses from here but only cast on 25 stitches, did 4 rows of ribbing, and 20 rows of the lines after that, to make smaller roses. I did this after knitting the central rose in the second tea cozy - I just thought it was too big for what I wanted, although it works quite well as the centre of a bouquet!

Knitting twenty roses for the two cozies, all in a row, did become tedious, and because I was putting it off, did take quite a long time. It also started to feel like a critique of modern society and crafting as a hobby - I was using a skill that had once been essential to keep people warm, a central part of life, to make decorative flowers for a tea cozy.

But when I finished the knitting and sewed them all together I stopped over thinking it and started cooing at how pretty they were.

Soup of the week: spicey red lentil with cumin and tomato

This recipe has stood me in good stead for at least three years now, and it's probably the single recipe I've pressed on people most. There have been winters when we've had it pretty much every other week because all other inspiration has departed. Now, I try to have it less often, because that way I remember how truly delicious it is and appreciate how incredibly easy and cheap it is, without getting bored with it.

But we spent last weekend at a wedding, and I have to say by the time we got back on Sunday afternoon, exhausted, hungover and smiley, I was pretty proud of myself for heading towards the kitchen at all, even if it was just to heat up a supermarket faux takeaway, knock up another batch of blondies rather than trying something new, and to make the easiest soup I know.

The thing that's galling about this recipe, though, is that I've never managed to improve on it. I must have cooked it twenty times, but I've never found an adjustment that improves on the original. Changing the spicing slightly? Meh. Making it thicker, or thinner? Not right.

The only thing I've learnt is that it tastes better using a stock other than marigold bouillon powder. It's fine with it (and nine times out of ten that's what I have in the cupboard), but with chicken stock, real or cubed, or even another veg stock cube or powder that doesn't reek quite so much of celery, it's a bit nicer.

So here are the ingredients:

Here is a link to a Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall  recipe so good I can't improve it (I do tend to ignore the yoghurty bit though - life is short).

And here is the finished result, doubled up so it serves eight as ever.

Oh, and did I mention that, made with the right stock, not only is it veggie but it's also vegan? Man is a genius. That is all.

Baking: Hummingbird marshmallow cupcakes, and a way to carry them

Last week I travelled down for a meeting in our Newcastle office. I wanted to thank my colleagues there for helping me out a few weeks ago, and I’d vaguely promised to bake.

I decided to make the prettiest cupcakes I could, partly to show off a bit but mostly because it’s hard not to smile when about to bite into a super pretty cupcake with a mountain of icing.

I spotted the recipe for marshmallow cupcakes in my Hummingbird Bakery book and it looked perfect (I’m squeamish about copying it here because of copyright, but it’s here).

Until I remembered my boss is vegetarian, and a strict one – she wouldn’t touch the gelatine in marshmallows.

So I made half with the marshmallow – on the right, pictured – and added a couple of drops of red, suitable-for-veggies food colouring to the other half of the icing to make it pink.

But the other problem was how to get them down to Newcastle on the train in tact. I’d been thinking about this for a while after too many experiences baking pretty cup cakes for cake sales, and having them get squashed and ruined on the bus.

So I sent the Husband to Lakeland to buy me this.

 

It’s huge, and would be a pain if you had too much else to carry, but it does the job. It has an indented space for each cupcake, can also hold 24 mini ones or one big cake, and clips together sturdily. I have never attracted so many stares when walking through Waverley station as I did when I was carrying this and the cakes, and I think if our train had been delayed I would have had to fight off my fellow passengers.

The cup cake caddy didn't work perfectly - when I got on to the train, some toppled and had to be rearranged - but they all made it down in tact and it survived most things - getting on and off the bus for example - just not the mad rush for seats on the 8am train down to London!

The cupcakes were very well received in the office - a horde of very happy gannets descended - but my colleagues were also intrigued by the carrier itself and wanted to know where I got it. If the Newcastle branch of Lakeland has sold out, I'm sorry, it's my fault.

Recipe: bean and/or mince chilli to feed an army

Every now and then I like to do a huge batch of cooking. There are certain recipes that are a bit too much hassle to do well to feed two people on one evening - but scarcely any more effort to cook a huge quantity.

They tend to be recipes for delicious, relatively cheap food - dal, spaghetti bolognese, and this one - chilli.

