Mayonnaise failings

I first attempted to make mayonnaise just six months ago.

I’d always been told just how impossibly difficult it was, but I had a recipe –a Nigel Slater recipe – my trusty balloon whisk, and rather too much confidence.

And it worked. Two egg yolks and a quantity of oil were transformed into a miraculous, wobbly, delicious substance. I added chopped capers and fresh herbs, and dolloped the results over poached chicken – warm that first day, and then delicious leftovers the following two days.

The next time I made it, it was in a holiday cottage in the middle of nowhere. Our next-door neighbour had given us two fresh lobsters he’d caught himself, in return for a lift into town to buy a packet of fags which looked remarkably like a quarter bottle of whisky.

We had the lobsters – which he’d cooked – cold, with potato wedges cooked in a hot oven with olive oil. But I decided we wanted sauce.

With the absolute confidence of the beginner, I once again separated eggs, whisking the yolks with olive oil slowly and carefully. This time, without a recipe or even a measuring jug, I produced a perfect wobbly substance that made our lobster and chips dinner absolutely the food of kings.

I’d begun to think I’d cracked mayonnaise, that, as with anything else in cooking, it just takes care and patience but isn’t particularly difficult.

But I’ve now entered a run of failures longer than my run of successes, and I’m losing hope.

Three times now, I’ve cracked egg yolks into a bowl and whisked them, either with a pinch of mustard powder or of salt, depending on whether I was relying on Delia or Nigel to show me the way.

Three times, it’s started well, but then turned into a curdled mess – a strange almost suspension of eggy blobs in oil. Nigel tells me this always happens at the beginning – well, it’s been happening to me at the end. Delia tells me it just won’t happen if I’m adding the oil slowly enough. Harrumph. I’m not sure I could go much slower.

I tried again last week, using the yolks from the meringues and my new hand mixer. I had great hope that the mixer would fix it and miraculously end my run of mayonnaise disasters.

It just went wrong quicker.

Now, both Nigel and Delia breezily assure you that, should your mayonnaise go wrong, it’s simply a question of getting another egg yolk and starting from scratch with that, mixing your failure in very slowly.

For my first two failures I didn’t have a spare egg yolk. But last week, I tried this. Twice. Which probably tells you just how well it worked.

I have some theories as to what I’m doing wrong. I think that I may be adding the oil too fast – not at the beginning, but in the middle, when I start to get cocky.

I think that my bowls might be the wrong size – using a big mixing bowl for two egg yolks means that at first the yolks are so spread up the sides of the bowl it’s impossible to mix things evenly. But I tried the only other size of bowl I have and that was disastrous – so small I had olive oil everywhere.

But I suspect the main problem is that (and this may also be an excuse) our kitchen is just very dark. More and more of our lights are going and I’ve been cooking from one overhead light and the light from the cooker hood. Being an internal kitchen, that’s not enough, and I’ve not quite been able to see what I’m doing. I think this has meant I’ve not been able to tell when my egg mixture is still a little bit greasy and could do with more whisking, and have been adding the oil in too quickly, causing it to curdle.

We have an electrician coming next week – not, I hasten to add, purely so I can make perfect mayonnaise, but as part of the kitchen revamp, and also because I suspect some of our failed lights are less than safe.*

When he’s been, and we’ve finished the revamp, I may try mayonnaise again – in a medium sized bowl, adding the oil slowly all the way through.

But first, a heartfelt plea – if you are a mayonnaise expert, or know a mayonnaise expert, please could you tell me your secret, or, if you don’t know what your secret is, just how you go about doing it? I want to know what I’m going wrong! There’s something infinitely frustrating about having made perfect mayonnaise exactly twice.

*My husband tells me the electrician looks like Puck from Glee. Unfortunately, with the Husband unemployed, I can’t get away with claiming it’s my turn to stay home. Which is almost as much of a waste as the amount of failed mayo I’ve been chucking in the bin.

Recipe: Low fat and luscious strawberry pavlova

When Caroline from Second Hand Shopper told me she and her Dapper Chap were coming to town this weekend, I knew we just had to have them over for dinner.

It was a fantastic evening – as sore heads and the number of empty wine bottles lined up the next morning testified – and lovely to see Caroline after much too long and meet the lovely Dapper. (Who is indeed Dapper. I identified it was them in the taxi outside because I could see the perfect amount of shirt cuff appearing from a jacket sleeve.)

