Marrakech part II.

Stepping out of the bar onto the street with our new friend, I turned to wink at the Count and warn him to keep his hand on his ha'penny. A paving slap the size of a toilet seat shattered on the pavement between us, and we both leapt back assuming a fighting stance (The Count had neglected to carry his usual walking cane, which would have offered us something of an advantage due to the eight inch blade concealed within its shaft). A cropped haired youth looked us up and down and laughed, before bending down to pick up brick-sized lumps of the paving slap. Two of his troglodyte friends followed suit and started lobbing the brick-grenades at another group of youths on the opposite side of the street. They returned fire and the Count and I beat a hasty retreat up the road. Rashid had disappeared.

Along the road we encountered the Chesterfield 'English Pub' and ducked inside to escape further cement bombardment. It was less of an English pub than a smartish hotel bar, serving pints of Moroccan brewed Flag Speciale with a soundtrack of expats and an unlimited supply of olives. Therein we relaxed and got quietly wasted, chugging back pints of flag. It was a long walk back to our respective riads, so we had one for the road, and made our way through a silent maze-like medina, where the only sounds where the rattle and scratch of hundreds of tramp-cats, the occasional murmur of a security guard reading his Koran in the darkness, and the thud of our feet on the cobbles.

Back to the food. I do strongly recommend trying a pastilla. Sort of a locally made flat pie resembling a large Eccles cake. The filling varies but often involves Chicken, egg and lemon, wrapped in a thin flakes of sweetened pastry dusted with icing sugar.

If you're looking for the best Tagines in the Medina I would stay away from the main tourist drag and find the filthiest, scariest looking shithole cafe you can. I can recommend a suitably wretched unnamed place: From the PLace Ben Yousef, head Northish through the Medina away from the leather souks. You'll pass a woman selling slices from a massive flat bread that resembles, and tastes like, a giant chapathi. There is a bit of street that smells of drains, and then directly ahead, where the street bears right, you will see a group of old men sitting around smoking, and a young chap with a grill and a dozen tagines chuntering away. Before you take a plastic chair you may encounter an aggressive alsatian dog, who responds promptly and respectfully to a sharp kick in the neck. Order a tagine and see what comes. I had a beautifully herby and tender lamb tagine which set me back about £1.50. Don't drink the water - it smells vile. A boy will run out and get you a bottle of lemonade or something for a small tip. Don't worry, its not a hive of scum and villainy - its all very friendly. Keep an eye on that dog though.

I did have something of a jam-related epiphany while staying at my Riad. Each morning I looked forward to our breakfast selection of jams. Not for the Moroccans the jellified, oversweetened petri-dish muck beloved of many British and Continental Bed and Breakfasts (an easy way to judge the standard of a British hotel is to inspect its preserves), proper compote-like jams - of figs, oranges and strawberries, unctious, almost drinkable, served in bowls with marvellous slightly chewy flatbreads. My mouth is watering at the mere thought of tearing apart the flatbread and ladling on a glossy vin rouge-coloured dollop. Watching as the pockets of air within the bread take up the sweet preserve, before wolfing it, greedily, with sticky fingers and chin.

Enough food porn. I'm thinking of getting into jam making at some stage. Sadly, here in Dakar tis the season for Watermelons, which I doubt will make good jam. Indeed, after the first slice of watermelon one has had enough and wonders what to do with the rest of the basketball. Mrs Jiffler has the perfect solution, and we're off to the roof of an office block downtown where, on a quiet day (perhaps during Friday prayers), you can drop your unwanted melons 18 stories onto the pavement below. They make a feck of a lot of mess I can assure you, especially if you get a bit of spin on them. I've heard rumours that the US Embassy downtown is building higher fortifications around its premises in the event of a watermelon catapult being employed in anger. I reckon a decent sized melon could take down a helicopter, so any Saigon-style evacuation would be thwarted.