I like waiting until I have a quiet Sunday afternoon and doing my future self a favour - cooking a huge pot of food, and freezing it up into two person portions in old takeaway containers to be defrosted and eaten, once a week or so, over the next month.

I know from experience that as I come home from work to a beautiful slow-cooked meal that actually took me ten minutes to throw together, I am deeply grateful for the little time spent a week or two before.

This time, I made chilli. I looked for recipes, but in a house with about 30 recipe books I found I only had two - a 30 year old Delia Smith that only had one spice in it, and a Nigella Express that cheats slightly eccentrically, with chorizo and sweet chilli sauce.

So I made up my own. Because we're trying to save money and eat more healthily, I've scaled down the meat and upped the beans. You could skip one or other altogether, to be honest - just double up the quantity of meat or beans.

I was planning to do enough for four meals, but as it bubbled over the top of my very biggest pot, I realised I'd overdone it slightly. It filled five takeaway containers - enough for ten hungry people. At a portion cost of about £1 a head, I reckon, and that's shopping at Waitrose, something I happily pay a premium to do because I don't want to kill people while I'm in there.

You'll see there's cocoa in the ingredients. Don't panic, try it. But do use cocoa, not sweetened drinking chocolate! This version is quite mild with a slight kick - if you like it hot, double the chilli.

Ingredients (serves 10, it turns out. Halved will serve four hungry people!)

1kg mince
Four cans beans - I used three kidney, one black beans, because three packs of kidney beans were cheaper. Drained and rinsed.
Four can tomatoes, or two huge ones
Two onions, diced
4-5 cloves garlic, sliced
Four peppers, diced
Two red chillis, chopped
1 tbsp cinammon
1tbsp ground coriander
1tbsp ground cumin
2tsp cocoa powder

Soften the onion, garlic, chillis and peppers in a large (enormous!) casserole dish.
Add the mince and stir till brown.
Add the beans, tomatoes, spices and cocoa.
Boil away till reduced - half an hour to an hour, depending on how much of a vat you're produced. Stir it every now and then so it doesn't stick.

Portion up, cool down and freeze.
I'll have some of this with baked potatoes and sour cream, some with rice topped with a bit of cheese, some with tacos - and if I'm feeling adventurous, I might try to turn some into burritos.

Tannin stains and rubber gloves

Just a quickie today. I mentioned last week that I got Nigella's Kitchen for Christmas. And as well as cooking from it, I enjoy reading it - I love Nigella's prose style, and her desperate attempts to convince us that she never puts in any effort.

At the beginning of the book, there was a section of the old-style tips and tricks that are now fashionble again - bicarb and vinegar soaks, that sort of thing. One was soaking stained mugs with vinegar and warm water to remove tannin stains. I tried it. It worked... ish, if you gave it a good scrub afterwards.

So I thought I'd share a technique my mother taught me, that her mother taught her, that actually work, and that I haven't read anywhere.

Excuse the different light levels in these pictures. If you haven't realised by now, our kitchen has no natural light. I took the mug into a different room for the before and after pix, but the actual cleaning happened in the kitchen.

Before. Yuck.

It's incredibly simple, quick and satisfying. Rinse the mug and don't dry it so there's still a bit of water in there, put on rubber gloves and pour a teaspoon or so of salt onto your fingers.

(You do need the rubber gloves by the way. You're using the salt as an abrasive, to scrape off the stains, and you don't want to do that to your skin).

Salt, rubber gloves, dirty mug.

Then just use the salt to scrub at the stains for a few seconds. They'll disappear and the mug will come up clean, and you can then wash the mug up as usual to make sure that your next cuppa doesn't taste of salt.

Ta-da!

Then put the kettle on and make a cup of tea. Just to make sure it's worked.

Sewing: giving a halterneck Vivien of Holloway dress straps

My best friend from school is getting married at the weekend.

She and her fabulous fiance are picking and choosing which traditions they like and ditching the rest. Rather then having traditional bridesmaids, she's decided to have two unofficial best women. We're helping her out, but we get to wear whatever we like.

So I took myself to the Vivien of Holloway website and bought myself this dress - a black polkadot halterneck circle dress. I love their dresses because they suit my shape - hourglass, and plenty of me - very well.

But there are two problems with their dresses. Although they're beautifully boned and perfectly capable of keeping even my ample assets under control, the wedding will feature a ceilidh. And an Orcadian Strip the Willow. And for that, I want to be able to wear a bra. A good one. Otherwise people might die.

