Carbonaragate

People have such short memories.

They forget that around two years ago now, I appeared on the short lived BBC food quiz 'A Question of Taste' and impressed the entire nation with my rather superior food knowledge. At the risk of offending my lovely fellow team mates Kavey and Dan, who were rubbish quite frankly, if it wasn't for me, we would have lost (the comment about crumpets not withstanding).

So when I go online and tweet something silly like this: 

But be rest assured that I was simply making a joke. Of course I use egg yolks and egg yolks only when making a carbonara sauce. As well as bronze dye-extruded durum wheat dried pasta, the finest Guanciale known to man and the best Pecorino Romano that Aldi has to offer. And I always, always dress the pasta afterwards. The suggestion that I would ever, ever make a basic béchamel sauce, fry off some bacon bits with slivers of garlic and mix it with some boiled value range spaghetti is preposterous and I can't believe the food pedants of Twitter fell for it and castigated me. You know who you are.

Now that I've got that off my chest, I'd like to go back to perfecting another classic recipe if you don't mind.

Which is Shepherds pie.

With tinned corned beef, mashed sweet potato and Branston pickle.

Could this be the most beautiful toilet in the world? (Could this be)

My local Thai restaurant, which is called Sukhotthai and based in the affable climes of 'Ornchurch, is a beacon of joy in an otherwise sea of blandness. A little cracker in other words. Saying that, we do have a good Turkish ocakbasi too but in general choices are limited around my neck of the woods. Unless you don't mind eating in a generic chain that is. We don't visit Sukhotthai that often these days, my wife and I. But when we do, it is always a treat, with friendly staff serving up mind blowing food. As such, to report on a startling and somewhat unsettling development seems wrong and disloyal. A dereliction of duty even. But I do feel that I have to report on a recent visit whereupon an explosion of colour assaulted my senses and blew my mind away. And if I didn't make comment on the festoon of artificial foliage that has appeared of the blue in the men's lavatories.... well, that would be remiss of me too.

To sum up the awe and bafflement I felt whilst sitting and thinking in such a room of naff beauty, I have to refer to a conversation I later had online with an old friend, which went something like this.

"You know that scene in Superman II where he flies to a tropical rainforest to collect some rare orchids for Lois for that special meal, you know before he gives up his powers in that chamber? Well it felt just that, being in there. I called for Superman but he never came."

His reply?
  

"Calling for Superman. In a flowery toilet. In a restaurant called Sukothai. We're one glory hole away from the campest start to a Saturday ever!"

Which of course is quite funny. Not to mention succinct and is worth sharing, as it certainly captured the surreal aspect of the situation. Or the photo that follows.

Like I said, I really do not want to cast aspersions on what really is a lovely little gem but I do have to ask the big question: 

Could this be the most beautiful toilet in the world? (Could this be)

Para-para-paradise
Para-para-paradise
Oh oh oh oh oh oh-oh-oh-oh

Eating Al Desko

Eating al desko* is most definitely a bad thing and no one should be so busy at work that they can't escape the drudgery for at least 20 minutes in one godforsaken day. In fact, it should be law that office toilers should be able to leave the building to go and stretch their legs, to get some fresh air and get something decent to eat. Spending an hour off-duty at the very least, every single day. 

What do you mean it is law? Why has nobody told me this?

Anyway, occasionally there really is no escaping the monitor and phone, especially if you are working under the hammer of deadlines and drowning under endless reams of photocopy paper. Sometimes, there you remain, all day long, from dawn till dusk, with eyes like dust and unflinching, unfeeling buttocks, numb and bloodless. And sometimes, that is just the way it goes.

However, that doesn't mean to say you can't inject a sense of adventure into your lunchtime proceedings at the desk. After announcing an exciting lunch of spag bol and honeydew melon on Twitter, word nibbler @CarolineTecks suggested that I hollow out the melon and use it as a bowl for the spaghetti. Which, in part, was a dare. But it also seemed like a cracking idea so I gave it go.

Honeydew melon, as melons go, is quite an unobstrusive sort of fruit and I have to say that juice left behind lent a pleasant sort of tang to the pasta, which countered the umami of the ragu. What sounded unusual was actually very good. And plus I saved some time. 

