Preserved Lemon

Preserved lemon and Moshi Moshi flask in the background

At some stage in my life, someone must have come up and tapped me on the shoulder and started extolling the virtues of preserved lemons. I don't know when, I don't know where and I don't know how. But someone, at some point in time, must have whispered into my shell-like about the benefits of pickling these yellow, ellipsoidal, citric fruits at home. I am sure of this. And I am sure that I listened quite intently, spellbound, mesmerised even, at what my fellow advisor had to say on the matter.

Perhaps the scenario when something like this:

"Yeah right, cos like preserving yer own lemons, well you can't beat it mate. I tell ya, for about five years...maybe six *burp* I was buying me own.... off the shelf, you know and well....they were alright but they just didn't quite cut the mustard, you know what I mean? They didn't 'ave that kick I was looking for, not quite the same as the sorta shit that goes into a proper good, decent, diamond tagine. Like the sort you might find in the ol' El-Fnna, yeah? You got me? Nah? OK, well look, do yourself a favour mate, grab a load of lemons. Not waxed! No facking wax! OK? Make a liddle biddy criss-cross of a slit in the top of one of your lemons and stuff it, stuff with salt and then throw it a jar, with a load more salt. Salt and some other shit. Coriander seed, bay leaf, chillies, cinnamon sticks....*burp*...go on, throw it in, throw it all in and then forget abahht it. Don't worry abahht it at all. Leave it in a cupboard and go for a walk somewhere. Just......just don' worry abahht it. And then......and then my sunshine, you can go back.... weeks..... months...... years later. And you can find that jar of yours and then you can prise that jar open and BOOM! Bloody hell, what 'ave you got? Preserved facking lemons that's what."

And you know, after that poetic soliloquy, I probably bought the guy a pint, shook his hand and on the way home, picked up a huge bag of lemons from Londis and carried out his instructions to a tee; repeating his mantra of "Boom! Preserved facking lemons!" With arms aloft. I probably made quite a mess later that evening, scattering aromatics and sea-crystals across the floor. I probably caused a huge clatter, throwing bits of expensive, unused toot out of the expensive unused toot cupboard. All in order to house these new jars of lemons. Jars that would remain untouched for some time, left to slowly macerate, embalm and steep. I probably fell asleep on the cold, tiled floor and then probably woke at some ungodly hour, all disorientated and confused, before making it upstairs with belt buckle loose and bare buttocks flapping in the wind.

These are all probables and whether you believe them or not is up to you. Some of the above is make believe, I'll admit that. Some, ahem, is not. However, the cast iron truth is that I stumbled across some preserved lemons the other day, which had obviously been lurking deep within the dark for some time and I honestly can't remember when I set about the task of 'immortalising' them. They were obviously part of some previous project, that shamefully didn't pique my interest for long enough. But I am glad that I found them though because it led to one of those happy occurrences when something unplanned and unexpected happens. Some chicken thighs were sitting in the fridge, awaiting their final destination and whilst they are great to enjoy on their own, (unadulterated thigh meat, dark and succulent doesn't need that much jazzing up in my opinion) I quite did fancy trying out something quite different. So after a quick rustle in the cupboards, bingo, a fortuitous solution was found.

Admittedly, I did seek further consultation from other voices (other than the ones in my head) across the internethighwayweb and Cookwitch, with her Greek sensibilities, suggested simply roasting the chicken thighs with the preserved lemon, along with garlic, thyme and olives. It was an inspired idea so I went with it. Except that I threw in some extra bay leaves in for good measure, to put my own stamp on things. "Oh yaah, yaah, it defo needs the bay."

And as with most 'one-pot, let's throw everything in and see what happens' dishes, it was very good.
It really is amazing actually, the difference you get from the intensity of flavour. A squeeze of a lemon used as a light, fresh touch doesn't really compare with the feral hit of preserved lemon, which is all heavy and condense but the one thing I did learn is that when it comes to these squalid, squashy objects of beauty, less can sometimes mean more. I used one whole flaccid, alien egg-like lemon sac for about 12 thighs when half would have done. And it could have done with a rinse to honest, just a quick splash under a cold tap to get rid of the salty residue, just to save the kidneys. However, overall, the preserved lemon did transform the already handsome chicken thigh into something altogether different and special and I plan on using up my supply quite quickly. In order of course to make plenty more, to try out with lots of other dishes. After all, preserved lemons are my new favourite thing. And this time, I won't fall asleep on the job.