The other issue, even if I could get strapless bras in my size, is that for the generously endowed lady halternecks HURT. Quite a lot of weight hanging from my neck? Sore.

I took scissors to my beautiful new dress, cutting halfway along the halterneck strap, and used the bolero that came with it, and did nothing for me, for spare material

I put a fold in the remaining half straps so they went straight up, rather than towards the neck.

Folded and pinned strap

I measured how long the gap between these and the top of the dress back, and cut into the bolero to make two new lengths of strap - both measuring (twice the width of the existing straps + seam allowance) x length of "gap" + seam allowance.

Strap extensions, inside out

I sewed along the lengths of these and then slid them along the existing strap stumps, inside out.

I then sewed the two together and then pulled the new section the right way round so all was visible of the join was a seam.

Then I attached the straps at the back, after trying out a couple of positions to make sure they covered my bra straps but were as far towards the centre as possible.

Ta-da! The finished article.

Obviously it'll look better with a person inside and a net petticoat underneath, but I'm really happy with the straps. I'll share a picture of me inside it when I've dolled myself up for the wedding.

Soup of the week: cauliflower, smoked cheese and paprika

This week's soup comes from dashing out in my lunch-hour to pick up origami paper (yes, it was an urgent lunchtime dash, I'll explain all another time).

My office is in the West End of Edinburgh. It's surrounding by dinky sandwich shops, chi chi clothes shops for people paid rather a lot more than me, and the sort of places you can get origami paper at the last minute. So as I made my dash, I passed a number of chalk boards advertising various soups of the day. One of them said smoked cheese and cauliflower. I don't remember which shop it was, and I didn't nip in to pick some up - I'd already had a portion of butter bean, thyme and chilli oil soup - but the idea stayed in my head.

So when it came to making this week's vat of soup on Sunday, I decided to give it a go. And the result was great - I dipped a teaspoon in to taste it when it was done, and kept going back for more.

Ingredients (makes 8 portions)

 

Two cauliflowers

Two or three sticks of celery

Two onions
Two or three potatoes (afterthought - not pictured)
1.5 l or 3 pints veg stock (for a thick soup, add an extra half litre/pint for something thinner)
Two teaspoons smoked paprika (sweet)
150-200g smoked cheese (I used applewood smoked chedder)

Dice onions, celery and soften in a little oil.
Chop cauliflower into florets, finely chop stem, and add. Peel and dice potatoes, and add.
Add stock, paprika and bring to boil. Leave bubbling away for 20 minutes.

When soft, add grated cheese and blend using a stick blender.

A slow and slightly disappointing roast.

I spent Sunday pottering about the house doing useful things (or less useful things, like accidentally destroying a perfectly good cake). Because I knew I was going to be about the house for most of the day, but also quite busy, and because I knew we'd want a nice dinner to fight off Sunday-night-itis, I decided to cook slow roast pork belly for dinner.

I've made slow roast pork once before, using a Jamie Oliver recipe where you rub crushed fennel seeds into the rind, and delicious it was too. But Nigella also had a recipe, and I thought I'd give it a go because it looked even easier. It involved marinading the pork meat below the rind in a combination of tahini, soy sauce and lemon and lime juice, and it all smelt lovely as it sat there, waiting to go in the oven.

It roasted away happily at 150C for three and half hours, looking and smelling better and better by the minute. But then I followed the final part of her instructions - whacking the temperature up to a massive 250C for the last half an hour. The smell got slightly more acrid.

As  I got the pork out of the oven, things looked promising - the crackling had crisped and swollen up under the heat and looked like puff pastry. But when I carved it, it was a different story. The bottom was black and hard, and the meat in the middle was only ok, not melt-in-the-mouth soft and unctuous. The only taste from the marinade that really stuck was the tahini, and to be honest it was a little off putting on my pork. The best thing was the crackling, which crumbled and crunched in the mouth.

I served it with roast vegetables, and they did very well in the high heat - collapsing into concentrated flavour and softness, with little charred sections like they'd been cooked on the barbecue.

But the pork? I'll stick to Jamie. Even if it did take me about half an hour to crush the fennel seeds last time.

Baking: cake disaster

I spend yesterday pottering about the kitchen, and have various recipes to share over the next few days.

