My Just Desserts

Let’s get this straight, British desserts rock. Italians maybe the past masters at gelato – read my post ‘Decamping the Ice Cream Myth’ – chased only on the commercial edge by the Americans; the French may claim fruit tarts, custard based crèmes and le soufflé; the Portuguese have heavenly custard tarts and Australians the pavlova; but no one else does ‘puddings’ like the British do. Sticky toffee, suet, bread and butter, upside down and not forgetting Christmas’s ‘figgy’, all hearty warming puddings that smothered in custard stick to your soul and offer comfort.  Continue reading “My Just Desserts”

The Business of Awful Offal

Where to start? Where to buy? Unless you are a habitué of restaurants trying to climb the ladder of Michelin stardom, you are unlikely to find offal served up in many parts of the UK. My local supermarket is nearly void of any offal, or ‘organ meat’ as my transatlantic friends refer to it. They are not keen on it either, but then I would find the word ‘organ’ more difficult to digest. What happened? Continue reading “The Business of Awful Offal”

Sons and Book Covers.

River Cafe Cook Books

Indian summer hasn’t materialised and London is gently drifting towards autumn. The last runner bean and courgette have been picked and spiders abound, swinging their nets across the garden so that you have to duck to reach the verging on empty wood store. Continue reading “Sons and Book Covers.”

Expatriated Desserts

Fresh fruit, unctuous caramel and creamy custard

When I married for the first time and, at the age of 18 left for Africa to join my expatriate banker husband, my small circle of friends was, on the whole, envious. On the face of it there was a great deal to be envious about. In London I shared a hostel room with two other girls; in Ghana I moved into a fully furnished, light and airy apartment, with a house boy to do all the cleaning, cooking and washing. I exchanged a monotonous job for the excitement of travel, and different countries to explore and, although I left good friends behind, there was a ready-made circle of expatriates to fit into. Life was going to be one long round of sun, sand, and cocktail parties. Continue reading “Expatriated Desserts”

Aim, Shoot, oh do fly, Wood Pigeon Pie.

Cripsey Bridge, Moreton

The halcyon days of childhood, those five or so years between the ages of five and ten seem, looking back, a forgotten age of innocence. Summers were endless days of blue skies, fields shimmering in a golden haze, whilst winter nights drew us in, roasting slices of toast over an open fire and waking up to fields cloaked in white. Really? Perhaps not – but then sometimes it’s better to leave the past where it is, and remember only the good things. Continue reading “Aim, Shoot, oh do fly, Wood Pigeon Pie.”

The Art of Digestion

The joy of being a Londoner is that you never run out of things to do or see. Man and I are often lucky enough to be able to skive off mid-week and spend an hour or two wandering around the capital’s museums and exhibitions. Art in particular, from the medieval to the modern, is high on our list of interests, to admire as well as to buy. Continue reading “The Art of Digestion”

A Tale of Two Picnics

The view from Snowdon
The view from Snowdon

A picnic is ‘an occasion when a packed meal is eaten in an outside setting’ according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

The British enthusiasm for picnics is truly the triumph of hope over experience, be it parked up in a lay-by, surrounded by wind breaks on a stony beach, or on rare occasions, lying in long grass contemplating the Magritte clouds passing by overhead in a pool of blue sky. Continue reading “A Tale of Two Picnics”

Hydropathic Pudding – once an invalid food, now all that is best about summer

Soft Fruit Simmering

Gone are the days when Doctors visited the sick at home. It was common practice in 1950s Essex. I wasn’t often ill, just normal childhood ailments which weren’t fussed about or vaccinated against.  But when a sore throat turned into tonsillitis and the Doctor was called, then I was worried. Continue reading “Hydropathic Pudding – once an invalid food, now all that is best about summer”

My First Joint

Roast Breast of Lamb

No, not that one. That was decades later.

The Sixties were definitely swinging, or so they said, when I moved to London at seventeen. I was accompanied by two large suitcases, a map of how to get to Queen’s Gate, South Kensington, and a fiver in my pocket. Progress was slow as I made my way, burdened down, along the Cromwell Road. The grey buildings towered above me, a small cog hoping to join the wheel of metropolitan life. Continue reading “My First Joint”