I like these happy sort of accidents, marriages thrown together at the last minute, nights out you didn't plan. So I am going to be more open minded about what I bring to the desk in future. On the menu tomorrow is sliced chicken escalope in rolls and strawberries and maybe some crisps. 

I wonder how that combination will work out?

*Eating al desko was first coined by Hollowlegs but lots of people it seems, also use the expression. Lots of people who sit at their desks eating their lunch, staring out the window; wondering what the hell they are doing eating inside, instead of outside. Even when it's raining.

Wild Garlic Treasure Hunt

As you are probably aware, in the UK, the wild garlic season is now fully upon us. And you should be aware, for in the immortal words of Harry Nilsson, everybody's talkin'. Bloggers, chefs, cooks, food writers, foragers, dogs, cats, my Nan and a whole cross-section of society that I can't be bothered to list right now. If you didn't know, then I would suggest that you have been living under a rock or have perhaps been hiding your cranium up your posterior. But no matter, word on the street is that the humble allium ursinum is out. Definitely out out and out and about. I know this because around this time of year, I do tend to get a lot of enquiries about the stuff and everyone starts talkin' at me, in oh so slightly desperate ways. 

"Hey man, like, I heard you've got a stash of green growing in your garden and well, you know, its been such a hard winter man and like, I just want a couple of leaves man, you know, to stick in some soup or something like that and jesus man, its just been so long, I just want to taste some of that pungent chive man, please, I know you got some, oh God, just give me some please, oh pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease....."

As such, in the past, a lot of dodgy meetings on street corners have been arranged where I have swapped some wild garlic for a token slice of cake or some of last night's dinner. Which is absolutely fine by me. I am only too happy to give wild garlic away, as it does indeed grow rampantly around our cherry tree at home and I am always at odds as to what to do with it. I even stuck some on toast and grilled it with manchego the other day, just by way of trying to make a dent. Then I had an idea.

Given the level of interest at the moment in ramsons, would people be up for a little bit of a challenge, a bit of fun in order to get their hands on their very own wild garlic to plant at home? Would people be up for a wild garlic treasure hunt around London taaaan? I put this notion across on Twitter yesterday and quite a few seemed up for the task, so after mulling the idea over some more, I have decided to go for it.

So the premise is this. Next Thursday, on May 2nd, I am going to head up to London with five lush and full wild garlic plants; leaves, flowers, bulbs, soil and all. I will head to my first location at 10AM and then tweet a clue as to where I am, using the hashtag #wildgarlictreasurehunt. I will then wait for 30 minutes or until someone finds me and then I will move onto the next location and then tweet a new clue. The area I propose to move around in will be central in town, with the occasional hop over the river. And the thinking is to go on and on until hopefully, I have been found five times and all five garlic plants are given away and everyone is all smiles and laughter.

There is of course, an inherent danger that my tweets will be totally ignored and I will spend the whole day traipsing the streets, going from one place to another, carrying a bag of heady stink and the whole endeavour will be pointless. If that does happen, I will simply head to a pub, cry into several pints of beer before going home at midnight on the vomit comet back to Essex and throw clumps of wild garlic at everyone on my carriage. I will probably get arrested but I still believe this little project is worth a go.

You might be asking yourself "Why?" at this point in proceedings and my answer would be "Why not?" I haven't indulged in anything nonsensical lately with regards to the blog and I do like to embark on some social meeja experimentation from time to time. Using Twitter will be interesting, as lately it has become a rather self-serving platform, a fog horn to promote one's profile and of course, I am as guilty as any with regards to that. Christ, this whole idea is one big fist of 'look at me!' But once upon a time, there was a strong sense of humour and community on there, of people getting together for the simple love of food and larks. And I just wonder with this little project if we could scrape some of that back.

So what say ye fud people of Twitter, are you with me? Do you want some bloody wild garlic or wot?

  

Oh and please do spread the word......