While I was making one recipe - a old colleagues' mother's recipe for sultana and tea cake - I started composing a post in my head. About how following other people's recipes' reminded you of them. About how I'd never cooked the recipe before but could remember how delicious the cake he baked was, and why I begged for the recipe.

It seemed perfect - a loaf cake, speckled with sultanas and flavoured with tea and spice. Substantial enough to last a week, wholesome enough for the Husband to have several slices while he's working, but special enough to be fun.

So I put up with a couple of slightly annoying things in the recipe - soaking sultanas in an unspecified amount of tea overnight, and the fact that it needed to bake for 2 hours. The house smelled gorgeous as it baked.

Then I took it out of the oven. I peeked through the baking paper I'd lined the tin with and saw the top, beautifully browned and cracked, with a little steam rising from it. Perfect.

And then for some unknown reason I tried to pull the cake out of the tin by the baking parchment and it all collapsed. And instead of a beautiful cake, I have this.

The hunks I've salvaged taste nice enough, although not as good as I remembered.

But the most annoying thing? When I asked the Husband what cake he wanted this week, he just asked for Blondies. Wish I'd paid him more attention now!

Saffron fish pie

It seems odd, when I've hardly written any entries at all, to start revising past recipes already. But that's the way I cook - I change old recipes because I fancy something different this time, or because I've yet to get to perfection.

And there is something quite fitting about returning to fish pie over a year after I first blogged about it, and especially on the first Friday of Lent. I no longer go to church but a childhood in the Church of England never leaves you and a fish pie on Good Friday was the only concession my parents ever made to fasting, although the pies were always so rich and filling and full of butter and milk that it was about as far from a fast as possible.

My little brother (I say little. Six food and 27 years old) also cooks a mean fish pie, also loosely based on my mother's but tweaked. He'd had the idea of not poaching fish in milk and using the milk to make the bechemel sauce, but cooking it from raw or frozen in the pie. As this would save time and hassle, I wanted to give it a go. I also decided to try a supermarket frozen fish pie mix - Waitrose's was 400g, contained cod, smoked haddock and salmon, and only used sustainably sourced fish. The reduced quantity was fine, especially as I put a large helping of peas in the pie to save cooking them separately!

And it worked! I added a large pinch of saffron to the bechemel before pouring it over the frozen fish and adding the mash on top, and I'm glad I did - the tastes were more subtle without the fish-poaching liquid, and the saffron helped to keep it special, and gave it a fabulous colour.

The pie. Notice escaped dribble of saffron sauce.

And a helping of pie, slightly collapsed

To make your own version, go to my previous fish pie recipe but skip step 1, use a pint of fresh milk in step 4 and chuck in pinch of saffron with the parsley in step 5, and cook for about 45 minutes to make sure the fish is cooked.

A Saturday night supper: Pork Ardennaise

The other Saturday night, we needed a treat. We wanted to cook something a bit special - nicer than what we'd have on a weeknight, something that took a bit of time and a bit of effort, but ideally not too much money (which ruled out steak, the go-to for treat Saturday night dinners at the Gin Palace).

After kicking round ideas for a while I suddenly remembered something my mother used to cook - pork ardennaise. I texted her and asked her to send me the recipe, and waited, confident the reply would come soon - after all, parents have nothing better to do than cater to their grown up children's every need, right?

Four hours later, phone still silent, I ended up making up my own recipe. It worked out well - the wine, mustard and cream combining to make a sauce I couldn't get enough of that had the Husband practically licking his plate. But it wasn't as good as my mother's.

She still hasn't sent me the recipe, because she wants to "have a think about it" first and work out all the little changes she makes every time but has never written down. I sympathise, as one of the many reasons I started blogging recipes in the first place was so I had a record of all the recipes that are just in my head.

So for now, I can't give you her recipe. Have mine instead!

Pork Ardennaise (serves two)

Two pork chops, or one fillet of pork, cut into medallions.

Four tablespoons of cream

Two teaspoons dijon mustard

Half a pack of lardons

One onion, diced

(Very) large glass white wine

About half an hour before cooking, soak the onions and lardons in the wine.

Fry the chops in olive oil for six minutes a side, drain the onions and lardons and reserve the wine, then add them to the pan and fry for two to three minutes. 

Add the wine and cream and fry for 10-12 minutes. 

Take out the chops and put them on a warm serving plate, reduce the sauce slightly and add the mustard. 

Taste and adjust the seasoning as needed. 