Because it was quite a short notice thing, and I’d been working all day, The Husband and I decided to keep the catering simple.

He cooked one of his signature dishes - a Nigel Slater recipe involving chicken thighs, herbs, white wine, slow frying and much licking of plates. It’s one of our favourites and I was embarrassed to discover we’d served it to Caroline last time she came to stay – enough to tempt me to start keeping an old-fashioned guest book! However, she was kind enough to insist that she’d loved it then, and certainly cleaned her plate!

But for all my insistence on simplicity, I had a new hand mixer to play with. Time to attempt meringues!

Everything needed to be made between me getting home from work at some time after half five, and guest arriving at half seven, so I went for a quick meringue recipe that gave a soft result, rather than drying everything out slowly in the oven overnight, which I’m planning to attempt last time. This meant the meringue did crack when transferred to the serving plate – but who cares, when it’s got stuff piled on top to hide it? It also that it was quite soft – lovely in the context, but I’m going to play at getting harder meringues.

I discovered using yoghurt rather than cream in pavlovas a few weeks ago, after going on Weightwatchers. I was expecting it to be a bit of a compromise – better than no pudding, but not as good as cream. I was wrong – I love the way the sharpness of the yoghurt contrasts with the sweet meringue and fruit.  I love this Total stuff because it’s so creamy and thick, despite being 0% fat. And also, yoghurt doesn’t need whipping – a major bonus if you don’t have a hand mixer, or you’re just washing-up averse!

Serves 4

Two egg whites

110g/4oz caster sugar (I used golden, for a pretty colour and a slightly more complex taste)

Two punnets strawberries or other soft fruit.

Quarter teaspoon cream of tartar (you can omit – it helps the egg whites puff up, though, so is handy)

Extra tbsp for macerating strawberries

One 150g pot Total 0% fat yoghurt

Turn the oven on to 140C (less if fan)

Line a baking tray with baking parchment.

In a large, scrupulously clean bowl (if it’s even slightly greasy it makes it harder to get the eggs to fluff up) whisk the egg whites until they form stiff peaks when you take the whisk out of the bowl. If you have a hand mixer this takes seconds. If you’re doing it by hand, it will happen eventually.

Arrange on the baking tray in a large circle. (I say arrange. I splodged it and then smoothed it out).

Bake for 45-60 minutes till the outside is crisp, and then leave the oven, turned off with the door open, for half an hour. This can be done ahead.

While the meringue is in the oven, or an hour or two before serving, whichever is later, core and halve the strawberries, sprinkle with a the extra sugar, and leave in a bowl to macerate.

Just before serving, place the meringue CAREFULLY on a serving plate, add yoghurt on top, and then arrange strawberries.

New toy: electric mixer

I can be a bit of a puritanical baker. Not in what I cook, but in the way I do it. Although I've had a food processor for years now, I tend to mix cakes by hand - it doesn't feel like I'm making it otherwise.

Although I do use the beaters on my food processor for some things, they're not very strong, and using them involves an unholy amount of washing up.

So generally, it's me and a hand whisk - even for meringues. It's good exercise!

However, recently I've been thinking how much easier life would be if I had a mixer - especially as I'm cooking more no-fat sponges, and they're just a pain by hand.

When I mentioned this idea to The Husband, he suggested I put some Christmas money we'd got from his grandparents towards it - because we both knew they'd be happy with us buying something for the kitchen with it. I also put some my birthday money from my Aunt towards it, as I wanted to buy something which has good reviews and a chance of lasting a good long while.

I went for a mixer in the Kenwood kMix range because it was good and heavy and had good reviews online – and, if I’m completely honest, because it's a fab almond colour and has a nice retro look. Until the day when I have the money and the space for a Kitchen Aid, I thought this would keep me happy!

It's good and heavy - so much so that my hand does start to hurt after mixing for a very long time, but no-where near as much as it does when using a hand whisk!

It also comes with a handy stand which keeps all its bits and bobs together - and means it can be kept out on display if you're not quite as desperately short of surface space as we are.

It cost just shy of £60, and I've already had a play with it, making both a very nice meringue and utterly failed mayonnaise. It made short work of both. In every sense, as far as the mayonnaise was concerned, but I suspect that was operator error! I'll blog both later in the week.