Flaccid, alien egg

Chicken thighs before

Chicken thighs after

Roast chicken thigh, preserved lemon, garlic, olive and thyme (not forgetting bay leaf) with cous cous, aubergine, peppers and coriander leaf

Another photo of what I said for the photo above

Michel Roux Jnr's Honey and Rosemary Chicken in a Salt Crust

Have you ever sat down in front of the television box and watched a cookery show, of which there are squillions and squillions, and thought, "You know what, I am going to have a crack at that." No? No, of course not, why should you? If you are sat there on a Saturday morning, legs akimbo and having a good ol' scratch whilst Nigella does her thing with a tongue and whisk, the last thing you are going to consider is dirtying your oven. You might be thinking about other dirty things when watching these programmes, especially that James Martin. My god, he is so sexual and powerful that I believe that his musk permeates over the airwaves and enters your front room via the speaker grilles. But dragging out 12 roasting tins and a burnt piece of pork belly (from Sunday family dinner, circa 2006) from the oven is usually the last thing on your mind. Because, let's be honest now, most food telly simply serves as food porn in this country. Salacious, cheeky, entertaining, yes! Aspirational, informative, instructional, no! As a nation, it is simply our duty to sit agog and dribble on our shirts, to coo and aah, to capriciously buy cookbooks at Christmas time so that they may gather dust on the shelves and to ponder on the relationship that Nigel Slater has with his deli store 'friend.'

That's pretty much it..........

OK, there are times when I have seen something and thought, "Hmm, now that really does look interesting," and have proceeded to try and replicate the dish from screen to plate. It does happen on occasion and when we recently stayed with friends over New Year, my mate John showed me a clip from Masterchef, namely Michel Roux Jnr's Honey and Rosemary Chicken in a Salt Crust and urged that we should try it out. It did look impressive, so I agreed.

Now the main drive behind this post is not to merely applaud the virtues of this method of cooking chicken, although it did work very well. In the immortal words of the suspiciously skinny Michelin starred chef, the meat was indeed 'beautifully moist' (oo-er) but was it straightforward? From a point of view of following a recipe off the telly? Was it easy? I am not so sure.

Imagine for a second, two guys, getting ready to prepare a sumptuous meal for New Year's Eve, poring over an iPad and pouring glasses of wine. We scrutinised the five minute video again and set to work. "Flour, we need flour." "OK, we have flour." "Salt, we need salt." "OK, we have salt." "How much flour and salt Michel?"

"This is very versatile, it will always be the same recipe," he says on video but we have no actual 'recipe', no actual amounts. So we resort to speculation by scrutinising the iPad some more, whilst drinking some more wine. Educated guesses are made and after some mixing, it soon becomes apparent they are slightly wrong and the situation develops as thus:

"More flour!"
"Ah sh*t! More water!"
"Ah sh*t! Salt!"
"How much salt?"
"Ah fuggit, let's throw the lot in."

Finally, a crude pastry is made and rested in the fridge. Next the stuffing.

"What did he use again?"

Eyeballs swivel to the iPad yet again, this time dusted with floury finger prints. Glug, glug, glug.

"Sausages! Yes, we have sausages!"
"Ah, breadcrumbs, chives, morels, chicken livers, do we have that?"
"No, we have Paxo though!"
"That will do!"

 Mix, mix, mix.

"Ooh, there's rather a lot here John, how much should we have?!"
 "What does Michel say?"
 "Er, he doesn't!"
"HA! Who cares!"

Glug, glug.

"Right, let's stuff this chook!"
 ".......Oh god, we've made too much, look! It's coming out where it's head used to be, the head-hole!"
"We need toothpicks!"
"What for?"
"To secure the head-hole!"
"Does Michel do that?"
"I don't know!"

Cue more intense viewing and wine supping.

"Right the chucken is stuffed!"
"HA! Right, we need the crusty stuff!"
"HA......what crusty stuff?"
"The pastry shizz"
"Oh yes, let's roll that out."
"NO...we need to baste it first!"
"Do we?"
"Yes. In...........oh dammit what did he use?

Smudge, swipe, smudge. Glug, glug, glug. Watch, watch, watch.

