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.

Fake Plastic Lemons

The first rule of Fight Club is: don't talk about Fight Club.

The first rule of Chinese Whispers Club is: don't talk about Tiny Whiskers Grub.

The first rule of Pancake club is: throw your first one away and don't talk about it.

I don't know why I am harping on randomly about rules and the like. I was going to write a post about pancakes but it seems like half the world and their dog is giving their advice on pancakes today. In fact, it suddenly feels quite incongruous and facile to give tips and advice on how to mix eggs, milk and flour. It's not rocket science.

And plus someone else lifted the curtain on the heart of the matter two years ago, with this simple post and now I really am at a loss at what to say about pancakes.

Seriously, the wind has truly been taken out of my sails.

Bastard.

However, I would like to throw a yellow, plastic, oval-shaped grenade into the mix.

Given that the food retail industry is currently disintegrating before our very eyes with wandering accusations of fraud, criminal activity and skulduggery, perhaps it would be fitting for us to all go out and buy some Jif for our pancakes tonight. We all seem to be going to hell in a handcart so a short, sharp squeeze of concentrated citrus topped up with E223 is hardly going to hurt now is it.

I am talking Jif lemon juice by the way, not the cleaning stuff.

Eavesdropping at The Tasty Cafe, St John's Street

Conversations are great, especially when you are not part of them. Sure, some incessant chatter can be annoying and inane. After listening to two 'bright' young things dressed as Mumford and Sons on the train the other day, I was this close (imagine a tiny space between my thumb and finger) to slapping them around the face with a wet fish. Except I didn't have a wet fish on me. And besides, it would have been a waste of wet fish.

However, there are times when eavesdropping is entirely pleasurable. When cupping your ear to someone else's world brings a wry smile to your face and melts your cynical heart. I was having lunch in The Tasty Cafe on St John's Street, a very workman-like greasy spoon, complete with a faded Pepsi sign on the outside and worn mahogany within. Run by a bunch of friendly Italian guys who have been in the business for years and years and years, the food is honest and cheap and the overall warmth of the cafe provides a welcome respite from the outside world. I don't pop in there often but when I do, I usually come over all misty eyed, whilst my inner prole whistles 'cor blimey, luv a duck' at it all and harks back to a time that I don't really know.

Sitting and waiting at a table for my order, with a mug of tea (builders of course), a fellow diner had his roast delivered and just as he was about to tuck in, his phone rang. This is not ad verbatim but his conversation sort of went along like this:

Hello Mum!

Yeah, yeah, I am still coming to see you later.

Yeah, I'm out and about, just working around the corner. Just getting my dinner in actually.

Aw Mum, you should see it. I went for roast chicken. Yeah, looks really good. The plate is piled with spuds and there's tons of chicken. I've got a leg and some breast meat. Yeah, it looks really tender and it's smothered with gravy.

No, no, no, I've got some veg too, some broccoli, don't you worry about that.

No, it's not as good as your roast Mum.

Alright then Mum, see you later, yep, don't worry, I'll be around the usual time.

See ya later then, love you.

And that was that. He was probably in his forties, faintly smattered with paint and he shouted down the phone, rather than talk normally. But the tone of his voice was full of love, enthusiasm and commitment. A public declaration of his feelings for his dear old Mum and for the meal he was about to have.

As I sat there, taking in all that he had said, my plate came up and suddenly I felt a swell of emotion rise from the pit of my stomach. Looking down, I contemplated my own mother, thinking and hoping that I, equally, was a good son to her. After listening to him, I even began to regret my own decisions for lunch.

Especially since I ordered salad to go with my lasagne. And not chips.

Dads Wot Cook

When nipping down to the newsagent or supermarket today, you may well spot a shiny new March edition of Delicious magazine nestling on the shelf, next to Garden and Homes and just underneath Kerrang! Do not pass it by. Instead, why not take a moment to have a peruse and have a flick through, as there is some really interesting stuff in there. All about food and stuff. You might even decide to buy a copy (and you should). You might decide to buy several copies in fact; to give your neighbour a copy, to post some to friends and relatives and to hand out in the playground to all the yummy mummies. You might even want to frame certain pages inside and hang them on the wall.

I know I am going to. Because I am featured in this month's edition under the pun-tastic header of 'Meet the men who bring home the bacon to fry it' alongside two other fine work-at-home Dads, who cook for their kids.

"I didn't know you worked from home?" I hear you say. Well, I do work from home for 2 and half days in the week, not including weekends, so I sort of qualify. And people I work with would probably suggest that I don't do much in the office anyway.

I suppose the real cause for trumpeting, is that appearing in print is always quite nice. Despite this age of the 'internets' in which we live, seeing a few of your own words on paper and a simple recipe you conjured up for the kids is quite a thrill really.

It's just a shame that my daughter wasn't so impressed. She wanted to know why her Daddy wasn't in My Little Pony magazine instead.

 

 Photos by Meemalee, who subscribes to Delicious and received her copy a few days ago, the lucky thing.

Beggar's Pork

This is the second one. Cured pork shoulder inside. His nose came off in the oven, but he was so cute.