Friday night curry

A couple of years ago I bought myself Anjum Anand's Indian Food Made Easy. I hadn't watched the TV series - strangely, I don't much like watching cooking on television, I'd much rather read about it (although I'll confess to being addicted to Masterchef - largely because it's not really about cooking!)

It took me a while to get into it - for a long time I was slightly too scared of all the ingredients in each recipe. One or two I couldn't even find at the shops. But then Caroline over at Second Hand Shopper came to stay and told me how much she liked the book. She even posted me some dried mango powder to get me going.

And I'm very glad she did! There are a number of recipes in the book I love, but the one I come back to again and again is this one. 

Just to warn you - it's another marinade recipe so requires a little thinking ahead. What we always do is pop the chicken and marinade in a freezer bag in the fridge the night before we want to eat it.

It's enough food to feed an army, and so I tend to quarter the amount of chicken, but halve the amount of sauce and marinade - partly because to quarter it would result in just too little sauce to marinate anything in, and partly because the sauce is amazing.

The reduced quantities mean that the yogurt would reduce too quickly if I left it as it is, so I tend to pop a quarter pint of water in at the beginning and keep an eye on it. I've never made full quantities but suspect it wouldn't be a problem if you were.

And it works perfectly with low fat yogurt, which means that you can actually make it astoundingly healthy.

But the magical thing for me about this recipe is the taste of the sauce - it's spicy but not hot, fresh and just beautiful. Although the recipe says chicken, as the star is the sauce I think it would work equally well with vegetables, chick peas or meat substitute, adjusting the cooking times accordingly.

The result is pretty damn tasty. So tasty, in fact, that when I photographed it I did so in a screaming hurry to go away and eat, and didn't check the results before digging in. Hence dodgy blurred photo below. Apologies - just take it as proof of how good it tastes!

 

Knitting in progress: snowdrop shawl

Nearly two years ago, in a cottage with an open fire and many open bottles of wine, I sat gossiping with three old friends while putting the finishing touches to the lace shawls I knitted for my bridesmaids.

It was a fabulous weekend - much gossip, booze, and I learnt to play backgammon. I also learnt that although I am capable of knitting lace when drunk, I must not attempt to fix mistakes in lace when drunk - a truly terrifying patch of unravelling yarn ensued at my first attempt, which I managed to put back together with steady nerves and a strong cup of tea the next morning.

Although none of the wonderful women present were my bridesmaids, for reasons of geography, and the impossibility of picking one and not all three, I realised that I wanted to make them shawls too, to celebrate their fabulousness.

Two decided they did want lace shawls. One decided that she'd never wear one and would rather have gauntlets. All three picked out their colours. I bought the yarn for the shawls while on honeymoon in Florence.

The gauntlets were made quickly, and then progress slowed. I stopped to make my Dad three pairs of socks for his sixtieth birthday - a process that took a while.

I then started work on the first shawl, picking the colour I'd never knitted with before -  a deep, dark blue. This was the result, finished a year after the wedding.

Then my mother's sixtieth started to approach. I promised her two shawls, got knitting, and these were the results - shawl one, in a fiery red/orange, and shawl two, in a thicker yarn, with grey and charcoal.

I got them finished on time - just. But then, after a lot of knitting for deadlines, I got fed up of big projects that would take a long time with deadlines attached, and started on small things, bootees, baby hats, tea cozies - oh, and one more deadline project, an enormous baby blanket.

Finally, as spring started, I was back in the mood for lace, for delicate yarn, and for taking time knitting something perfect for a friend.

So I cast on this about a month ago. It's The Yarn Harlot's Snowdrop Shawl in a deep red, a shade that always reminds me of the friend it's for.

The pattern is fun and quite simple and easy to memorise, and it's going quite fast.

I'm nearly there now - one pattern repeat from the end, although I know I'll want to do the knitted on edging which may take a while. All in all, I'm hopefully that it'll be finished, blocked and posted off (or better, given by hand) to the recipient by the second wedding anniversary, this June.

The recipient knows who she is, and knows full well it's coming (or she does now - I have a nasty feeling she thought I'd forgotten until I couldn't resist showing it to her in a pub last time we met).

So no harm in a sneak preview - although I can't wait until it's blocked, and you can see the pattern properly.

Little pretty things: French letters

 

When I was a little girl, I used to ask my mother why I never got any letters.

Rather than explaining to me that the letters grown-ups get are in fact very boring, mostly bills and bank statements, she would explain that you had to write letters in order to get letters.