"OK....hic.......that's best we can do wif the pasting......I mean basting."
"You know, I prefer the idea of tomato ketchup rather than paprika." Glug
"Yeah, paprika is sh*t." Glug.
"Right, now shall we do the parstry?"
"Yes, let's do the pastie!"

Roll, roll, roll.

"The fugging crusty fing is falling apart, it's got 'oles in it. Michelle's didn't have 'oles innit didit?"
"I dunno, let's have a look."

Glug, glug. Swipe. Stare.

"No, it definitely didn't 'ave 'oles in 'is."
"Bastard, how does he do it so well.....hic"
"He has the f**king recipe doesn't 'e but you won't share it, will you Michael?!"
"Right, sod this, let's just patch this bugger up."

Patch, patch, patch.

"There you go, she looks bloody beautiful doesn't she!"
"She does! Cheers!" *chink*
"Cheers" *chink*
"Did you turn the oven on?"
"No, did you?"
"No."
"Why not?!"
"Because Michella didn't f**king tell me to!"

Like I said, though served up late on New Years Eve, the salt crust chicken did come out very well in the end but only after viewing the damn clip about 100 times, which sort of reinforces my original point, albeit somewhat obtusely. I am not entirely sure that these television chefs really want you try out their recipes you see. They are just interested in giving tantalising, lascivious snapshots to keep the audience captive, holding back the real detail of the recipe, just to draw you in for the release of the aforementioned Christmas cookbook later. A book that will never really get used. Despite the plethora of food television out there, hardly any of it serves to educate properly. Never, as a nation, will we ever learn how to cook from the television. No, we remain captive drones, feeding off the honey that the televisions stations supply, sated by images of lascivious, dripping cheese, heaving bosoms and throbbing crotches. Yet throughout, our stomachs, hearts and brains starve.

And that my friends, is a pretty poor state of affairs.

Although it might have helped, if John and I hadn't got so p*ssed in the first place.

(Would have remembered to take photo's of the actual chicken too)

 Moist

Baked

Salt crust hat

FU's Top Ten Food Trends, Happenings and Events for 2012

Around this time of year, lots of us bloggers like to write up lots of top ten lists, which self-perpetuate our importance, relevance and standing within the online community and not wanting to be outdone, I felt it was high time that I wrote a list too. You know, to show that I too, am a big knob in a sea of flaccidity. But with this list, there will be no comfortable, familiar, repetitive lines, no cliquey platitudes, no product placements and no mention of Roganic, which still sounds to me like a word that Scooby Doo would use. No, this list will be truly innovative and original. It will contain things that you haven't even heard of, ideas that you daren't even dream of, impossibilities that you really couldn't imagine were possible. For this is the Food Urchin Top Ten Food Trends, Happenings and Events for 2012 list. And if you thought that the likes of Morgaine Gaye had her fingers on the pulse, then think again. Because she ain't got nothing on me. So here goes:

1) Hay was the buzzword for chefs in 2011. Such was it's marvelous insulating qualities, the strawy, straw coloured straw stuff that grows in fields was a big hit in the kitchen for cooking things in straw. Hay made all the difference, wrapped around that pork shoulder, that leg of lamb, that calves liver. And it also made a lot of mess. But this year, the word across stainless steel countertops across the land is that a new material has been found, which is even better then straw. And it's called 'Rockwool'. Yes, you heard it hear first. Demand for this stone wool insulation material is set to go through the roof as chefs such as Nuno Mendes start to set the trend. Look out for his new Rockwool wrapped Goat's Head with Milk Poached Daikon and Camomile Starfish Goujons coming onto the menu at Viajante very soon. It will tear your mouth apart.

2) Government proposals to implement a 'minimum price' on alcohol sales in the UK will see a boom in home brewing but traditional beer and wine making will fall to the wayside as experimentation with vegetables and other foodstuffs come into dominance. Techniques are still a bit rough and ready at the moment but as certain people get to grips with the possibly illegal distilling of manky vegetable hooch into pure spirit, major breakthroughs will start to shine through, particularly at house parties. In turn, alternative speakeasies will begin to rise and appear around the capital, where 'Marrow Rum', 'Turnip Gin' and 'Pumpkin Whisky' will all become common parlance. And it will all be great fun and giggles with only the occasional bout of blindness or paralysis. Which is kind of ironic, given that the idea behind Chief Iggle Piggle David Cameron's latest, joyless, bogus campaign is to improve the nation's health. David, an Englishman will fight off a horde of rabid hyenas wearing nothing but his underpants to get to a beer, sod the cost. And therein lies the real problem. Yet another system of tax won't solve it, you twat.