A jiffling hiatus

Yes, yes... its been about 6 months since the last post, but I've been in Rwanda: the land of a thousand hills, with work. Rwanda is also known in the jiffler household as the land of a thousand mediocre meals. This otherwise fine country was after all the scene of the goat'n'chip omlette, served to a bleary eyed Monsieur et Madame Jiffleur prior to a trek through the bush in search of gorilla action. I haven't forgetten about that, oh no.

Now back in Dakar, its time to renew-things blogwise. I've feck all else to do until the next contract, so this should keep me out of trouble (thinks Mrs Jiffler).

Hmm. we'll see.

Anyhow, I've accidentally imbibided the spirit of Hunter S Thompson while I've been away, so forgive me if some or all of the blog is made up gonzo bollocks. It will only get worse as things proceed. There will still be recipes, but they will be gonzo recipes. OK?

Back in Senegal things are different to Rwanda - the Francophones hung around here and didn't play nasty games with the lives of innocents. There are nice beaches here, so Jacques and friends have bought up the best stretches, and withered ballbag-like French matriarchs can now enjoy front row deckchairs on the sand.

On the plus side, this means the restaurants outshine our friends in the Great Lakes region. There is good bread, an abundance of seafood, and mayonnaise with your frites. Tres Bon.

But before that even, there was a trip to Marrakech, for a neb around the souks and some general loitering in the Djemma el fna. A certain distinguished Count Parker accompanied me on this particular trip, and it was non-work related I'm pleased to say.

A talentless chef swine once said that Moroccan food was the 'fourth of the three great world cuisines'; the three being French, Italian, and Chinese (honestly, if I ever meet said chef I shall set about his hands and face with a stale baguette). I'll concede that Moroccan food does have a certain something though, if you can find your way around the blanded-out tourist slop and ubiquitous pizza margherita. Better still though, Morocco is a great place for eating, rather than just the food.

Sitting on the top floor of the Cafe de France in the grand place Djemm el fna, watching the ebb and flow of the masses in the market area below more than makes up for chewy beef brochettes. Snake charmers charm, little feckers with manky monkeys on strings creep up on, and scare the living shit out of tourists, and everything is for sale... you want hashish? Hashish my friend, very good hashish, best hashish, good price for you my friend. Hashish?

Or perhaps a supper in the place itself? If you're not brave enough to pop a sheep's eye ball in your mouth, or even work your way through the whole head, you can scuttle over to stall number 114 of the many identical food stalls. There, the tout speaks some Welsh, enjoys watching Only fools and horses, and (if he is to be believed) is the love-child of Jamie Oliver and a Berber. Make your own dirty minds up. It'll be in Heat magazine next week no doubt.

Stall 114 serves up an array of cheapo dishes. Order all your bits separately - roasted sweet peppers with a dash of crunchy sea salt is worth ordering twice, between little bowls of spicy sausages, aubergine, squid, and tomato salad. These were shared with the Count while we watched tourists and touts fight it out in the grand place. I'm amazed by the ability of the touts to determine the nationality 9 out of 10 of the tourists walking past, and then call out to them in their native tongue. The count and I mused on this for a while, but I'll save our conclusions for the pub.

Ah yes, the pub. There we find the fundamental flaw in Marrakech's nightlife. Unless one wishes to go to some of the finer hotels to sit with the tourists and the occasional braying expat shite (I can spot my own kind a mile off), there is little choice but to enter into a sort of grotty tobacco stained underworld of sullen-looking middle aged Moroccan gentlemen in grey anoraks and dirty moustaches. The Count and I entered one such establishment, chests out, with an eye on the exit. We were left in peace for the first half of a rather violent local football match on TV, before being accosted by one of the moustaches at half time. After three bottles of Stork lager my bad French is pretty appalling, and the Count merely nodded and muttered 'Oui' occasionally, while maintaining the air of an aristocrat.

Our new friend, Rashid, was a friendly sort, if a little inebriated. He earned his beer money by fixing the many pinball machines to be found in Marrakech. After some messy communication and the appropriate hand signals, he offered to take us to a nearby club where there is belly dancing of the sort where you can both look and touch. The Count is the sort of chap who couldn't possibly be seen dead in such a place, and I've had to fight my way out of such places in the past.