I would then go away and work out who I could write to, so they could write back and I could get a letter of my own. If I didn't get distracted in the process - usually by a book, because very little has changed - I would get out a pen, whichever writing paper I had been given the Christmas or birthday before, complete with sheet of lined paper as a guide, and start writing. I suspect my grandmothers or Great Aunt were the lucky recipients of these epistles, given the high likelihood of them writing back, and I still have a letter my Great Aunt once wrote to me, tucked into the recipe book from her childhood she sent me (that's a whole different post!) Sadly, these three wonderful ladies all died before I entered my teens, so I have no way of checking what sort of correspondent I was!

These days, I get plenty of letters. And let me tell you, boy are they boring. Junk mail, pension statements, bank statements, credit card statements. I'm beginning to realise that no post that comes in a window envelope is ever worth having. 

So when a handwritten envelope drops through the door, it's exciting. Even more so if it's not Christmas or my birthday. And even more so when you recognise the handwriting and realise it's an update from a friend you don't see enough of.

There's something wonderful about saving a "real" letter to read with a little drinky or a cup of tea, and catching up on news. Reading it another couple of times over the next couple of days while starting to think of a reply. And then finally getting out a proper pen and paper, sitting down at a table and starting to write.

So when I realised I had run out of notelets, and had nothing apart from tiny correspondence cards and great sheets of printer paper in the house, it was the perfect excuse to nip out to Paper Tiger and spending a happy ten minutes choosing stationery. 

I took home the above. I couldn't resist the pretty designs, based on vintage French fabrics (hence French letters - what else did you think I meant?), the envelopes, and the fact that it comes in its own sturdy box, perfect for stacking the letters I get in return in, just like I used to when I was eight. 

I wish I'd kept them. It would be lovely to read a letter from Granny now. 

Lime and rosemary marinaded lamb kebabs

 

As the summer approaches, trees blossom and bulbs come to life, I find myself turning my back on the heavy, comforting foods of winter, and beginning to think of barbecues, outdoor dining, lighter meals for lighter evenings.

Of course, living in a first floor flat in Edinburgh, outdoor dining and barbecues won't kick in until later on in the year - until I trust the weather not to do something disgusting just as I've carted all the ingredients down the stair and out the back door.

So for now I'm throwing open the windows (then closing them again when it gets chilly) and inviting the summer into my kitchen.

And to do that, without the impractical fun of the barbecue, I've got out the griddle pan. 

I'll be honest with you - the griddle pan is an all-year-round feature in this flat. Got so hot it smokes and threatens to set off fire alarms, it's the only way I know to cook steak so it's charred outside but still red inside - and that happens all winter long.

Although I have a fondness for Le Creuset I only managed to fund by making an honest man of The Husband, my griddle pan is a cheapy from Ikea that actually predates him by several years. I got it as a Christmas present when I was a post-grad student in 2002. It's still going strong. 

But now I've started using it for other things - things I want to cook lightly, but intensify their natural flavour - a sure sign the summer is here.

This is one example, cooked on the first really summery Saturday of the year. Just to warn you - although it's incredibly easy, and probably takes only 20 minutes of work, it requires a little thinking ahead. If you're cooking it for dinner, pop the lamb in to marinate ideally at lunch time, but in any event, when you put the butternut squash in to roast, a good 50 minutes before you'd like dinner on the table.

For the lamb and marinade, serves two.

250-300g whatever lamb meat looks likely in the supermarket. Shoulder or leg, probably. Cut into chunks, fat trimmed.

Rosemary sprigs, just ordinary 6 inch ones from a packet if you've killed your rosemary plant like me, 4-6 depending on how much meat you've gone for.

Juice of one lime

For the cous cous

Half a butternut squash (or a whole one if you're hungry!)

Pinch of cayenne pepper

Frylight/olive oil

100g cous cous

Mint (fresh, ideally)

Parsley

Chives if you have them handy

Two tomatoes

Lemon or lime juice

Stock cube

Glug of extra virgin olive oil if you fancy

At lunchtime, ideally, strip all leaves but the top ones from the rosemary sprigs, chop lightly, and place in a non-metallic bowl with the lime juice. Toss the lamb in it, and cover with clingfilm to stop it drying out. Periodically, when you're in the kitchen for more tea, give it a stir. (You can add olive oil to the marinade if you like, it stops the lamb drying out so you don't need the clingfilm. But you don't need it.)