Burger Rain

A current favourite on Sunday morning in the FU household is a children's televisual programme called 'The Aquabats! Super Show!' Based upon the adventures of a team of superheroes who drive around in a supervan battling supervillians, everything is fantastically superbonkers and we enjoy watching it immensely. Sitting all together on the sofa, in our pyjamas, whilst drinking tea and eating crumpets. The Aquabats are also accomplished musicians in their own right and are in fact a rock/punk/ska band proper (apparently) and throughout each episode, have been coming up with wondrous musical ditties such as 'Wingin' It' and 'Doing Science'.

The best so far however, has to be 'Burger Rain'. And when I heard it yesterday morning, I was not only tickled by its simple brilliance but it also soon became apparent that this song; this beautiful, majestic, soaring song should become an anthem for slavish devotees of beef patties, pickles and buns everywhere across the land. Of which there are many.

If they don't start playing it on Burger Mondays, someone is missing a trick.

Jimmy Spoke In Class Today

The bell rings and Jimmy's stomach flips. For two long hours he has been waiting. Waiting in a cubicle, in a dank, stinking bog with blistered ceilings and soaked floors. With knees hunched up, feet on the seat, eyes listlessly staring into space, wandering from scuffed toecaps to faded hand-drawn porn, and football chants scrawled on the narrow walls. Time spent worrying, time spent crying, time spent clutching a rucksack to his chest.

The trill barely finishes before the big sound comes. Doors swing open and corridors and stairwells suddenly become flushed with the clamour of footsteps, laughter, screams and shouts. A tidal wave of noise washes over the building like a tsunami before spilling and bursting through the exits, flooding the playground outside. Jimmy could remain inside until the rush subsides and trickles away but he knows there would be no point; no matter how long he held out, they would always be waiting.

Despite the stench, he sucks down deep and places a foot on the floor, wavering at first before setting the next one down. Silence falls upon the school like a stage curtain so when Jimmy opens the toilet door, a sharp creak echoes down the hall and stops a frightened secretary dead in her tracks. Jimmy can't bear to look her in the eye when she asks what he is still doing there, so he scurries for the daylight, like the little mouse he is.

Unaccustomed to the brightness, he stands still for a second or two and squints whilst pushing a greasy fringe away from his face. Scouring the empty concrete, striped with yellow, red and white lines, Jimmy looks up to the path ahead; lined with trees and bushes, leading out on the street. To the untrained eye, not a soul seems to be about. But Jimmy knows what lies ahead. He spots the smoke from a mile off and all the white trainers, dangling casually from a wall.

Walking forward, he feels a surge of bile rise up into his throat and his heart began to beat hard and fierce, almost as if it were to explode. But this time, Jimmy has decided things will be different. Carrying on, head light and spinning, quiet conversation comes into earshot and halts as soon as his arrival is noticed. The group of white trainers jumps onto the floor and edge towards him. Soon, a half-finished cigarette bounces off the rucksack that Jimmy carries as a shield.

A mass of sputum, hacked up, thick and yellow, lands near his foot but that wouldn't be the worst thing to happen. Familiar fists would soon descend, to hammer on his body, crouched and prone. There would be no rhyme nor reason, this collective had just simply decided that this was so. Pack mentality always throws moral obligation out of the window, especially when the subject is quiet and small. Besides, it makes them feel better, better than they could feel at home.

As always, there is a leader and the leader steps into Jimmy's shadow and mocks with the same self-satisfied smirk as always; sneering, goading, with his nose inches away. Jimmy pauses and then thrusts a hand into his rucksack, pulling out a triangular piece of flapjack that he bought at lunchtime in the canteen. As Jimmy raises it into the air, the older boys immediately burst out laughing, their faces stretching and contorting in fits of merriment and mirth.

Yet the moment that Jimmy slams the flapjack shard deep into his aggressor's neck, the mood soon changes and wide smiles turn into frames of bewilderment and disbelief. Further still, as he yanks the oat and raisin blade back out, sending an arc of blood spraying up into the the air, the boys crumble into cataclysms of horror and stagger back with a gasp. Their leader, stunned, eyes wide open, clutches his throat before falling backwards, spewing crimson bubbles from his mouth.

