Like most parents, I can only look on with admiration and pride as I watch my children making their way into the world of work and remember with amusement my own foray into London and that important first job. Continue reading “A Chilling Teenage Addiction”
After many years of travelling – Germany, Kenya, Suffolk, New Zealand, Kent – we finally settled in Buckinghamshire in 1968 when my parents bought an old ramshackle farmhouse, the first ever house they had ever owned.
Looking back, I realise we only just scraped by on my father’s teaching salary whilst my mother juggled raising the three of us, working part-time as a school secretary, growing most of our vegetables and fruit, and making all our clothes. But I never had the impression that we lacked for anything. Continue reading “Sweet Paprika and Sweet Memories – Family Recipes”
I couldn’t leave New York behind without trying to do it a better service – foodwise, at least. It’s a city that is heavy on shoe leather, being one of the most walkable cities in the world. Once you’re on the grid it’s almost impossible to get lost, almost. Walking through the 843 acres Central Park is a joy, dwarfed as you seem to be on all sides by monumental buildings reaching far up into the sky. After a day’s walking, I was only too happy to rest my exercised feet on the rails of a cocktail bar and sip my way through a few old favourites before attempting the climb to our top floor eerie. Continue reading “I’m going on a Food Hunt and I’m going to Catch…”
My mother was very parsimonious when it came to cooking with eggs. Clearly, her wartime childhood had affected her. The WWII ration allowance was one fresh egg per week, supplemented with dried egg powder from the USA – which she hated. But old habits die hard; even in her eighties, she would use only one egg to make herself an omelette. If I had ever had the chance to bake her this traditional Polish babka cake for Easter, which uses twelve egg yolks, she would have had a veritable heart attack! Continue reading “Easter and an Extravaganza of Eggs”
I’ve been visiting New York since the mid 80s, in the days when you were advised not to wear conspicuous jewellery and to keep your ‘purse’ close to you at all times. There were stories of cab doors being pulled open at stop signs and baubles being ripped off the necks and ears of women. Mayor Rudy Giuliani cleaned up the city in the mid 90s and now it’s a safe, vibrant city, teeming with immigrants from diverse cultures. In a city where the game is hustle, those born here could be considered to be brash and pushy, but it is a city driven by service where twenty percent tips are the norm. Like any European, I sigh at this excess, but it doesn’t stop me at jumping at any chance to visit this shiny Big Apple. Continue reading “Foreign Food and Foreign Kitchens”
I have now lived in the south west of France for nigh on fourteen years, and have made many French friends here in Albi. Most of the good times I have shared with them revolve around food or drink – an invitation to ‘boire un apéro’, ‘faire un barbecue’, or simply ‘boire le café.
But one invitation that made me feel I had really become ‘une Albigeoise’ was an invitation to the annual family pig kill – “le Tuaille de Cochon”. Continue reading ““La Tuaille de Cochon” – Part 1″
One of the pleasures of cooking is giving pleasure to other people, and sometimes that means giving pleasure to other people’s taste buds at the expense of your own.
You see, I’m not really a ‘pudding’ person and have always had a set of savoury taste buds – but cooking for my three boys and husband, plus friends who came down to Wales for country weekends, meant that over the years I developed a repertoire of classic British puddings in order to please family and friends. Continue reading “In Pursuit of Sanguine Pleasures”
I am not a great pork fan. It used to work itself into my diet on only three occasions. A twice a year or so roast for Sunday lunch (where for me the crackling was always the main attraction), weekend bacon butties, and sausages – proper British sausages, 40% or so of minced pork and a fair amount of fat, mixed with bread or rusk, herbs and seasoning. I find it difficult to like their meatier denser European cousins, French saucisson or German bratwurst, encased as they are in a thicker skin that sometimes require boiling. Continue reading “A Bit of a Porker”
To write this now in the 21st century feels like the start of a Victorian novel; to say that I was given an allowance by my first husband, for housekeeping and my own personal expenditure. But it was so. I managed to work in Ghana, our first posting abroad, but by the time we reached Zambia, two years later, their government had brought in a moratorium on accompanying expatriate wives working. Like many before me, bored with few other options, I got pregnant, learnt to cook and got to grips with how to stretch a small budget. My financial acumen was virtually nonexistent, despite having been the first female management trainee with an international bank, so was my knowledge about choosing cheap cuts of meat and what to do with them. Continue reading “Not Mincing my Words about Chilli”
It’s half term week and Grandson no.1 has come to stay. The north wind has blown in and a damp artic chill is hanging over London. Our visits to the local park are therefore curtailed as, no matter how many layers I wear, I am shivering and my fingers are turning a whiter shade of pale. Neither Boy nor Dog feel the cold and are reluctant insiders unless given something to do. We retreat to the warmth of the kitchen and bake. Continue reading “A Question of Taste”