Foraging, free food and fruity sponge puddings

 

This post first appeared on the Great British Chefs blog

Get your blackberry picking done before Old Nick gets in

For once, or for a long while at least, it seems that the glorious summer we have had this year has set up a bumper harvest for the coming autumn, especially with regards to wild food. By all accounts, the warm blast we had in late May and early June created perfect conditions for bushes and trees, encouraging them to flower abundantly. Coupled with further, unheralded days of sunshine and occasional doses of rain, the surrounding fields, parks, canal ways and pastoral roundabouts on busy highways should now be bursting with produce. And they are. Over the last few days I have been wandering around in a bit of a tizz looking at all the free stuff that nature suddenly has to offer. So much so, that I developed a crick in my neck.

At the moment I have my grubby eyes trained on a particularly laden pear tree that is situated in an alleyway I use to get to the train station. It actually overhangs from someone’s back garden, so there is a tricky question of legality. Pears found on the floor are fair game. Pears plucked with my fair hand would constitute as stealing or ‘scrumping’; which is a much nicer word. I do have a plan though, which is to traipse repeatedly up and down the alleyway with a tall scaffolding pole on my shoulder. If the police get called, I shall simply tell them that I am lost.

Given that foraging seems to be very much back on the agenda these days, it is interesting to gauge some of the reactions you get from the general public. Some people in my area definitely view fruit picking with suspicion. I found myself awkwardly explaining just the other day that I was collecting damsons and that the tree was actually on common ground. The interrogator in question wasn’t completely convinced as to what I was up to, given the proximity of the tree to his neighbour’s house. Neither had he heard of damsons before but after some laborious gesticulating, I think I managed to alleviate his concerns. His parting gesture went along the lines of “Well, as long as you’re not lifting Barry’s plums, that’s fine by me.”

Thankfully, with regards to blackberry picking, I have been pretty much left alone apart from the odd, curious dog walker. I am lucky enough to live next to some farmland; a semi-bucolic idyll where roaming, lolloping fields compete with the distant thunder of the M25 and the blackberry bushes that line the hedgerows are teeming. I’ve been going out practically every other day with a carrier bag. Occasionally I take the children along too, as they love bruising their fingers and lips vivid purple but they often come back yielding bags of dripping with juice due to clenched fists. So I tend to go by myself. Still, we have managed to amass nearly 5 kilos of bramble fruit so far. All of which currently sits in our chest freezer, alongside lighter bags of elderberries (lighter because they are fiddly to pick apart afterwards).

There are golden rules for foraging i.e. don’t pick too much fruit from a plant, leave at least a third for birds and it’s a good rule to abide by. But given the bounty of blackberries around at the moment, I would say that the gloves are off. Saying that, you might want to keep your Marigolds on, for fear of nettles, thorns and angry wasps. Whatever, I intend to keep hoarding for the time being. At least until Devils Spit Day on 29th September (otherwise known as Michaelmas). According to folklore, once ol’ Saint Nick has done his business on that day, all the wilted, musty blackberries will be no good for anything and there is an element of truth in that.

With all the blackberries I am collecting, plans are afoot to make lots of jams, crumbles, sauces and cordials but the biggest thrill at the moment is that I have recently acquired a wine-making kit so I really fancy making some of my own country brew. 

Then if I’ve got it all wrong about Barry’s plums, well, a bottle or two could come in handy as a gesture of goodwill. 

Syrup Sponge Pudding with Blackberries, Orange and Cinnamon

This recipe for a rather sinful rib-sticking pud was inspired by a dish created by Skye Gyngell, formally of Petersham Nurseries. Rather than use stem ginger and lemon though, I have gone for orange and cinnamon which in my option marries up nicely with the inherent woody spiciness of blackberries. I used a single, medium sized pudding bowl but this would go down well if you scaled down and used smaller, individual pudding bowls.