So we agreed to go.

Guilty Pleasures…

Despite my usual moral high ground stance to food, there is the odd thing that slips through the net. These guilty fixes of trashy processed crud that would normally be met with a cynical barracking, and some half baked theory about why they spell the end of civilisation as we know it etc.

For some reason, and only when I’m abroad, I have this weird penchant for La Vache qui rit – also known as the laughing cow cheese: http://www.lavachequirit.com/la-vache-rouge/fr/accueil.html Each little cheese comes individually wrapped in a foil triangle, rather like those filthy little Dairylea triangles that we get in the UK. I really have no excuse for eating this rubbish, back home I would have recoiled in horror at the disc-shaped cardboard boxes, but here for some reason, the cheerful cow draws me in, and I find myself standing in front of the fridge at 5pm stuffing one of the salty little triangles into my mouth, rather like a boy who has just got in from school.

Next up are Biskrem. These where recently recommended to me by a Canadian friend, and I’ve subsequently noticed that you seem to be able to buy them all over town. What my Canadian friend didn’t warn me about was that Biskrem contain a secret ingredient which seems to be more addictive than crack cocaine.
http://www.ulker.com.tr/ulkerportal/en/products/product_group/default.cfm?id=39&sayfa=11

Biskrem are a sort of sugary cookie, filled with chocolate cream. They have the advantage of not melting in the heat here, while providing a fairly legitimate crunchy chocolate fix. A packet of these boys won’t last a day in our house. I was going to take a photograph of a packet to post online, but by the time I got to the fridge it was gone…

P.S. Is it me or is the new blogger/google relationship more trouble than its worth? I can't seem to log in smoothly, and my dashboard comes up in French, even though I have set it to English... comments / recommendations for alternative sites welcome please!

Delights of Dakar...

Sometime ago, I think it was in 2001 or 2002, I was badgering various mates to come and see Senegalese Afro-rhumba group Orchestra Baobab play in London. There wasn’t much interest, and I was a bit disappointed not to go in the end. It never occurred to me that my next encounter with the group would be sitting having lunch with singer and founder member Rudy Gomis, chewing the fat about premiership football.

Anyhow, I won’t turn this into a music blog – it would probably end up with me in court after getting carried away and revealing which one of the surviving Beatles I’d like to chase around a warehouse with a shotgun. Go to: http://www.orchestrabaobab.co.uk/ and see what you think is all I’ll say.

Anyhow, this is food related. Last night Mrs Jiffler and I were invited to celebrate the Dutch Queen’s Birthday at the Dutch Ambassador’s residence downtown. I realise this sounds slightly ridiculous, but for those uninitiated into expatriate life, the birthdays of our royal rulers are often marked with rather lavish ambassadorial functions. Our own Queen’s Birthday Party is due in June I think, were I will be gathering with other Brits, selected Europeans and Americans, and the great and the good of Senegalese society to drink free champagne all night and talk rubbish in the Ambassador’s garden. What a fine use of taxpayer’s money.

Our Dutch cousins put on a good spread – the aforementioned Orchestra Baobab were the house band, and there was some amusing Dutch art. The food though… well whoever came up with the ‘Food Design’ concept is probably still recovering. Check out their food art website here: http://www.proefrotterdam.nl/proef_nederlands/proef.html

Fun though it was to eat bits of sausage from long bendy forks stuck into the lawn, or strawberries from spoons gaffer taped to the wall, I spent much of the evening wondering where I could stop for some food on the way home, and was rather pleased when waiters came round with cones of chips and mayonnaise later in the evening.

I’m glad to be back in the unreal world again anyway. I was almost getting comfortable back home.

All the Coque you can eat.