3) Our working lives are getting busier, hours longer, lunch breaks shorter. It's no wonder that the temptation to gorge on junk in the 15 minutes behind our desks is so prevalent. So thank heavens for the likes of Sebastian Fortescue-Smythe who has come up with a fantastic new concept in healthy, organic, super fast food. And I for one can't wait for the roll out of his new chain of food bars called 'Masticate', where all dishes will be served up having gone through the first stage of digestion. In Sebastian's own words, "Yah, I first got the idea on my gap year travelling through Papa New Guinea, living with various tribes. The staple diet out there is taro root and the most incredible thing I witnessed out there, were the various Mothers of each tribe chewing these tubers and spitting them into bowls for their young offspring to eat. My God, I thought, there's an idea that will go down well in London." The first Masticate bar will open in early Jan, in Hoxton.

4) Whispers behind the tills at Waitrose is that Delia Smith will be launching a brave and bold venture for Valentine's Day, in the form of a new range of sexy, edible lingerie made from spun sugar. Which, apparently, is to be found by the jam and preserves section. Apparently, this is a last ditch attempt to lure Heston, who, judging by the adverts has been displaying a distinct lack of chemistry in the partnership so far, despite Delia's best efforts. In fact, apparently, this whole marketing campaign has been orchestrated and paid for by Delia, simply because she fancies the pants off the pseudo-bald, bespectacled, meat fruit genius. I don't know, I am only repeating what the cashier was telling me the other day. What I do know is that I will be Sky plus-ing the saucy advert when it is aired on ITV1 at 9pm (after the watershed) on Feb 1st. Because, perversely, I fancy the pants off Delia. And I really am bald.

5) As street food continues to grow and expand, the hunt for the next frugal, portable, takeaway dish to be elevated inexplicably to a superlative state is on. We've had burgers, hot dogs, pulled pork, ribs, falafel, jerk chicken, burritos, bratwurtz, sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs, pulled pork, ribs, cupcakes, falafel, burgers and sandwiches, all ranted and raved about in equal wonder and derision but I reckon that nows the time for the humble Frikadellen to catch some of that limelight. If you shop at Lidl or Aldi, then you are probably already aware of the qualities of this lumpy, ugly, salty, shitty, horse meat patty but sooner or later, someone, somewhere will pitch up with a trolley in a car park and start shifting these by the bucket load. People will start to queue for hours to get a bite, rambling on about about how good these Frikadellen are. "Just as good as the stuff you get in Copenhagen." And before you know it, the first Frikadellen pop up will open some crack den in Westborne Park before moving onto a permanent fixture in the West End. Mark my words.

6) Thankfully, for the first time in 10 years, deaths at home because of accidents in the kitchen will finally decrease in 2012 due to this recent and successful campaign. Unfortunately, catering outside, in gardens, in the open air will continue to take the lives, especially in the summer. And this really is a worrying trend. By the way, I am not talking about deaths relating to throwing petrol on the barbecue and food poisoning due to undercooked sausages here. No, something far more sinister is afoot. And it's all down to some numpty showing men, grown but essentially immature men, how to deep fry whole turkeys. My wife has actually banned me from watching this video but I keep getting up in the night, quiet and secretive, to pad down the stairs, to flick open the laptop, to click and stare in awe. I know of many other brethren who are also hooked on this instructional video, which is dangerous yet beautiful, like an open flame. like poor old Nicholas Cage in Knowing, it's a terrible thing to thing to acknowledge that one of us, or all of us, will surely die.

7) Food, food design and food performance art will continue to make great strides after the trail blazing trailing trails made by the likes of Bompas and Parr and Blanch and Shock in recent years. But these guys will seem a little bit average, tame, boring and vanilla in comparison to the more avant garde food artists that are emerging onto the scene. Amongst a plethora of practitioners who have recently formed and exhibited their culinary inspired work, under the umbrella of 'Zeitgeist Banana', is a young man from Berlin called Claus Lowenbrau. Coming to the Festival Hall in June, in time for the Golden Jubilee, Claus is planning his most controversial piece yet. Entitled 'Essen Sie Scheiße und sterben Sie', Claus hopes to construct a large pair of buttocks, made from 2 tons of rendered pig fat and sit atop the structure so that he can throw rotten fruit at the audience, whilst making defamatory remarks about vegans. Book your tickets now, it should be an interesting night.