Serves 4

 

Ingredients

100g unsalted butter, softened

100g golden caster sugar

2 free range eggs

100g self-raising flour

Zest of 1 orange

Half a tsp of ground cinnamon

Pinch of salt

4 tbsp of golden syrup

20 blackberries

Cream to serve

 

Method

Preheat the oven to 180C. Butter your pudding basin thoroughly and set aside. Cream together the softened butter and sugar until pale and smooth and then add the eggs, one at a time, beating well each time. Sift in the flour and then gently fold into the mixture. Add the orange zest, cinnamon and a pinch of salt, continuing to fold until evenly mixed.

Place the blackberries in the base of the pudding bowl and drizzle the golden syrup over. Then spoon the sponge mixture on top. Cover the top of the pudding bowl with a round of foil, lightly greased with butter, stand on a baking tray and then place into the oven. Bake for 30 minutes until the sponge has risen and is cooked through. Test with a skewer in the centre, it should come out clean.

Run a knife around the inside of the pudding bowl and turn out onto the centre of a plate, Pour a generous amount of cream over and serve.

Foraging with The Fat Hen and unearthed

It’s 2011 BC and a rag tag group of Celts are standing around in a circle at some remote coastal location in Kernow, all clutching straws. Adorned with animal skins and feathers and smothered in wode, the mood seems pensive and tense. Eyes flick back and forth towards a strange bush situated near the edge of a cliff. A grunt is issued from one older looking man, quite possibly some kind of shaman given the fact that a badger skull is jauntily perched on his head and everyone simultaneously opens their hands. There is a collective sigh and general murmur of approval and relief amongst everyone. Except for one rather small chap whose face drops into a frame of intense sadness and anxiety as he stares down as the short straw in his palm. The shaman notices this and motions towards the bush with a bark and a thrust of his gnarled wooden stick. Slowly but surely the small chap edges towards the bush and somewhat shakily stretches his hand towards it. Again, all becomes quiet. With a swift movement he grabs a clump of leaves and stuffs them into his mouth, chews down fiercely and then swallows. Time seems to stand still. Only the gentle breaking of waves on the cliff face below interrupts the silence. The small guy blinks and then lifts his hand, motioning to the group with a victorious thumbs up before suddenly clutching his stomach. He then screams, staggers back and falls off the cliff. Everyone's shoulders collectively sag before badger man motions everyone to move on in single file. As they trudge off, a frowning misfit right at the back begins to whisper to his consort in front.

“ You know the same thing happened to Barry last week don't you, I think the old man is starting to lose the plot. How are you dealing with the mushrooms he made you eat?

“Polly wants a cracker. Polly wants a cracker”

“Ah that's great", he mutters to himself, looking up to the sky. "That's just bloody great.....”

Now let's fast forward to a rugged outcrop near Penzance in modern day Cornwall and this is precisely the scenario that enters my head. I'm standing there in the pouring rain, clutching a single green leaf, poised to place it in my mouth. I'm not worried or anything. I have total faith in our guide, Caroline Davey of The Fat Hen. But then suddenly, I am dumbstruck by this strange sense of awe, this bizarre feeling of wonderment, this notion that when it comes to foraging wild food and garnering all that knowledge down throughout the ages, that simply hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people must have died along the way. If it wasn't for all those poor souls, those hunter gatherers who unintentionally carked it, well we wouldn't be here would we. None of us would. 'This is amazing', I think to myself and I am desperate to share this anthropological epiphany with Caroline and the rest of the group. But having turned up to the unearthed Foraging Masterclass in shorts, trainers and with no waterproofs whatsoever, I felt it would be best that I keep this little revelation to myself. You know, to save any further embarrassment.