You can roast the butternut squash now, or later - I like doing it earlier on because then dinner itself is the work of minutes. 

Heat the oven to 180C ish (for a fan oven).

Tackle the butternut squash. Take a SHARP peeler and peel it. Then take a SHARP knife and halve it, scooping out the seeds, and cut it into inch sized chunks. The peeler and knife must be sharp - if you use something blunt, you'll probably lose a finger in the process of peeling and cutting the wretched thing, and you'll certainly lose the will to live.

Bung it a roasting tin with some frylight or olive oil, and a sprinkling of cayenne pepper if you fancy it, and roast for 40 minutes. Allow to cool (unless you're doing it at the last minute, when leave it hot!)

Just before eating, start to heat your griddle pan, and put the kettle on while you assemble the skewers. Use a real metal skewer or something else pokey and sharp to make holes in the lamb so you don't break your rosemary twigs, and thread the lamb on them.

Cook the lamb skewers in the griddle pan for up to ten minutes, turning regularly, depending on how pink you like your lamb. I think we did ours for about six.

Meanwhile, make up your cous cous according to packet instructions with the boiling water, but lob a stock cube in, and cover it and leave it to do its thing.

While you're waiting, cut up the herbs and the tomato and juice the lemon or lime. When the cous cous is ready, stir these through, with a good glug of extra virgin olive oil if you're not trying to be good, and the butternut squash.

Heap the cous cous into pasta bowls or deep plates, and put your lamb skewers on top.

Maybe it's because I'm not a Londoner any more.

Oops, went quiet again. Sorry. Although I knew I was going away for a week, I thought as I was bringing my laptop with me there would be no interruption in blogging. Lesson learnt: in future I'll either schedule posts in advance or explain that I'm going somewhere!

I had a pretty amazing birthday - as you probably gathered from the Balmoral post, the Husband was pulling out all the stops to spoil me, and on the day itself I had a wonderful time and received many very lovely presents.

The next day we got on a train and headed down to London - or suburban Bromley, to be more precise - to spend a week staying with my folks. The weekend was for family celebrations (once again, spoilt rotten), and then the week itself for catching up with friends - going from Belgravia to Brixton via Sloane Square all in an afternoon, I nearly melted my slightly-too-pristine Oystercard.

The thing is, I used to be a Londoner. Grew up in deepest, darkest suburban South London, went to school in another suburb, lived there from the age of five till the age of eighteen, and every university summer. As my parents still live there, I've always had a key that leads me to a house, and a bedroom, within a stone's throw of London town, and I've always been proud that however long I've been away, I'm still a Londoner at heart - get in my way on the tube and see me snarl. 

But last week I realised I'm not a Londoner any more.

With each old haunt revisited, the feeling grew - the city has become a tapestry of happy memories for me, but is no longer home.

It was wonderful to see so many people I love, and the pang of saying goodbye to every single one of them nearly drew me back. And as I skipped between so many different places, all looking so very full of promise in the sun, of course I thought, briefly, of moving back.

But in the ten-ish years since I left (taking an average from all the little leaving homes that happen at university) London's changed. That Oystercard - which finally I can use on pay as you go in South London - is just one symbol. This trip I finally got around to going to Tate Modern, which opened after I left, and tried not to cry at the Ai Weiwei sunflower seeds, behind rope, as its creator is behind bars.

And for every change in the city, there's been a change in me.When I left, so hungry for success, I assumed I'd come back - to get to the top, I'd need to be in London.

Now, I guess I'm hungry for happiness. That doesn't mean I've left ambition behind me - I'm never going to be happy if I'm bored at work - but it's not the only thing that matters. Although I'd still like to be near the bright lights, now it's also important to be near the open spaces.

So I've popped my Oystercard back in the drawer and found my Lothian buses ridacard, slipped it into my handbag, planned my next escape to open country.

And after that I'll pencil in my next visit to the Big Smoke.


Back to the recipes tomorrow I promise...

Little pretty things: personalised correspondence cards

When I was younger, I hated writing thank you letters. It was always a chore, never a pleasure, but something my parents would never let slip. Many an hour was spent staring out of the window trying to work out exactly how to say thank you for yet more writing paper.

As I got older, I started having to write fewer thank you letters, as my grandparents passed away and as I became "too grown-up" for presents from a lot of relatives.