Last week Erica asked me if I had ever made Beggar's Chicken. She sent someone's blog post in which it was made for the first time with success. Maybe it wasn't intended as such, but I took it as a challenge. And with my usual heedless aplomb, I jumped in. But with an entirely different idea. Not just pork, but cured pork. Here's how to do it: Take a shoulder roast, 3 or 4 pounds. Salt and pepper generously, add a pinch of instacure #1, and whatever spices you like. I think you can see coriander and juniper. Throw it in a ziplock and toss in the fridge for one week. Turn over every day. Then soak about 5 lotus leaves. The ones I bought were a bit banged up. And I got the weirdest looks at the Asian grocery, though I go there all the time asking for random parts, the leaves struck them as absurd. Very dry and brittle, and huge, but they worked fine once soaked for about half an hour. Don't be tempted to sit on a floating leaf like a frog. Anyway, wrap the pork in the leaves tightly. Then take some white clay (I think this is B mix) and roll it out flat and completely seal the lotus wrapped pork. I was tempted to give this a little snout and ears, but I actually ran out of clay. Bake at 450 degrees for two hours. Let cool a bit and then whack with a hammer. Remove clay completely. It will actually be semi-fired earthenware. It can't be used again. Unwrap the leaves and slice the pork. It has the most intriguing aroma. Sort of like tea, sort of like sweet herbs and hay. And the meat has an extraordinary texture, not unlike corned beef, but juicy and not stringy at all. Still dreaming of what to do with the meager leftovers. Not a sandwich, maybe a taco or steamed bun.

Make Cabbage Your Friend, Not Your Foe

This post first appeared on Great British Chefs blog.

Out of all the vegetables and fruit prone to suffer from an inferiority complex – and you know, it is quite possible that some do – I would estimate that the humble cabbage suffers the most. On face value, cabbages just don’t have the same va-va voom as say, an aubergine or a globe artichoke. Rather than being thought as sensual and decadent, cabbages are often perceived as being hard, dull and protestant. Steadfast in times of need, particularly at this barren time of year but they are hardly exciting. Even the very word ‘cabbage’, the way it sounds, dents the ears. Repeat to yourself quietly, “Ooh, I’d love to eat a cabbage,” and you’ll see what I mean. Say it out loud, in a public area and bingo, you have just singled yourself out as someone who essentially boring, bizarre and sulphurous.

But why are these brassicas so maligned and misunderstood? 

Well, right from the beginning, they have had a bit of a bum rap really. Wild cabbage has been plentiful on our shores for over 4000 years and was a staple part of the diet for many a Celt. Yet according to Jane Grigson in her venerated Vegetable Book, she says that “wild cabbage is really very nasty indeed, “ as it needs washing and boiling a multitude of times to extinguish the bitter taste.  A wooden bowlful of soft, gooey, green slop could hardly have been appetising for your average, naked, wode smothered Iceni tribesman. And even in this day and age, for some, this is still the preferred method of cooking.

Also, historically, cabbages have been regarded more for their medicinal properties than anything else. To cure ailments such as bad stomachs, heartburn, nausea and hangovers. The paradoxical thinking being, that cabbage helps to release any ill wind from the body. When of course, it does nothing of the sort. In fact, it helps to promote ill wind as cabbage contains raffinose, an indigestible sugar and soluble fibre, which can only be broken down in the gut by tiny, tiny gas-producing bacteria.  Unfortunately then, any vegetable that relates itself to the activity of farting is bound to suffer from bad press.

Couple this with modern-day perceptions arising from memories of school diners, the ‘Cabbage Diet’ and links to food borne illnesses and death, well it’s no wonder that cabbage has an image problem.

Of course, this sort of rhetoric is harmful and by using some of these explanations and examples, I am picking on cabbage just a little bit; and I shouldn’t because really, I am quite the fan.

Down on the allotment, we like to grow a variety of cabbages such as Savoy, January Kings, Chinese Leaf, red and white cabbage and variants such as kale and calovo nero. And battles are hard fought and won (and sometimes lost) when tending to them. Because if there is one thing a tricksy snail or slug likes to eat, it is cabbage. Last summer it was all out warfare due to the inclement weather which helped the dreaded gastropods to thrive and I often used to leave the plot, trailing a slime-splattered spade behind me wearing a thousand yard stare. Still, it was worth the effort, protecting the seedlings from certain doom because come autumn and winter time, rewards are born in the shape of solid hearts and blossoming leaves, packed with vitamins and goodness.

My favourite I have to say is the red cabbage; either cooked long and slow until tender and delicate or sliced thinly to throw into a bowl with sliced carrots, beetroot and fennel and mix together with a light mayonnaise and maybe a bit of chopped tarragon for a crunchy, colourful, seasonal coleslaw. Resorting back to the slow method for moment though, Mark Dobson’s Roulade of pork belly with braised red cabbage and apple compoteis definitely a dish I would like to try out soon because pork and red cabbage is a marriage made in heaven. Although it does also go well with duckand venisontoo. Ah decisions, decisions.

The main point however is that cabbage, served either alone as a centrepiece (stuffed is good) or alongside as an accompaniment, is absolutely and unequivocally a vegetable to be celebrated.  It is certainly not one to be perceived as mundane or lacklustre; in the right hands and with the right preparation, it can be downright sexy.

And if the spectre of serving it up at the table, at the risk of voluminous guffage later in the evening worries you. Just remember, in some cultures, it is seen as a compliment.

So go out now and buy some cabbage and let rip.

Some more cabbage recipes from Great British Chefs can be found here.

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.