Shaky evolutionary theories aside, I have to say that I had a very enjoyable albeit soggy time down in the south west last Friday with unearthed and The Fat Hen. Arriving early in Penzance via the overnight sleeper from Paddington (or 'sleepless' as it is also known as according to Ismay, she's right) our merry band were transported to Fat Hen headquarters for a breakfast of fresh bread, japanese knotweed jam and sloe gin before heading out into the wilderness. The main aim of morning as you might expect from a foraging masterclass was to learn all about wild food. A subject I thought that I knew a little bit about but after just a few minutes in the company of Caroline - botanist, ecologist and professional forager - it seems that I've been kidding myself. With an easy, warm manner she dispensed lots of information, expertly pointing out each plant to our group, it's latin name, properties and culinary uses. What astonished me most was the seeming abundance and availability of edible plants that can be found on such a short walk by the sea but saying that, Caroline was eager to encourage of sense of respect and responsibility. Take only the very common plants such as nettles, alexanders and sorrel, use scissors to cut leaves and leave more than half the plant to grow back were just some of the mottoes of the day. The best part though of course was plucking leaves to smell and taste. Towards to the end of the walk we wandered into a Tolkien inspired woodland and picked some wood sorrel which had a much subtler citrus note than the common variety, it's certainly an ingredient I'd like to discover closer to where I live.

Accompanying us on the walk was Simon Day, founder of unearthed and I sidled up to him at one point to ask "so what are you doing here anyway?" because at first I couldn't make the connection between an importer of continental artisan food stuffs and the really wild stuff. Simon explained that on his travels around Europe looking for different producers, he noticed that a lot of areas thrive on a wild food culture and foster a symbiotic connection between making food and foraging food. Plates of charcuterie, slabs of pate, bowls of olives served up on tables in quiet, dusty villages will often have been made or presented with foraged ingredients. So Simon thought it would be fun to see what The Fat Hen could come up with using some of the products in their range. This did beg the question as to why weren't we using artisanal foods from Cornwall then, a nice local cheese for instance but Simon just smiled wryly and said that he was looking into sourcing some British products for unearthed. I hope he does. We had a really good chat and a giggle on the walk, although I could have started off better. I actually kicked off with "so how long have you been with Unearthed?" "Er, I started the company Danny." "Ah......." Sometimes ignorance isn't bliss.

Having then spent the morning wandering around, gaily skipping around in the rain, snipping leaves and flowers to put in my basket, it was soon time to get back to Fat Hen farmhouse kitchen for the important part, lunch. For this part and as part of her Gourmet Wild Food Weekends, Caroline employs the considerable talents of local chef and tutor, Mark Devonshire. I met Mark many years ago at Rick Steins Cookery School and although I don't think he remembered me, he still remains the funny, cocksure chef with a penchant for olive oil and cling film from way back when. Caroline and Mark had evidently put a great deal of time and thought into combining the foraged ingredients with the range from unearthed and sitting around a table listening to Mark explain the menu whilst nibbling on canapes and drinking wine was very pleasant indeed. Well it would be wouldn't it.

Canapes came in the form of Pork rillets with pickled rock samphire on sourdough toasts, Chorizo, cornish scallops and wood sorrel and Saucisson Sec with crispy laver seaweed were all delicious. The saucisson and seaweed was amazing actually. Soft, garlicky slivers of pork salami wrapped around crunchy laver proved to be a devious incitement to filing my stomach up but I was able to walk some off before heading into the goat barn for the main event. To start we had Nettle rotolo with barrel aged feta cheese and wilted wild greens, accompanied with a fantastically punchy wild salsa verde. For main we had Monkfish wrapped in wild herbs (wild fennel, wild chervil) and Serrano ham, served with a marsh samphire rosti and a rock samphire fritter. And dessert came in the form of Panettone and elderflower bread and butter pudding with eldeflower ice cream and elderflower fritter.