But as I got older still (and this post is scheduled to go live on my 30th birthday, so I'm positively ancient...!) and started giving more gifts, I began to understand how important that thank you is. Not necessarily in the old-fashioned way - a heartfelt thanks in person, a text or an email, all can be more than enough to reward and reassure the gift-giver, and thank them for their kind thoughts (even if you can't think of any redeeming features to the present itself).

So by the time the Husband and I came back from honeymoon to a list of 50 thank you letters to be written, I'd got to the stage where I enjoyed writing them - explaining to the giver why we'd asked for a thing, why it was important, and thanking them for coming to the wedding. Mind you, the process still took three months.

These days, I'd still rather drop certain people a card than an email. But often good intentions slipped away - usually because I didn't have a suitable card or piece of paper to hand and so needed to pop to the shops, and then I would forget to go for a while, and then it would be just too late to say thank you.

So when I saw these beautiful correspondence cards on Etsy I had to get them. They're personalised with my name in the bottom right corner, which is a lovely touch - and a useful one if your handwriting is quite so bad as mine can be - means gift givers should at least be able to work out why I'm writing. 

The paper is lovely and thick, and the cards are the perfect size for the message - thank you, or I made you this, or "boo!" - as well as a bit of news,  and the usual pleasantries - without becoming a full blown epistle. 

What I really love, though, is the slight creepiness of the illustrations. What is that Victorian gent doing with the giant butterfly? Does he know it's there? Is it a giant, or is he tiny?

 

I've been known to keep one or two in my desk drawer at work so I can send a quick thank you note for a dinner party the next morning if I think my host is old-fashioned enough to want a thank you note (and I don't think being old-fashioned is a bad thing at all in that context).

 

I got my cards here. There are oodles of cards on Etsy, but to my mind, these are still the best. Currently, there are none listed in the shop, just wedding invitations and calling cards - but the seller does do special requests, so if you send her a message, I'm sure she'll help out! I paid about £10 for 10, but that was a while ago.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that, by the time you read this, I'm going to need to write a thank you letter or two!

Shopping: Pepperberry

After the Balmoral yesterday, we headed along to the new Pepperberry store on George Street.

I've been a Bravissimo customer for years, loving not only the gorgeous undies for girls with more generous assets but also the clothes - fab dresses, shirts and jackets which actually fit, rather than straining over the boobs and fitting the waist, or fitting the boobs and flapping round the waist.

But I've always bought the clothes online, as there really isn't enough room for them in the Edinburgh Bravissimo store, and so they never have the full range of clothes or sizes.

Pepperberry solves this - a whole shop, albeit it not a huge one, just for the clothes. The range isn't enormous - a couple of dresses and jackets were hung up in two different places in the shop to fill it up - but it's a good start, with everyting from suits, to pretty going out dresses, to day dresses and a denim blazer. If you find shopping for a plain work shirt a nightmare, then I'd highly recommend them.

The sizing works using numbers and "curviness" - so you buy the clothes size you would need to fit the rest of you, and then select your curviness - curvy if your buttons just strain a bit, really curvy if you need to go up a dress size to cover your boobs, and super curvy if you need to go up two, or (as I have to) plan what styles you buy based on your boobs. So I'm an 18SC.

The size range is a bit limited compared to many places these days - 8-18 - but the sizes are generous, especially the floatier 50s style dresses.

My size is the one that always sells out fast on the website, but in the store they had it in stock in two of the four things I wanted to try on. For the other two, I tried on a different "curviness" size, so I could get an idea of how it would look and then, if I'd liked it, ordered in the size I actually wanted.

I tried on a blue maxi dress in the wrong curviness size, so I could at least see how it fitted elsewhere. It was fine, but I decided not to order it in - at the moment it felt all wrong, although I don't promise not to buy it when summer properly hits! I also tried on a colbolt blue shift in the wrong curviness size, but it wasn't for me.

But I tried and loved this denim blazer (picture from the Pepperberry site)

 I can see it's going to be very handy in the summer, as it can be dressed up or down - it'll look great with a maxi or as a cardigan alternative, and I've also worn it to work.

And I fell in love with this dress (picture from Pepperberry site again, sorry it's a bit small!)