8) The marriage of television and food will enter the doldrums in 2012 simply because of overexposure, tedium, half-cocked ideas and the continued martyrdom of the celebrity chef. The public have carried on for long enough, slouching listlessly in their baggy sofas, watching the same old shit, the same old bouncy seasonal feature, the same old campaign to save squirrel, the same old competitive yet torpid runaround, the same old "Boy, I would love to stick my dick in that pudding." We've had enough, we are unconvinced, or simply put, we still can't be bothered because our ovens are still sparkling clean. BUT HAVE NO FEAR! For I have devised a brand new cooking show format, loosely based on The Running Man where members of the public and television chef's fight to the death in a gladiatorial arena, using nothing but silicone spatulas, eggs and spam. OK, I have yet to get it commissioned so things might not happen this year but I do have Antony Worrall Thompson on board as a prospective warrior called 'The Ginger Gnome'. Together, we shall get the nation cooking proper in no time.

9) Despite number 8) sort of besmirching that this country doesn't really have a proper food cultcha to speak of as yet, I do predict a rise in food festivals throughout the country and as a result, can picture seemingly ordinary towns blossom into new frontiers of taste and flavour, where the artisan can flourish and rise. Of course, already firmly ensconced on the UK food map are places such as Ludlow, Abergavenny and Aldeburgh but sure enough I can forsee Kettering, Skegness and Romford forming an integeral part of the burgeoning infrastructure. At present, I am personally involved in putting Romford firmly out there as a food tourist destination because I believe we have a lot to offer. We certainly have the wealth of the Essex countryside and it's produce on our doorstep. Which is why I am pleased to formally announce that Romford will have it's very first and proper food festival in July. And it will be called - "Alex James' Cheesy Essex Romp" - he'll sign up for anything these days.

10) The very last trend, prediction, event, hoo-ha that I would like to inflict on you (and if you have made it this far, well done) is one of grave importance. So please, listen carefully.

I am giving up blogging..

Goodnight.




























































































































Ha ha, I am only kidding folks, I am far too fond of writing this inane obllocks and getting drunk whilst doing so. Even if it's inconsistent, slack at times and even if you don't care for it ; P.

But what I really would like to announce is Happy New Year to everyone, let's hope it's a good one, without any fear.

Dan
xx

Marrow Rum Update

In these scary, portentous and angry times, it doesn't feel right to be flippant but as I am absolutely fucked off with everything and haven't posted in a while, in an effort to lighten the mood and to get this blog fired up again, I thought I would give you all an update on my marrow rum. This rum or grog or batshit bizarre bongo juice has been gurgling away in my kitchen for the last few weeks now and just the other day, I took the brave steps to sample some. These were the unexpected results.



Like I said, the marrow has been sitting quite benignly in the corner of our kitchen for some time now. I had sealed the bugger up pretty well, using sellotape at first and then moving onto clingfilm. If it hadn't been for the attention of the odd fruit fly, I may well have forgotten about it but I do distinctly remember walking into the room thinking 'where the hell are all these fruit flies coming from?' and my eyes zeroed in on said corner. 'Aha, lets see how the ol' marrow rum is getting on' I thought. It was 10 in the morning.



Brushing the fruit flies away, I peeled off the clingfilm, popped the top of the marrow off and peered down into the abyss.



If I were to be really honest, looking at it, well it reminded me of a terrible case of bum gravy I once encountered in Zimbabwe a long, long time ago. But the fierce scent of alcohol was searing the hairs of my nostrils, clean off in fact, so I felt encouraged enough to pour some off into a glass using a funnel and an old pair of my wife's tights (at least I think they were old).



It still looked like bum gravy but the more vegetal, floral notes of the hooch started to emanate from the glass and I began to grin at this point. Sure it looks pretty grim, I thought but as experiments in home brewing go, this could be a success! Buoyed by a resurging confidence and a quick fire business plan to enter the drinks market with my new range of 'vegetable-based' rums, I toasted to a premature success.