The sign of a good meal is usually silence but as we all got stuck in, the air was often punctuated with "ooh that's different" and "now what does that remind me of?" which is testimony to the fact that whilst our palates and brains were recognising the flavours, the use of wild ingredients meant everything was just ever so slightly off kilter. And I say that in a good way. It was like discovering something new but which is not new. If you get my drift. But most importantly, there was a nice balance throughout. The aforementioned punchy salsa verde was offset by the creamy feta in the rotolo, the herbs complimented the monkfish and serrano ham and the elderflower ice cream? Well that's a kingly addition to any kind of pudding in my opinion, it seems to be made for sweets. It was, in short, an excellent lunch.

Brimming and tired, I have to admit I was happy to get back to the hotel for a late afternoon snooze but happier still for meeting up with Caroline and Mark at The Fat Hen and Simon from unearthed and trying their gorgeous food. But the sweat drenched nightmares later that evening? Of ghostly ancient ancestors, pawing at me with wide eyes and foaming mouths? Warning me - "Stay away Danny! Stay away from the cow parsley!"

Well I wasn't too happy about that.

Thanks to Unearthed and Wild Card for the invite down to Cornwall.

Nettle rotolo with barrel aged feta cheese and wilted wild greens and wild salsa verde

Monkfish wrapped in wild herbs (wild fennel, wild chervil) and Serrano ham, served with a marsh samphire rosti and a rock samphire fritter.

Panettone and elderflower bread and butter pudding with eldeflower ice cream and elderflower fritter

Sloe gin, bread and japanese knotweed jam

Mallow flowers, Caroline holding a dock leaf, hogweed

Dunno what Caroline is holding here (can't remember), rock samphire, foraging said samphire

Giant burdock leaves, black mustard, elderflower

Wild fennel, beautiful woodland, wood sorrel

Chorizo and scallops, rotolo, crispy laver seaweed

Caroline's store cupboard, Unearthed charcuterie and cheeses

The Goat Barn, Mark Devonshire, Fat Hen HQ

O Brian, Where Art Thou?

It was a dark and stormy night. The heavens had opened, the rain was smashing into the earth with a tremendous fury and there I was, running around a pitch black garden with nothing but a pound shop torch to light my way. Jumping over obstacles such as bicycles, sand pits and flower pots, the adrenaline pumping through my veins was fairly palpable. Mud had caked up my shoes and splattered onto my work trousers. Water cascaded down my forehead into my eyes and my glasses had misted up completely. I could barely see. But I didn't care. I was in pursuit. I was Tommy Lee Jones. But without the cowboy hat. My slimy fugitives weren't going to get away this time. Oh no, they would pay for their insolence, for their effrontery and for embarrassing me. Revenge was to be a dish best served hot.

The chase carried on for, oh about 10 minutes after which time my breath become laboured and my heart started to pound through my sodden shirt. It was at that point that I decided that I had rounded up enough escapees for the evening, noticing that the neighbour's curtains were twitching and that I was in fact starting to freeze. So I trudged back up the path, or squelched I should say, having caught 16 of the buggers that had dared to mount an Escape from Alcatraz some months previous. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether this group of Brians were the same Brians that had busted loose. But no matter, after drying off and partaking in a cup of hot cocoa, I was pretty pleased that I decided to give this whole snail harvesting thing another go. Especially since I had also invested in a Tupperware box from said pound shop with a secure lid. There was no way that these Brians were going to storm the bastille this time.

So getting back on track with the whole business of foraging snails from your garden, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do, your humble Helix aspersa or common Brown snail is totally fine for eating. Based upon what I have read online, here is a pictorial guide of what to do should you ever decide to take up the challenge.

Firstly you got to catch them. As they are nocturnal creatures, you are obviously going to get best results at night. If it is wet then all the better. Arm yourself with a secure receptacle such as a Tupperware box with lid (holes punched in, not too big mind) in which to collect and store them and a torch. And then go into your back garden.

Run around your garden with gay abandon, looking under flower pots, amongst foliage, in dark corners. As you shine your torch down and they aim their spindly antenna upwards, staring at you with those cold, black pin sized eyes of theirs, feel free to say something like "the game is up punk". Keep in mind though that anything smaller than 1 inch long isn't really worth your time.