Fifties styles - fitted on the bust and waist and then flowing outwards - suit me and I love the drama of them. I was very spoilt, and my friends bought it for me as a birthday present. I'm planning to wear it tomorrow on my actual birthday - fingers crossed the weather's nice enough. Once it gets properly warm I think I'll be living in this dress because it's so flexible - I can see myself wearing it for a Saturday shopping, for a wedding, or for work depending on the accessories I put with it. It's a cotton and silk blend, but can be machine washed.

As ever with Bravissimo, the styles in Pepperberry aren't exactly fashion forward. I'm not the most experimental dresser and even I find a few of the things there a bit too safe - I suspect because they go right across the age range. But for a pretty dress to wear to a wedding it's perfect and, like Bravissimo before it, I suspect will always be my first port of call when I need a smart dress that fits in a hurry. And it's very handy for basics. I don’t wear jackets from anywhere else any more now I've got used to jackets that actually fit me.

The staff are incredibly friendly and helpful (one of the reason The Husband loves Bravissimo is that they immediately swoop in and rescue lone male partners who haven't a clue what to buy), so if all my talk of curviness sizes has just confused you, I'd recommend popping in and asking them!

Spoilt rotten: Birthday afternoon tea at the Balmoral

Sorry about the lack of blog yesterday.

The thing is, I usually write my blog at least a day ahead, and schedule posts to go live at lunchtime, which is when I read other people's blogs, and always hope other people have updated.

But on Sunday, I was in no fit state to blog, because I had been spoilt rotten.

Thursday is my 30th birthday. I'm feeling quite sanguine about it, all things considered, although there's still time for that to change. But I didn't feel like having a party or a big night out. It took me ages to decide what I wanted to do to celebrate it - apart from a weekend in London with my family, and staying on for a few days to see friends next week, and taking a day off and going for a nice boozey lunch with The Husband on the day itself (when I put it like that it sounds like quite a lot already, doesn't it?)

But then I realised: what I really wanted was a grown-up tea party. With champagne. Of course.

The Husband excelled himself and booked us into the Palm Court at the Balmoral for afternoon tea at lunchtime - so we'd actually have room to do the tea justice!

It was only a few days before that I realised it was Mother's Day, and resigned myself to things being a little bit crowded and frantic, but still fun.

But actually, I couldn't have been more wrong. If you've not been to the Palm Court, I'd recommend going for the setting alone - it feels a little bit like one has stepped into a smaller, more intimate, and infinitely smarter version of Ricks in Casablanca. It was full, but not crowded, and not noisy - there was a hubbub of gentle conversation with a harpist playing from a balcony above.

We were guided to our table, the waiter discreetly asked if there was a birthday - something The Husband had mentioned on booking, but I didn't clock.

They brought us the menus, and we selected our teas, and our champagnes - three of us had Bollinger, one Bollinger Rose.

There were rounds of shortbread on the table as we arrived, as well as clotted cream and jam. At this point, I started grinning like an eight-year-old - it was absolutely perfect.

Then came pots of tea - a pot each, and later, refills at no extra charge.

Followed by glasses of champagne (the grin got wider).

Followed by silver cake stands. The bottom tier held finger sandwiches - salmon and cucumber, beef, brie, egg, and ham.

The middle tier held three mini scones each - one honey, one cinnamon, and one fruit. My husband had mentioned when booking that one of our friends was allergic to cinnamon and her scones came on their own separate plate, cinnamon free and entirely without fuss.

And the top tier held the cakes. Tiny, delicate - more like petit fours. A frangipane tart. A mini blueberry cheesecake square. A chocolate thing I didn't have room for, and a light cream cake with a raspberry on top.

At this point a better blogger than me would have taken a picture. I got stuck in, instead. Sorry.

The food was lovely - as one would expect, really, especially at those prices.

But what tipped it over into perfect was the atmosphere, and the service. Little touches - the fact that our waiter clearly enjoyed making people happy and could only just stop himself grinning as we cooed while he explained what the cakes were and handed out our teapots. The fact that when we asked for more cream and jam - what was on the table wasn't really enough to cover 12 scones, especially when we were feeling as greedy as we were - they instantly brought us not one more plate, but two. We didn't manage to finish it in the end! The service was friendly, quick and unobtrusive - plenty of chances to ask for things, but we didn’t feel under pressure or interrupted.