An uneasy pall descends as everyone watches the leader's body shake, gurgle and splutter and the viscous pool that surrounds his head which grows and grows. It is all over in about a minute and soon birdsong from the surrounding trees casts back a curious normalcy to proceedings; as if what just happened, didn't happen. The group of existing white trainers look up at the face of Jimmy, which has just the faintest smattering of red across his cheek. And then they look down. And then they run.

Because in Jimmy's other hand, there is a sharpened yum-yum. And he's had enough.



This story was inspired by recent flapjack revelations in the news. As someone else so eloquently put it, it's health and pastry gone mad.

Love is.......

.........a stuffed heart (from The Ginger Pig) braised long and slow, whilst Barry White croons majestically in the background. Cooked in red wine, shallots, herbs, garlic, for hours and hours. Until the muscle is tender and ripe, yielding softly upon teeth, thick sauce coating lips, moaning, dribbling gently, pupils dilating as the flesh sinks downwards and downwards and downwards.........

Mrs FU won't know what hit her tonight.

And by the way, 50 Shades of Shite ain't got nothing on me.

STOP PRESS

The folks at Leon asked on Twitter a few days ago for people to divulge their best/funniest/saddest Valentines Day stories over 140 characters and I gave them my tale of an incident which happened over 10 years ago now, when Mrs FU and I first moved in together. They liked it so much, it was picked to be animated. This is very cool.

And plus, gawd bless 'em, they've even given me hair. Which I did have back then.

Cold Butter

Butter is blessed stuff. Agitated from fermented cream for our delight and delectation, there really is nothing better. On a cold and frosty morning, when you first reach for the butter dish and spy that bar of lustrous gold within, well, whimsy knows no bounds. Whilst peering into the cupboard, it is quite easy to imagine some rosy cheeked maiden forming a block with wooden scotch hands on wooden bench, working away and puffing a curly lock upwards as her forearms flex forwards and back. However, impish thoughts are normally fleeting and rush by because hunger beckons and the notion of a layer of ochre, thick and laden upon bread quickly overwhelms. Hands fumble in the cutlery drawer, eager and pensive and a knife is whipped out. Flashing silver before your eyes, the knife is then plunged forth and a slice of yellow fat, pure and true, is cleaved out, all wrinkled and fudgy on the blade. Swiftly and urgently, it is then brought down onto the crumb, to spread out that patty of joy evenly, cleanly and to the edges of the crust. For teeth to sink decadently into, for the promise of sweet salty deliverance, for the bliss that butter can bring.

And then it happens.

You tear a huge hole in the bread.

Worse things can happen and have. Exercising caution and warming up the butter first in a microwave, only to reduce it to a puddle in 5 seconds can cause considerable anguish. Spying a daughter with a finger in the white ceramic dish is marginally worse, considering her penchant for cleaning out toe jam with the very same finger. Discovering that there is no butter in the house at all and that you have to resort to spreading Stork, bloody Stork, on your toast is reprehensible, an insult to humanity.

But tearing a huge, HUGE, muthafricking hole in the middle of a slice of bread because your butter is too cold..............

Well, it's like having my heart ripped out.

The Dried Pulse Conspiracy

Manufacturers and marketeers of dried pulses, beans, peas and other desiccated legumes have been having us consumers over the barrel for years. These high-fibre, natural, healthy goods, which are normally purchased after a pique of soul searching, mirror staring and finger prodding, play an integral part in the ‘whole food’ machine. And whilst on the outside they seem to offer a route to a new lifestyle, new diet, new you; on the inside, dried pulses are inherently deceptive and evil. And why? Well it comes down to the simple fact that according to instructions on the packet, you have to ‘soak’ the bloody things.

This is my theory.

Some days you can find yourself in a supermarket, wandering around, feeling lethargic, turgid and morose and you happen to chance upon the whole food section. Beaming out towards you is a myriad of bags and sacks containing fanciful, colourful, strangely shaped nuggets of life-affirming joy; life-affirming because all the shelves and labelling is in green and there are pictures of wheat and corn and Gethin Jones everywhere. As the smarmy twat stares back at you, all fresh faced and vigorous, you think to yourself, ‘My God, this is just what I need, this will make me feel better.’ And so you scoop up an armful of mung beans, lentils and chickpeas and skip merrily to the checkout.