Once you've collected a batch (and how many you collect is up to you but as this may be for experimental purposes, you might want to keep numbers to a minimum first time around) you then have to go about the process of purging the snails. There are various methods, none of them seem hard and fast but essentially you want to make sure that anything nasty that they might have ingested is flushed out. You can achieve this by feeding them fresh green leaves such as spinach thoroughly rinsed in water. Refresh the leaves and clean your tub daily as though you were some kind of chambermaid, lulling the snails into a false sense of security, making them think that they're on some kind of gastropod holiday and thus will be nice and relaxed. After a few days you will notice that they ahem, will start 'pooing' green which means any horrid matter has been flushed through. From then, it's up to you. If you are in a rush to eat them, you can put them on a diet of water for a few more days and then once they are 'empty' you can move onto cooking them. Or you can keep them going for a couple of weeks, fattening the Brians up on oats and herbs. For entertainment purposes, you even feed them a highly coloured vegetable such as carrot and marvel as they start to poo orange. I kept my going for about 2 weeks on oats, sage and parsley before putting them on the water diet. Please also note, your snails should be perfectly happy in this state but should one or more expire early into the game then they have probably ingested something really nasty such as pesticides so get rid of the deid ones as soon as possible. You can tell by scratching the snail's foot, if it twitches it is still alive.

When you are ready to eat your Brians (after the 3 days on water only diet), take them from their plush plastic honeymoon suite and rinse them in water, give them a little stroke on the back of their shells and thank them. And then plunge them violently into a pot of boiling water. Don't think about it, just do it. And don't think too much about the boiling water turning a murky putrid colour with foam billowing everywhere. I know I tried not to. 2 or 3 minutes should more than do it.

Drain the grubby snail juice away down the sink, I can't think of any use for it really and not many recipes call for snail stock. Leave the Brians to cool down and then with a wooden tooth pick or fork prong, pluck the mollusc from out of it's shell. Try not to blanch. Try not think of a child pulling a long large bogie from their left nostril on the playground. Remind yourself that the French and Spanish eat them all the time and Heston Blumenthal makes lovely porridge with them so they must taste nice right?

Once you have plucked all the Brians from their protective housing and got over yourself, you now have to remove the small gall sac which is the coiled section that comes out of the shell last. This cuts away quite easily. Put the snail meat into a bowl and put the empty shells to one side, keeping in mind that you may want to save them and make your wife a pretty necklace and earring set for Christmas. Rinse the snails in the bowl further with water and a dash of malt vinegar. I couldn't really see the point of this but I have read that this gets rid of any impurities that might just remain. Like what was the whole point of purging in the first place? But I suppose you can never be too careful.

Now it's time to cook your Brians proper in a saucepan of water with an onion halved and a bay leaf. This is where the sophistication comes in so remember to take a sniff of the bay leaf and imagine yourself as some visionary Michelin starred chef before popping it in. Never forget to allow yourself such moments when doing something different. Bring to a boil, simmer for 30 mins, take them off, drain again and then well the world is your oyster (well not quite but it's in the same phylum innit *sniff*).