I brought it to my lips. And my nipples exploded.



And then I turned into Edgar from Men In Black.



Can I say anything further on the tasting? Well no. I am really sorry but I really can't at present. Well apart from "er, it needs tweaking". I can say this though, I've tried some more tonight and given the transformation, I feel fully prepared to hit the streets and scare the bejesus out of the little fucking shits who are rampaging throughout our cities.



Keep an eye out for me on the news in the morning..............

Masterchef Burnt My Maryland Crab Cakes

OK, hands up. When cooking at home in my kitchen, I do get a bit grouchy, precious and have been known to swan about like a prima donna declaring that "this is MY kitchen, this is MY domain". I haven't gone as far as wearing a keffiyeh wrapped around my head yet but if I'm not careful, these delusions of grandeur could get the better of me. I think my worst habit is being an absolute stickler for keeping an eye on things. I can't just leave the pots and pans be, gently simmering away. No it's a rhythmic succession of lifting lids, checking, tasting, stirring, checking, chopping, shaking, checking, cha-cha-cha, cha-cha-cha. And please don't talk to me when I am going through this process. I might just be warming some up soup, I don't care, genius is at work here. At dinner parties, best you remain in the living room but if you do need topping up with wine or another cold beer then just tip toe past me, softly and quietly. And god help you if you make any offer of help. The megalomaniacal streak in me will soon have me barking and lashing out with a plastic spatula as I press my ancient and knackered Kenwood food processor close to my heart like a female baboon clutching her newborn. When plating up, I even do that thing of checking each plate, eyeing it up intently and wiping spots clear with the corner of a white tea towel before nodding at my wife. She normally just walks off sighing and punctuates the air with a loud tut. I don't know where this comes from as ordinarily I have the attention span of a gnat. I think it's a general fear of cocking things up, getting it wrong. There's nothing worse than that deflating feeling as you scrape the burnt remnants of a risotto in the bin with bottom lip protruding like the kid who dropped his ice cream. So my mantra when cooking is: Pay attention at all times.

And when cooking fish this mantra is particularly important. A couple of weeks ago, I took receivership of some fine samples from Fish For Thought, a small fish and shellfish supplier based in Cornwall who distribute the bounty of the sea throughout the land via the magic of the internets. Fish For Thought are committed to sourcing their produce through local Cornish fishermen, placing an emphasis on sustainability and have recently gained accreditation from the Marine Stewardship Council. So with this mind, I was very happy to take on board 4 fillets of wild black bream, 6 Cornish scallops, a pack of Cornish cocktail crab claws and a hefty pack of freshly handpicked Cornish white crab meat. Well you would be wouldn't you. Eyeing up the moist crab meat, I immediately thought about making some Maryland Crab Cakes served with a Tarragon Vinegar and Butter Sauce from a Rick Stein recipe that I've used before. It was mainly because I had all of the ingredients to hand. And also because I didn't have to face the time consuming prospect of boiling a crab up and break it into teeny weeny pieces to get access to very little meat. I love crab but it is a pain sometimes to extract the best of the flesh especially when you've been blessed with clumsy, sausage-like fingers. Most of it winds up on the floor whenever I grapple with that damned crustacean. So I set about the task diligently and not before long I had some very pretty looking patties which went in the fridge to chill. Of course, as all good Michelin chefs do, I did a little taste test beforehand to check flavour and seasoning and kept a close eye on the 'sample' cake, giving it just a couple of minutes gentle frying, leaving each side golden crisp. And it tasted great. Savoury, rich, yummy and er crabby. That night's supper was looking good.

Except that night, MasterChef was on.