Pour the sauce over the chops and serve - I served it with spring greens, and some parmentier potatoes left over from a Dine in For £10 deal. 

Soup of the week: butter bean, thyme and chilli oil

Well, seeing as I cook a big batch of soup pretty much every week to see us through workday lunches, and seeing as a large proportion of my posts seem to be about said soup making, I might as well call it a regular feature.

Here are the ground rules. I tend to cook a big batch of soup on a Sunday - eight portions, to see us through Monday-Thursday at work. Friday is treat day. They get shoved into tupperware on Sunday, sometimes the ones for the end of the week are frozen, sometimes we decide the fridge is cold, Edinburgh is cold, and we've both got decent immune systems, and they just stay in the fridge. Our freezer is basically just an ice box at the top of the fridge, and looks very full with a bag of peas, some stock and some ice cubes, so risks have to be taken. The lack of freezer space also explains the soup monotony - I'd love to be able to freeze ahead and mix it up, but it's just not possible right now.

The enormous quantities required mean I spend a lot of the time doubling recipes, so it's safe to guess that my recipes can be halved. quartered and so on!

We aren't veggie, buy my soups are almost always suitable for veggies - if I've used meat stock because it's what I have in, substitute with veg. And the dairy can pretty much always be skipped to make them vegan friendly too.

When the weather gets warm, or we get fed up of soup, soup making is suspended and replaced with salads, cous cous etc made rather more piece meal throughout the week. However, I live in Edinburgh. The summer is short. Soup's a feature of life here!

So here's this week's soup - Butter Bean, thyme and Chilli Oil

The recipe originally comes from here but I upped the quantities, used tinned rather than dried beans and fiddled round with the proportions, so I'll tell you what I did. It wasn't difficult.

Ingredients all laid out

Ingredients
Four tins butter beans
Two litres veg stock (cubes or powder are fine)
Two onions, diced
Three large carrots, chopped
Four large sticks of celery, chopped
Two fat cloves of garlic, chopped
Two bay leaves
A few sprigs of thyme leaves
Chilli oil
1-2 tbsps low fat Creme Fraiche - optional (and not an option if you're cooking the vegan version)
Olive oil
Pinch cayenne pepper
Salt and pepper

1. Soften the onions and garlic in the olive oil for a minute or two. Add the carrots and celery and soften while you drain and rinse the butter beans throughly.
2. Add veg stock and butter beans, bay leaves and a couple of sprigs of thyme, cover and boil for 20 minutes or until everything is soft.
3. Taste and adjust seasoning. At this point I thought it was a bit "meh" so whacked in more salt, a pinch of cayenne pepper and some creme fraiche I had in the fridge that needed using up, which seemed to help.
4. Fish out thyme sprigs and bay leaves. Puree using a stick blender.
5. Dish up. The original recipe suggests swirling chilli oil prettily on top. I attempted this but it was pretty much mixed in to the rest of the soup by the time I got it to work. However, I could taste it and it did lift it from a plain bean and veg soup. I divided the rest of the thyme leaves between the pots, they made a big difference too.



The finished product. I'd already dished up half
before I remembered to take a picture.

It looks bland without the chilli oil and thyme, but with them it became great - soothing, certainly, but with a bit of a kick from the chilli oil and cayenne, and a freshness from the thyme.

Baking: Blondies

In a pretty inspired move for someone who doesn't know me all that well, the Husband's uncle gave me Nigella's Kitchen for Christmas. I actually whooped when I opened it, a few weeks into January (snow had disrupted the normal pattern of family present deliveries). I was delighted and touched he'd got me anything at all, let alone something I wanted so much. But although I've spent several evenings happily flicking through it, I hadn't cooked anything from it until Sunday.

I wanted to make a pile of treats for the Husband to pick at during the week. He lost his job in January, and he's so busy at home, applying for jobs and doing freelance work, as well as working shifts outside his profession to bring in regular money, that he's not brilliant at remembering to eat, let alone take breaks. But having cake in the house seems to help this. He finally finished the wodge of Christmas cake we brought back from my in-laws a couple of weeks ago and I wanted something to replace it -something that wouldn't come to any harm left in a cake tin for a few days, in the hope that it would inspire him to take a few minutes off every now and then, and something substantial enough to fill a little hole. And if I happen to have the odd one... oh well.