What you do with them after that is up to you. Popping them back into the shell with a hearty dose of garlic butter and a quick baking in the oven might be the immediate answer but there are lots of recipes out there. I decided to use my Brians for a traditional Valenician paella with rabbit and chicken. As this is a dish with a rich sense of history, it was developed by peasants in the 19th century using simple ingredients found within the countryside and all that, I thought it would be fitting. And also because Catalan Cooking suggested it to me. The paella was very good, very filling with delicate flavours of saffron running through and I was happy with the rabbit as this was the first time I had ever cooked bunny wunnies, perhaps a little bit dry but still very tasty. But what of the Brians? Were they worth the effort, the heartache, the sorrow, the recapture and further care? Well yes and no. There was something immensely gratifying about the hunter/gather aspect of it all, I always get a kick using an ingredient that I've foraged and in this case having brought the Brians further down the line by feeding them up I suppose I was expecting Manna from the Gods but alas this wasn't the case. It wasn't so much the texture or flavour of the snail, it was more to do with the lack of it really. All the Brians amounted to were little morsels that slipped down the throat without the merest hint of hello. Given the humble origins of the venerated Valencian paella, I suppose it makes sense, snails were used because they were a free and plentiful source of protein, it didn't matter if they tasted of much. It is also why you'll see recipes for snails which call for strong, rich flavours such the aforementioned garlic butter or red wine sauces and from what I understand, Mr Blumenthal puts a lot of work into that porridge of his. But strangely enough, I would do it again for a dinner party because it is still such an unusual ingredient to use, at least in this country anyway. Whenever I told anyone what I was up to, eyebrows would arch and mouths would drop. That appeals to the show off in me. Now that security issues have been resolved, all I need to do is work out how to beef them up. Hmm I wonder how some Wagu would go down with the next batch of Brians?

Rabbit

Valencian Paella (with Essex snails)

And In Other News.....

Being the prolific sort of blogger that I am, I suppose some of you readers have been wondering where I have been? Well Mum, I have indeed been very busy over the last few weeks but don't worry I will be shedding some light on recent food related shennanigans and revealing all soon. Unless something else comes along and diverts my attention of course. Oh look there's some jaffa cakes in my coat pocket, yahoo!......

In all seriousness, I do have to give you some important updates. Firstly, you may remember a few weeks ago that I ran a t-shirt competition asking people to leave stories of their worst breakfast in order to win an erm t-shirt. And caused a riotous uproar for modelling said t-shirt in my boxers. Opinion was divided on this particular marketing move with some commentators asking that I please cover up for the sake of human decency and with some applauding my bravery to expose my milky thighs on the Internet. Barry from Hartlepool was very complimentary but I decided not to publish his comments. I decided to censor the picture in the end with a kindle of kittens as the boxers were getting in the way of the objective. And also because Barry's requests were getting more and more risque by the day. But how did the competition go and who the hell won? Well I am pleased to announce that the t-shirt went to a chap named @bapSHOUT. Why he wants to shout at baps is any one's business but his worst brekkie of cold kebab was selected at random so hoorah, he got the t-shirt! I have to say though that his tale was one of the more crap comments left by people (sorry Chris!). By contrast, Eatlikeagirl's tale of preparing a breakfast as a wee child was very endearing, Kavey of KaveyEats was very long but entertaining and Maison Cupcake gave us all a stark warning that you should never, ever eat an Asda breakfast. The best story though didn't actually get published on that post which is a real shame. Like a lot of bloggers do, I announced the competition on Facebook and an old college friend left a comment that the worst breakfast she ever had was whilst flying. As she was trying to get through the plastic miniature offerings of bacon and eggs, she noticed that the passenger next to her (unrelated) was urinating into a sick bag and put her right off her beans. Fantastic story and would have been a worthy winner if only she had commented on the actual blog. Next time please Sarah, next time.

In other news, it grieves me to announce that the little project in which I intended to dine on a rout of Brians has gone off the rails. At the risk of suggesting that I have been outwitted by a bunch of snails, I do have to put my hands up and say "I've been outwitted by a bunch of frigging snails!" because the bastards have all escaped. I must admit I am pretty baffled as security measures were pretty tight or at least I thought they were. The 20 snails that I had collected from my garden had been locked up in a large tupperware box wrapped tightly with a couple of layers clingfilm (with airholes punched in). For the first week, whilst going through the purging and then feeding process, they all seemed rather happy, munching their way through a diet of rosemary and rolled oats. Everyday I checked on them, I'd clean the box of purged matter, give them fresh food and water, re-wrap the box and go about my business. The Brians then started to behave in an odd manner. I would pop down to the shed in the morning where their prison was situated and find them all dangling upside down on the clingfilm roof, causing it to sag slightly. Paying no real attention, I would simply go through the usual clean up process and place the box back on the shelf. Then one morning, I came down and found the box empty with clingfilm sunk in the middle and a large hole gaping to one side. With their collective weight, the Brians had stormed the bastile and vanished without a trace. In just a few days, they had accomplished something that took Andy Dufresne years to do!