Fnar, fnar. Yes the French for cockle is indeed ‘Coque’. This causes untold amusement and hilarity at the dinner table as we tuck into a tray full of coque. The French left something of a gourmet legacy here in Dakar, which has endured since independence. Many of the pretensions that the French insist on attaching to food have been discarded in favour of a more simplistic approach – and I’m all for that.

So for roughly a quid fifty, four of you can pick at a massive tray of cockles served with a squeeze of lime. Or perhaps oysters might be more interesting, picked fresh that day and served with shallot vinegar, some of them are almost too big to slip down the throat. What else have I tried here… lobster, cuttlefish, sea bream, grouper, sardines, monkfish… I’ve got my eye on some sea urchins at one place as well, although I’ve no idea how you eat them.

What else… A bakery on every corner, nice cakes, imported European cheese (although no British cheeses, I shall have a word), a lovely, albeit expensive butchery. I don’t think I’ll have too many problems keeping the jiffler updated here, unless I spend too much time eating out…

Senegalese Food:

It’s a good job I like fish. Mrs Jiffler has already given a fairly comprehensive overview of the most popular national dishes in her February ‘Senegrub’ blog. I would add the rather marvellous Daxine (pronounced ‘Dahcheen’, with the ‘ch’ sounded as in ‘loch’) to Mrs Jiffler’s list as this is my current favourite. It consists mainly of a porridgy rice stew, with small bits of beef and spices. It tastes a bit similar to steak and kidney pudding, which might explain its appeal.

I’ve been eating Senegalese food pretty much everyday at the Baobab Centre (http://www.acibaobab.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=18&Itemid=31) where I am currently learning French. Eating here is a very social activity where one digs into a communal bowl with fingers or a spoon. With any luck I’ll get the health benefits of eating plenty of fish. Unfortunately, in many places in Senegal there is a tendency to use a strongly flavoured, salty, stock cube called ‘jumbo’. Its used in lots of dishes and I think many Senegalese are addicted, and perhaps so will I in a few months time…

One more thing, of all the fast food chains that could set up shop in Dakar… No golden arches, no KFC, no BK, Steers or Wimpey… Dakar’s global franchise is none other than Nandos…

An alternative houmous, and some ranting.

I’ve a love-hate relationship with Houmous. I love eating it, dipping crusty bread, pitta, vegetables or even fingers into a bowlful. Though I prefer to make my own, which is a pretty straightforward task, I’ll even admit to occasionally buying a plastic pot from the supermarket and munching the whole lot in one go.

The supermarket stuff, or at least the more upmarket products, can be a reasonable approximation of the real deal – quite unlike their cousin on the dip shelves, the so called ‘taramasalata’. Supermarket ‘taramasalata’ comes nowhere near the strong flavour and grainy texture of the real thing. The only satisfaction I can imagine one could possibly gain from a tub of this muck would have to involve catapulting it at the windscreen of one of those black tinted Range Rover-type vehicles which seem to be de rigeur with the bottom feeding Thatcherite pigs that live in my particular part of England. Thwack-splat, and a satisfying pink smear. Its hard to pull off the minor celebrity / drug dealer look with fishy pink jizz clogging up the wipers.

The ‘hate’ side of my relationship with houmous largely stems from its ubiquity in gatherings of young middle-class types. I don’t know how many times I’ve been given a plastic pot of houmous, with a few bits of carrot, as a starter when at social functions. I’ve no problem with eating shop-bought desserts (in fact bring on the Viennetta and tinned peaches), or eating houmous in a sort of pre-dinner ‘nibbles’ capacity, but plonking down a tub of houmous as a part of your meal? What can we expect next, fish fingers and oven chips? McCain’s Pizza in the shape of dinosaur feet?

I know of one person who thinks that serving a tub of houmous, and maybe some ‘sour cream and chives’ (what the feck sort of baby food is that exactly?) actually constitutes a meal worth inviting people round for. I have promised myself that if this person ever comes to dinner at my place I will insist on starting with chilli roasted pig trotters or something equally glorious. Then I’ll fire up the taramasalata cannon and we can go and have some fun in Tesco’s car park.