However, when you get home, full of ideas to whack on a casserole of hip thrusting goodness or to make a curry of fist pumping, hot, crazy, spunkiness, you read the back of the pack and crestfallen, you discover that soaking ‘for 8-12 hours or overnight’ is required. So everything gets packed onto the top shelf of the cupboard and whilst leaning against the side, you ruminate that you will cook up something simply gorgeous next week instead. And then you open the fridge to tuck into a pork pie.

Time goes by but every now and then, the inspiration returns. “It’s a cold day; let’s get the muthafrickin pearl barley out! You know, I feel all Spanishy today, fetch me the butter beans! We are poor and have no money till pay day; the kids are starving, what the frack is left in the cupboard? Dried kidney beans!!”

And yet bang, time after time, you get hit by the ‘soaking rule’ and with sad faces all round you say,“Sorry children, no kidney beans tonight, we'll have to do with some manky onions and an egg instead”. And back into the cupboard it goes, to accumulate dust and melancholy.

The real kick in the nuts comes when you actually remember to take the damned pulses out of the cupboard the night before and after gleefully snipping the plastic, pouring the contents into a bowl and some on the floor, you suddenly spot it:

Best Before: Jan 1997

And this is my point. They know this. Holland and Barrett et al, will happily continue to pimp their bags of dry, musty seed, knowing that we, the people, frail and susceptible, will always buy their horrible, flatulent inducing beans, go to use and cook, get scuppered by the 'soaking' rule; and then forget about them. And then go out to buy some more. Go to use and cook. Get scuppered by the 'soaking' rule. And then forget about them. And then go out to buy some more. Go to use and cook. Get scuppered by the 'soaking' rule. And then forget about them. Ad infinitum.

We are talking about food waste on a grotesque, criminal scale here. And somewhere, in some anonymous warehouse, sitting on a mountain of puy, is this Mr Burns figure. And he is laughing, throwing lentils into the air, imagining each tiny green speck as a shiny gold coin. 

 

And this is all down to the ‘soaking’ rule.

It makes me feel sick.

But, after some investigation yesterday, I took the plunge on the advice from some more enlightened individuals and this is what I have learned.

YOU DO NOT NEED TO SOAK OVERNIGHT.

In fact, all you need to do, is to give whatever dried pulses you have to hand a bloody good boiling for a few minutes, wash off the scum and then soak for just a couple of hours more before cooking. Which is much more amenable. If you have a pressure cooker, you don’t even have to soak at all, which is even better. I don't have a pressure cooker, yet.

I did not know this and I don’t think many others know this either. So I want to spread the word and smash the system; smash it till this ‘overnight soaking’ message is gone, smashed out of existence. In its place I just want smashed chickpeas, unadulterated and pure. 

Because I am quite fond of hummous.

What say ye? Are you with me? Can we do without soaking our pulses people? 

Or am I wrong, Mr Burns?

From to this

To this

 

 To this

To finally this, without having to soak overnight.

Lord of the Rillettes

Over the years, I have discovered that there are certain responsibilities in life that I am not entirely sure that I should be left solely in charge of. Firstly, don't leave me in charge of my own children, for that route leads to chaos. Many's the time has Mrs FU come home to discover a living room turned upside-down, settees arranged into an island camp with flour dotted about the place and cushions soaked from water pistols. By all accounts 'Pirates vs Dinosaurs' should be played outside. And don't leave me in charge of a fire, for that route leads to danger. Oblivious to the combustible nature of things like sheds and fences and dry grass, there has been many a time when I have inadvertently sparked a mini-inferno. All manner of insects, small mammals and birds seem to flee the area whenever I load up my Sankey Premium Incinerator for a bit of a burn off. And most definitely, do not ever, ever put me in charge of making rillettes, for that route leads to........erm, empty terrines dishes and no actual rillettes to serve.