So when I saw the recipe for Blondies I couldn't resist. It was typical Nigella - simply written and easy to follow. I couldn't get chocolate chips in my local supermarket so had a fun few minutes chopping up bars of cooking chocolate. I didn't chop them up very finely, which meant that some of the finished blondies had HUGE chunks of chocolate in them. This was a Good Thing, so I'll do it again.

Mmmmmm

And here's the final result:

Obviously, I wanted to leave them all for The Husband. But I knew my reader(s) would need to know how they tasted. So selflessly, I had one for you - I couldn't not, especially as one crumbled as I was cutting them up.

And they're good. Lovely and sweet, chocolatey, but the oats make them substantial and means they taste ever so slightly healthy. And when they're still warm?... Excuse me, I just need to go and eat another one.

As for the Husband's final verdict? Well, yesterday, after he'd eaten his first, rapidly followed by his second, I got a text message largely made up of "mmm" and kisses. A success then.

Lunch and a little light shopping

On Saturday afternoon the Husband decided, entirely spontaneously*, that it was time take me out for lunch.

We went to Le Mouton Noir in Bruntsfield. This is the point where I have to admit I'm a bad blogger, because I'll confess I paid a lot more attention to the Husband than the lunch, so the following will have to be sparse on details and photos.

That's not to say the food wasn't fantastic. They've launched a lunch menu offering two course for £10, which is amazing value for the quality and atmosphere. We both had the same -  salmon tartar, with beetroot, and pernod soaked carrots with a lime crème fraiche to start, and pan roasted chicken supreme in mushroom, cream and tarragon sauce with roasted garlic mash. All even better than it sounds. And then a duo of crème brule - one lavender, one vanilla. Delicious!

Afterwards we headed back up the hill and called in to Morningside Makers Market. Despite the fact that it happens just a stone's throw from our flat every month, and I've so often seen the bunting and signs and longed to call in, I've always been too busy when it's on. There was a lovely range of stalls - although about half the exhibitors were selling jewellery - and plenty I'd have taken home with me if I'd been feeling flush or Christmas was coming.

But the stall that caught me - and the very first one I saw after coming through the door - was The Yarn Yard - and all my good intentions of just going for a look went out the door. The whole stall was piled with skeins of yarn in such vibrant colours, I must have picked up and petted a dozen skeins before I made my decision. I was quite proud of myself for only buying one skein of yarn. But it's a beauty - with tiny sparkly bits that the camera hasn't picked up. The second I saw it I could think of half a dozen people who would love a lace shawl made out of it. But right now, I can't imagine parting with it.

*Nothing to do with my perfectly observed impression of a screaming banshee the other day before. Of course not.

Omens

When The Husband and I first moved in together, many moons ago (well, three and a half years ago), my Aunt bought us a stephanotis as a house warming present. It had the prettiest white flowers and, as she gave it to us, she said it symbolised marital happiness.

Which meant that over the past few months, as it has been conveying its extreme displeasure and generally giving up on life, I've been a bit nervy.

This report has also been giving me cause for concern. Widely reported over the past few days, it states that the happiest couples are young, married and childless - all good so far - and have been together for less than five years. The Husband and I have been together for four years and eight months. Suddenly I've started hearing the Countdown clock in the background!

So when the stephanotis finally turned up its toes and died the other day, I decided to take action. I've binned it (or sent The Husband out to bin it - what that says about marital happiness is a whole different post) and replaced it with something with, as far as I'm aware, no symbolism attached.

In M&S I fell in love with this pretty plant in its vintage-style jug. I know if would have been far smarter of me to buy a vintage jug and a plant separately, but this wasn't planned shopping, it was M&S impulse buying while popping in for milk (um. Poppadums, actually. Oops). It's labelled a Campanula, with nothing on what type of variety it is. I can't find anything on the internet because there are so many different types - known as harebells in England and bluebells in Scotland apparently - and all have different lifespans.

But in many ways the lack of information is a good thing. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, and because I have no idea how long that's supposed to be, I won't feel guilty when it turns up its toes and dies. And at least I can reuse the jug.

Which is not a metaphor for marriage.

"Champagne" cocktails

 

I am writing this post on Thursday night, and scheduling it for Friday lunchtime, a good time to think about cocktails. I've just cleaned the flat from top to bottom and sprayed enough Pledge in the air so The Husband can't fail to notice how clean everything is the second he walks in through the front door, and I'm waiting for my dinner (an unbloggable, but nice, leftover pasta bake) to heat up.