Anyhow, where was I? Yes, houmous – easy to make at home. I had a tin of butter beans that needed seeing off in the cupboard, so I thought I’d knock out an alternative non-chickpea houmous. Something a bit special to dip your finger in when you find yourself on a midnight fridge-raid.

Mint, Lime and Butterbean Houmous.

1 tin of butterbeans
1 Lime
Extra virgin olive oil
Small handful of fresh mint leaves
1 large tablespoonful of tahini
Big juicy clove of garlic, or two.
Pinch of cayenne pepper
Salt to taste.

Rinse the butterbeans and place in a blender. Add the garlic, tahini, cayenne pepper and mint. Squeeze in the lime and add enough olive oil to provide enough lubrication for the mixture to blend steadily. Pulse the blender until you have the desired consistency (I prefer mine quite coarse), adding more oil if the mixture needs it. Add salt to taste, but I doubt it will need any.

This tastes great straight away, but will benefit from a few hours, or overnight, covered tightly, in the fridge. It should last up to two days in the fridge.

Serve with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, and some warm pitta bread – or whatever nibbles you prefer.

Far Eastern Curry

A quickie curry/soup thing.

(zen quantities, this will make about two bowls of curry)
Two chicken breasts (I used some port escalopes in mine, for something a bit different), cut into strips.
Egg noodles
200-300ml of coconut milk.
About two large ladles of chicken stock
Nam Pla
Groundnut oil
Tsp of sugar
A couple of cherry toms, halved and some mange-tout
Maybe some spinach leaves if you fancy

For the curry paste:
A couple of small red chillis
Two blades of lemongrass
Large pinch of Cumin
A large shallot
Two cloves garlic
Two limes
Tsp of paprika
Handful of fresh coriander leaves.

To make the curry paste, chop and deseed the chilli and place in a blender, add the spices, coriander leaves, garlic and the chopped shallot. Peel off the hard outer layer of bark from the lemongrass, and cut off the thinner part of the stem (this can sit in your curry, for extra flavour while it cooks), add to the blender. Grate the rind of one of the limes into the blender, then add the juice from both limes. Blitz into a coarse-ish paste and set aside.

Heat the groundnut oil in a pan and add the chicken/pork. Stir-fry for half a minute and then add the curry paste and the toms and mange-tout. Stir quickly to heat through and release some of the lovely fresh aromas. Then add the coconut milk, chicken stock, a healthy slosh of nam pla, and a pinch of sugar. Let this chunter away for about 10 minutes, being careful not to let it boil too vigorously, as this can cause the coconut milk to separate. Add the spinach if you like, and cook for another 2 minutes.

While the curry is cooking away, cook the egg noodles according to the packet. Drain and drop the noodles into the bottom of some bowls. To serve, pour the curry over the noodles and add a leaves of coriander to garnish.

Mayonnaise

I enjoyed some cookery chat with friends at a recent meal at the Mogul in Hemel. It transpired that folks are fans of mayonnaise, but are buying the stuff in a jar. Its OK for convenience I guess, and sometimes can taste pretty good, but take a look at all the weird stuff on the label… what the hell(mans) is all that about? Can I use it to clean the oven?

Making mayonnaise is easy once you’ve done it once. You can make interesting garlicy varieties, and its much more satisfying to sit down to a salad, or smoked salmon, or a sandwich made from bits picked off Sunday’s chicken, when it comes with lashings of your own homemade aioli.

Jiffler Senior’s recipe

This is a rough approximation of my Dad’s recipe. He is a mayonnaise demon and won’t touch the stuff in a jar. All the ingredients should be at room temperature, otherwise you will have all manner of splitting and fiddling.

1 egg yolk
Groundnut or olive oil (or a combination) about 150-200ml
About a tablespoon of white wine vinegar
Half a teaspoon of Colman’s mustard powder
A healthy pinch each of salt and pepper

Beat the yolk with the salt and pepper in a a round bottomed bowl, add a drop of the oil and whisk it in, keep doing this, drop by drop, slowly whisking, building up to a steady trickle of oil – keep whisking throughout (its good to have a bit of help with this). Once the mixture is of a thick, wobbly consistency, whisk in the mustard and the vinegar (which should lighten the colour).