I always start off with the best intentions. Pork belly gets slapped onto the board and patiently and carefully I slice away a thin layer of be-nippled skin, leaving behind a fine band of fat and white lined, deep pink meat which is salted thoroughly but not excessively. The flesh is then plonked into a tray along with some crushed garlic, a couple of bay leaves and a smattering of thyme and then topped up with some water. Or if I am feeling flash, some wine. Or Strongbow, if that's all I've got. Into the oven it then goes, covered with foil, on a low, low heat, for at least three hours. After a while, smells begin to permeate the kitchen and seep out throughout the house. I could be upstairs in the bedroom, sorting out my socks and pants when all of a sudden, I'll feel a ghostly, aromatic finger tickle under my chin and then comes the Pavlovian response.

"Come Dan, it's time," whispers my brain and slowly, I make my way back down, trance-like, stupefied, head leaning slightly backwards. The oven door is opened and the tray is retrieved with fan blaring, the foil is peeled back and beautiful, porcine steam billows forth, intoxicating my nostrils further. An independent arm reaches up to the cupboard and scrambles about for a stainless steel bowl and the shrunken, tender, quivering belly is placed gently inside, brushed clean of caramelised garlic and withered herbs. A pair of forks are taken from the drawer and slowly and gently they begin to shred. As the moist ribbons start to appear, I stare down and focus just for second before my face starts to numbly morph into this dopey, lecherous repose. Think of Frodo from the fil-ms, every time he vinegar strokes that ring of his and you'll get the picture. "Taste it Dan," whispers Sauron, who curiously looks a lot like Nigel Slater and so I lift a forkful of hot, succulent, fatty joy to my mouth. And then I am gone, vanished.

When I appear again, the room is dark and cold. The moon shines through the window and the light bounces off an empty, hollow, stainless steel bowl that lies in between my splayed legs. I touch the bowl and then I touch my face and it feels greasy. And then suddenly I feel greasy. Greasy with hatred and contempt. I've done it again. I've eaten all the f-king rillettes again.

And this is why Mrs FU has made the rillettes for our supper club tomorrow night, as I can't be trusted anymore.

Especially since we've put duck in this one.

 One Rillette To Rule Them All

 Deeper

 

And deeper into the abyss

Crumpetgate

No one likes a smart arse and you'll be sure that whilst riding high upon the crest of a wave, spectators, commentators and detractors will be looking for the slightest slip up, the merest excuse to mock, bray and scream. I found this out to my cost when I appeared on 'A Question of Taste', a new epicurean quiz recently aired on BBC2. Watching nervously from my settee at home, clutching a cushion and a bottle of port, I spent the first part of the show lamenting the fact that I had decided to wear a flowery shirt that day. And sporting a ginger, hairy caterpillar under my nose was also a definite no-no. But as the programme progressed, my confidence grew because a) my team were doing quite well and b) I had answered a fair few of the questions myself. In fact, as things went on, I could actually start to feel my temporal lobes swell with pride. 'This could be it,' I thought. 'Redemption. At last I can walk tall in the street. People will see me for who I really am. They will all slap me on the back. They will all hoist me up on their shoulders and carry me through the streets of Romford, praising my genius. "This man has got it!" They'll all cry. "This man really knows his stuff about food!"'

And then came this question.

"What is the name given to small round pieces of mutton or lamb dipped in egg and breadcrumbs and then grilled or fried?"

"Wait! I know this one.............."

*BRAINFART*

"Come along now Danny"

"Er is it ...........crumpets?"

"Wrong! It's epigrams"

Kavey - "You knobber Danny." Dan - "Oh my god you prink."
Twitter -"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Of course I have heard of nothing else since. Via text, emails, DM's and phonecalls, everyone has been keen to point out my little mistake. Even my Nan rang last night, just to simply say "Crumpets Dan? What the hell was you thinking!?! You are no Grandson of mine!!!"

Oh to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous (mis)fortune.

But let me just say that it is I who will have the last laugh, for yesterday I took a very interesting call indeed. I can't say much at the moment but let's just say that the marketing department of a well known (and may I add premier) producer of baked goods got in touch and wants me to spearhead a new advertising campaign. Kerching!!!

Like I said my lips are sealed but here's a little sneak preview of what they've got in mind.

Who's laughing now eh?

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