I'm at the level of tiredness where absolutely everything aches, and I am longing for a gin and tonic. But even more, I'm longing for a champagne cocktail. Cold, crisp, strong with a hint of sweetness at the end. Just one this evening would first render me happy, giggly, dancing and gregarious - and then send me straight to sleep.

Sure, champagne cocktails are fabulous when you're celebrating. But to be honest, they're even better when you're not. Just as champagne never tastes better than when drunk on a Saturday morning in bed for no reason, champagne cocktails are perfect for turning a slightly ordinary occasion into a perfect one. Made with angostura bitters, brandy, a sugar lump, and cheap-ish cava (I have champagne rarely enough that I wouldn't adulterate it with brandy), once you've got the store cupboard items in, they're actually quite a frugal way to add a bit of sparkle.

We had them last Saturday night. Our upstairs neighbours had sweetly given us a bottle of cava to say thank you for arranging some repairs. So we cracked it open, got out the champagne saucers that Blonde and her Best Mate got us as a wedding present, and made the following. Delicious. And, if you're reading this on Friday, may I suggest them as the perfect way to kick off your weekend?

Champagne Cocktails

(per glass)

Glass cava or other sparkling white wine

Splash Brandy

2-3 drops Angostura bitters

Sugar cube

Drip the bitters onto the sugar cube, place in glass, add a splash of brandy and top up with fizz. 

Tea and cake

My brother-in-law gave me a mini Hummingbird Bakery cookbook for Christmas, as well as the prettiest pink cupcake cases.

I loved the look of the book instantly. Although I've made a lot of cupcakes in my time, I'd never got on to any flavourings more exotic than rosewater, and I'd made up my own techniques, using a classic sponge recipe which is perfect for a fairy cake but slightly too heavy for a cupcake. The book has ginger cupcakes and lavender cupcakes and the technique for capturing the more unusual flavours (soaking the ginger or lavender in a little milk for hours and cooking with the milk) looks transferrable. It also has some lovely looking savoury muffins I'll try later in the year when it's too warm for boiled eggs and soldiers for breakfast.

But I only got a chance to cook from the book this weekend.

This was baking on impulse, with ingredients from the store cupboard and the local supermarket, so I decided to go for the lemon cupcakes for ease. The Husband also asked for a baking lesson at the same time, so we baked together, in our tiny kitchen.

The process wasn't without hitches - without thinking I added the lemon zest that was meant to go in the icing to the cake mix and so substituted lemon juice for the milk in the icing, which worked nicely, but perhaps gave a sharper flavour. The book said to fill the cases two thirds full - but there wasn't enough cake mix for this, so I only filled eight cases. But then the cakes rose so much they were a little too high, so actually, the recipe would have been enough for 12, rather than eight.

And as it was The Husband's first time with food colouring, the cakes looked rather like someone had stuck a canary in a blender, rather than a nice subtle pastel yellow.

But the hitches weren't the book's fault - and the cakes were delicious with a cup of tea and the Sunday papers. So delicious, they're now all gone. Oops.

Yes, more soup.

Mmm.

Ok, ok... it does taste a lot better than it looks

Anyone who's stuck with me through various interruptions will have gathered one thing: I cook a lot of soup. It's really all about practicality - there isn't really a nicer, easier way to have a warm, healthy, cheap and delicious lunch at work, especially in the Edinburgh winters and the deceptively cold Edinburgh springs.

Now we've given up on the veg box, though, I'm not faced with a once-a-fortnight recipe challenge involving a pile of unappetising, knobbly-looking veg and a stock cube. This means I can have more variety - look, no beetroot! - but also means I've been running out of ideas.

So when I read this recipe for Black Bean soup in Saturday's Guardian I had to give it a go. It's a Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall recipe, with tomatoes, beans, chilli and spices. I doubled up the quantities and there was enough for eight medium portions. I didn't bother blending any of it - he said to blend just half, but life's just too short for blending that can't be done easily with a stick blender in the cooking pot. I was out of ground coriander so substituted garam masala. I'm adding a dollop of sour cream and a couple of coriander leaves to each in the morning before taking it to work.

It's absolutely delicious. I was worried it would be too hot, but actually it just has the smallest kick - I might throw an extra chilli in next time. But it's both rich and fresh tasting. I can't wait to finish it all up.