Now I confess, I've only watched a few episodes from the latest series but I switched on that night to find the final three had been whittled down. Through a series of intensive heats and tasks I should add and not just by John and Gregg's excessive gurning and shouting. A few minutes in, with iPhone in hand, I spied a frenzy of tweets on Twitter with people hashtagging #masterchef and noticed that MasterChef finalists Dhruv, Alex and Tim had been getting involved too. I then had the brainwave of contacting them to see if they would be interested in getting involved with Where's My Pork Chop? "Let's get in there quick before they get chewed up by the media machine!" I screamed, leaping out of the sofa. But then my wife uttered the words "so when are you going to do this dinner then?" What followed next was a frantic juggling of pots and pans and lighting of stove flames along with dipping in and out of the living room to keep track of the programme. Into the mix was thrown a manic dicing of tomatoes, a savage chopping of tarragon and the desperate fingering of a slippery iPhone pad because it got covered in melted butter. Totally abandoning my cooking principles and imaginary keffiyeh, I soon found myself in the middle of my own personal service nightmare and things started to slip. All because of bloody Masterchef. I had been reducing the white wine vinegar for the sauce but let it go too far. When I stuck my head under the extractor hood and my nose over the pan, I nearly keeled over because the vapours were so intense and strong. In the heat and confusion of washing up as I went along, I discovered that I had chucked away the clarified butter I made earlier down the sink, so I set about making some more. Only to find that we hardly had any butter left. So I screamed. "Arrrgh!" And then came the pièce de résistance as I heated the frying pan and popped the crab cakes in and then I glanced down at the iPhone again:

"Hey! Dhruv's heard of Where's My Pork Chop?!" I shouted out.

Suddenly, without any word or warning, I looked up and found myself transported to a countryside scene captured in soft focus. Where I was sat at a sunlit table outside an unidentified ye olde worlde pub with all three MasterChef contestants. These guys, it seemed, were my bestest friends and the air was heady with laughter, back slapping and the consumption of ale in pewter tankards, all of us resplendent in breeches and hats with feathers jutting out at a jaunty angle. A selection of silver platters laden with meat, cheese, bread and fruit were brought to the table by some buxom wench and to my surprise, the saucy maid had also placed down on the bench a clay jar full of bread sticks. To up the hilarity, I decided to take two of the sticks and stuff them up my nose but before they reached my nostrils, some other fug entered my senses. "What was that smell?" I thought. It didn't take long to realise that it was the grim stench of burning crab and I soon came crashing out of that particular daydream to discover that yes, I was burning my Maryland Crab Cakes!

I even announced it on Twitter and.........................................................................................................

........................................................I don't really know where to go after that random, rambling stream of consciousness but let me tell you these home truths:

1 - Despite burning the said crab cakes that night, they were still very delicious and I will faithfully type out the recipe at the end of the post.

2 - Even more delicious were the wild black bream fillets we had after, which I brushed with melted butter (the little I had left) and grilled. They tasted fantastic and I can thoroughly recommend Fish For Thought for quality and freshness. The cocktail crab claws and scallops however still languish in the freezer so all suggestions would be gratefully received.

3 - Dhruv, I still intend to get you to cook for me one day (and Alex and Tim)

4 - Blog posts should not be finished whilst under the influence........but hey it was fun eh! ; )


Maryland Crab Cakes with Tarragon and Butter Sauce

Serves 4

450g fresh white crab meat

40g cream crackers

2 tbs chopped parsley

1 egg, beaten

2 tbs mayonnaise (homemade)

1 tbs English mustard powder

1 tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice

dash of Worcestershire sauce

salt and pepper

4 tbs clarified butter

For Tarragon Vinegar and Butter Sauce

5oml white wine vinegar

4 tbs clarified butter

1 plum tomato, skinned, peeled and diced

1 tsp chopped tarragon

Method

Put crackers into a plastic bag and crush with rolling pin into fine crumbs. Mix crab meat and chopped parsley in a bowl and add just enough cracker crumbs to absorb any moisture from crab (you might not need all of it).

Break the egg into another small bowl and whisk in mayonnaise, mustard, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce and some seasoning. Fold this mixture into crab meat but try not to break up the lumps of crab too much.

Shape the mixture in eight 7.5cm patties, put them on a plate, cover with cling film and chill for at least 1 hour.

Heat the clarified butter in a large frying pan. Add the crab cakes (4 at a time if your pan is not large enough for all 8) and cook over a medium heat for 2-3 minutes on each side until crisp and richly golden.

For the sauce, bring the vinegar to the boil in a small pan and reduce it to about 2 tablespoons. Add the clarified butter, diced tomato, chopped tarragon and some salt and pepper to taste and gently warm through. Place 2 of the crab cakes onto a warmed plate, spoon some of the sauce over and serve.

Taste Test

Burnt daydream

Beautiful Wild Black Bream