I have not lost sight of my goal to farm and eat my own snails. I've collected a whole bunch of recipes, mainly Spanish, to experiment with for gawds sake. I will go ahead and do it. In fact I plan to hunt some more down tonight and get them locked up good and proper (I have bought another tupperware box with secure lid - which shall be punctured with holes of course). The main thing that is troubling me now is that snails may possibly have a higher intelligence of some sort, well far far greater than we have ever given them anyhow. What are the ethical implications for hunting and eating such creatures? Is it right or is it wrong? Do snails know the meaning of life? Or am I just being stupid?

Breakout

Brian Is Gonna Get It

This morning I woke up full of purpose, thrust and vim with one clear objective on my mind, today was the day that I was finally going to cut the small lawn in our front garden. Personally, I find mowing the grass one of life's more tedious chores especially since I own an ancient Qualcast hover mower that seems to fold blades of grass neatly in half rather than actually cut them. With rising anger and frustration, I often give in to a propensity to start grinding the machine into the turf, teeth gritted as my arms shake violently, sending clumps of soil flying into the ether. The end result is usually akin to my Dad's attempts to cut my hair with a pair of blunt scissors when I was younger, a patchy morass of bald spots with the odd tuft springing up here and there. But the job had to be done and I've been putting it off for too long so I gave it a good crack early this morning. Because my mower is so rubbish it doesn't collect the grass so after the exercise, I had to stoop down and collect the long green sheaves with my bare hands (oh woe is me). As I was doing so, with each sodden handful I kept finding a snail nestled within and we're not talking about babies here, we're talking big, juicy, fat gastropods. I suppose that this shouldn't have come as a surprise given that the Bank Holiday had just past with the usual deluge of rain. Actually I think I was more perplexed that so many survived the onslaught. But as I stood there cradling a slimey sucker in my hand, two thoughts then came suddenly pinging into my brain. The first being that I should really invest in a decent lawnmower that saves me the job of bending over and my poor back. And the second? Well of course I started wondering what it would be like to eat them. The snails that is.

You may or may not know this but the petis gris or escargot that gets served up in French bistros across France and the rest of the world is none other than your regular Helix aspersa. That's the common brown snail to you and me and I've often thought about gathering some to cook at home so this seemed like a marvelous opportunity. I've garnered some information from the internets and the whole process looks to be quite simple. The most important thing to do is to make sure you purge* them and in particular make sure that they haven't ingested any pesticides. If they have taken anything toxic on board they will die within a day after collection which seems to be an easy indicator. If they don't die then they will happily survive on a diet of water which will clean their systems out and after four days will be ready to cook and eat. However you can also carry on feeding them on herbs and cornmeal for up to two weeks to fatten them up. You then put them on a water diet for two days for a final purge. This is what I have read anyway.

At the moment I've got a dozen Brians tucked away in a large Tupperware box (with air holes) in the shed, lounging around on a bed of lettuce and water. I'm not entirely sure what route to go yet, the four day liquid diet or the 2 week super sizing but when I had one last peek before leaving for work, at least 4 of the blighters were engaged in some kind of carnal activity. I think they know the end is near and making the best use of their love darts in an orgiastic frenzy. Well you would wouldn't you if the world was nigh. I shall let you know what I do with them but if in the meantime anyone has any tips or words of wisdom, I shall be very grateful.

A dozen escargot s'il vous plait

Brian #1

Brian and chums are gonna get it

*purge = make sure they have a good ol' crap