A dedicated Francophile since the age of 13, I've been living in South West France since 2005. With fellow food-friend, Judi Chadaway who's based in London, we're exploring the 'Entente Culinaire' between Britain and France. Every week we post a new recipe from alternate sides of The Channel.
This is the simplest of recipes, but whenever I make flapjacks, I am transported back to my college days in Oxford at Lady Margaret Hall. One of the first women’s colleges at Oxford, LMH (as it’s called), had a reputation for being a college where the ‘posh girls’ went.
By the mid-1970s, Oxford University was under pressure to admit more state school candidates and I clearly qualified, having gone to the local grammar school in Buckingham. At my interview I was asked which colleges at Oxford had my parents gone to. My heart sank. When I replied that I was the first member of my family to ever go to university, the tutor looked visibly surprised! Continue reading “College Days – cooking my oats!”→
When I first met Philippe, one of the first laughs he had at my expense was expounding on the terrible food that English people eat: everything was covered in a terrible brown floury sauce; we ate mountains of greasy ‘feesh and chips’; and of course, there was the famous ‘Engleesh triffle’ – a ghastly concoction of green jelly and solid custard. I quizzed him – had he actually been to England and eaten any of the food? His answer was “No”, but he’d heard all about it from his friends.
The reputation of English food in France is both legendary and apocryphal. I have done my best in the thirteen years that I’ve lived here to disabuse my French friends of some of their prejudices – but Philippe has remained sceptical. When I invited him and his wife Nathalie to lunch this weekend, he threw the gauntlet down. “I’ll only come if you make a trifle,” he said. The challenge was accepted. Continue reading “An Entente Culinaire – a mere trifle at stake!”→
There’s something about the end of one of ‘those evenings’. You shouldn’t have gone out, you didn’t mean to go out – certainly not with Him – you’ve drunk far too much and, of course, he’s now back here in your flat saying he’s hungry…
Panic ensues. There’s nothing in the fridge of an edible nature (you’ve been at work all day). There’s plenty to drink, yes, including a bottle of champagne – but nothing that can be turned into a meal. The cheese has gone mouldy and even the bread is stale. Continue reading “Night-time tales à la Puttanesca”→
This is in praise of the humble chard – a vegetable that I never tasted until I was in my early twenties. Despite my mother growing vegetables and always keeping an eye on the costs, for some reason, chard never turned up on our plates. In fact, I didn’t even know it existed when I first tasted this dark, green leaf in a meal cooked in Andalucía by my formidable future mother-in-law. Continue reading “An Ode to Chard”→
Sardines (the canned variety) are a bit like Marmite – you either like them or you don’t. My father and his mother were fans and my mother and her mother weren’t. Tea with Granny ‘Kenzie (a meal that took place in the early evening), often involved sardines on toast, mashed up with butter and put under the gas grill. My mother’s mother, Granny Hughes, didn’t like the oily, fishy smell – her house smelt of bleach, Vim cleaning powder, and furniture polish – but the strong sardine odour clearly didn’t bother Granny ‘Kenzie. I suspect the fact that sardines were, and still are, so cheap, was another reason Granny ‘Kenzie liked them. Continue reading “Canned Sardines – A Family Affair”→
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There’s something about being ill that completely changes your appetite, both in terms of quantity and desire. Today was the first time in four weeks that I ate a fresh green salad – normally a daily habit of mine. But then I’ve been ill with bronchitis and an awful laryngitis and, as a result, my appetite has become that of a child. I’ve been eating nursery food. Continue reading “A Simple Soup for Sore Throats”→
This is a guest post from fellow food writer Karen Eve Johnson, who lives in Amsterdam.
I have always adored asparagus. Even as a child I could eat any amount, picking up the delicious green spears, unadorned by anything but butter. I absorbed the correct mode of consumption — each delectable spear held at the base, grazing from top to the possibly too tough toe — along with the green vegetable itself. I still feel faintly shocked when I see someone attack the green stuff with a knife & fork! Old-fashioned, I know. Manners from a by-gone age, swept away along with outmoded worries about picking up the right item of cutlery.