And then. Just as I was halfway through my third scone, with a contented smile on my face (and probably a lot of icing sugar down my front!), the music the harpist changed, to a light and tinkling Happy Birthday, and the staff brought out a slice of chocolate cake with a polka dot candle in it. As the other diners realised what was happening they turned round and smiled, but there wasn't the cringe-worthy Italian restaurant moment when everyone is looking at you and music is blaring.

I've never had Happy Birthday played to me by a harpist before, and trust me, it was lovely.

When I'd finished grinning, and split the slice of cake between four - I couldn't have managed it on my own! - we finished our scones, and most of our cakes. The survivors were put into a box for us to take away.

And then, after two hours of bliss, we headed out smiling into the street, and hit the shops. Looking at the length of this post, that's a story for another day.

Now, the Balmoral isn't cheap. In fact, it's sinfully expensive. The tea was £26, the champagne around £12 a glass. There are places where you can get a fantastic afternoon tea cheaper - in fact, I'd highly recommend Eteaket which does a lovely tea for £14.

But if it's a special occasion, and you want something magical, and you don't mind pushing the boat out, I'd really recommend the Balmoral.

Tessa Kiros, and gingerbread hearts

For my birthday a couple of years ago my in laws bought me set of two Tessa Kiros cookbooks - Apples for Jam and Falling Cloudberries.

The books are stunning in themselves - beautifully shot pictures, full of intense colours. They're arranged along themes. Apples for Jam is full of family recipes, grouped by colour. Falling Cloudberries is more for grown ups, and that's arranged by the many countries Tessa and her family have lived.

And there you hit on the first reason why I don't use the books as often as I should. Does that seem to you an easily browsed format when you want a main course and a pudding for a dinner party, or a quick, cheap and lovely weeknight supper? Nope, me neither.

To me, although the books are a pleasure to flick through, they're a strange mix of recipes. Apples for Jam is full of deeply unshowy, even ordinary-sounding recipes, such as pasta with tuna, basil olives and tomato sauce, but made more complicated - but not necessarily much better. That one's the best example - we've made it a few times. To be honest, it had never occurred to me to cook that particular dish from a recipe until I saw it in the book, and I was stunned to find that, with the various faffing involved, it took more like 20 minutes to cook. It took The Husband a good deal longer than that. Now my version might not be as technically perfect, but the sauce is made in the length of time the pasta takes to boil, and tastes pretty damn good.

Other recipes do look lovely - little finger food canape things from all over the world, and an octopus, dried out on a washing line and then barbecued. But I'm not sure when I'd make either of those, or what the neighbours would think of an octopus on a communal washing line in the back yard!

But I realised I hadn't given the book a fair try and last weekend decided to make a cake or biscuits from it. There were lots of cakes, but most of them designed for puddings, or with so much fresh fruit or cream they'd need to be eaten on the day they were cooked - not ideal when there are two of you.

I found two possible recipes - a cake with olive oil, orange and pine nuts, and gingerbread cookies that were meant to be a Christmas recipe.

Always a sucker for gingerbread, I tried the latter, with the ingredients above (plus an egg, which I forgot to photograph).

I'd mixed it all up, it was smelling lovely and going well, and I was about to reconsider what I thought of the books. The oven was hot and I was all ready to go...

Until I realised the recipe said refrigerate overnight. At this point, I swore, lots. So much for having a house smelling of freshly cooked gingerbread for when the Husband came home from work.

So on went the clingfilm, into the fridge went the bowl.

The next day, I rolled out the biscuits. Or tried to. After a night in the fridge the mixture had become rock hard and it was a real effort to scoop it out onto a floured surface. But when I did it immediately became the stickiest substance imaginable, and near impossible to roll.

Which would have been forgivable if the end result had been delicious. But they're a bit plain, a bit too sensible tasting. They need darker sugar and more ginger to make them sing - at the moment, if anything they're bland. Not worth the fridge space overnight.

We're still eating them, mind - waste not, want not. But the real test? When I get home from work I find the husband has only eaten one or two of the tiny biscuits, if any. Just not up to Blondie standards.

I don't want to give up on the books - they're too pretty for that! And part of me wonders if they'll come into their own this summer as it warms up - once I've done something with a salmon fillet I run out ideas for summer dinner parties, and these books may help. But deep down, I suspect that they will be beautiful failures, and that they'll stay pretty - because they'll never have the splashes of oil, bits of flour and pencilled-in improvements that marks a recipe book which earns its keep.