A garlicy alternative

Beat in some crushed garlic before the oil goes in. You could substitute the vinegar for lemon juice here.

If it all goes wrong, and the mayonnaise splits, don’t panic. Start again by adding another egg yolk to a clean bowl, and slowly add your previous mix, with addition oil if necessary.

Comments

I know, I know, I've been slacking again... Thanks for the comments and emails so far folks. Its a real pleasure to see that people are trying out and - hopefully - enjoying some of the recipes on jifflings. Feedback and recipe ideas are always welcome.

3s – you were right about the Roquefort and crackers. Like Stilton and many other blue cheeses it is best enjoyed with a sweeter digestive style of biscuit. My personal preference would be with McVities digestives, but the Hovis brand, and M&S digestives are good as well.

Roquefort salad

I’m in the butcher’s with D from work, stocking up after a weekend away. At the cheese counter my eye wanders from my usual Cambozola to a rather inviting looking half round of Roquefort, and before I know it there is a slab sitting on the scales looking ripe and pungent.

On my walk home from the office I muse upon one of my favourite food memories. About seven years ago, I was in Paris having a miserable time trying to understand a relationship that was breaking down there and then, in what is supposed to be the world’s most romantic city. After a morning earful of venom, reciprocated with vicious sarcasm, I struck out on my own to wander around a gloriously sunny Paris. At Beaulieu I stopped at a cheap bistro for lunch - a Roquefort salad and large carafe of rose wine. The meal had a rustic simplicity and beauty, and I found that I could suddenly articulate what was slowly occurring to me that morning walking around Paris – that everything was just beginning, not ending. The vino might have helped a bit as well.

I had a go at recreating that salad. Got somewhere near, but it has been seven years:

Roquefort Salad:

Ingredients (zen as usual – the quantities below will feed a hungry bloke):
100g of Roquefort cheese
A handful of walnut halves, bashed up.
A small shallot
A few handfuls of watercress
Mustard (you can get away with French mustard here, but colmans will do the job as well)
White wine vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
Butter
A small pear (conference seem to be good at the moment)
Some cherry tomatoes, halved.
Black pepper (you don’t need salt as the cheese is pretty salty)

Toast the nuts in the oven to bring out some of the sweetness, and set aside.

Slice the pear in eighths and sauté gently in the butter for five minutes or so until they are colouring slighty.

While the pears are cooking, roughly chop the watercress and toss in a bowl with about 80g of broken up Roquefort (save the remaining 20g to have on crackers after the pub one night) and the cherry tomato halves.

To make a dressing, press the small shallot through a garlic crusher, and mix with a healthy slosh of olive oil and vinegar. Mix in about half a teaspoon of mustard and a grinding of black pepper.

Remove the pears from the pan and drain quickly on kitchen paper. Toss while still hot with the watercress salad, nuts and the dressing so that the cheese is melting slightly.

If you’re entertaining you might want to tidy things up a bit by layering the ingredients on the plate, and thinning out the dressing a bit so that it can be more successfully ‘drizzled’ on the plate. Either way - serve with copious amounts of wine.

A weekend in Wales.

I know, I’ve been slacking again, but its been a week or so of quick bites and general business. There was a nice warming bowl of chilli last week, but chilli is chilli.

A weekend back in Wales is more promising. My favourite chef is Jiffler Senior, and we’re having a few guests this week so he will no doubt be trying something daft out on us.

Arriving home after a day working in Cheshire we sat down to a huge plate of spaghetti carbonara – cooked fairly classically – which barely touched the sides. The mushrooms had dried out a bit and gave the carbonara sauce a bit of intensity.

The main event came on Friday night though with five mouths to feed. Despite feeling slightly battered by bad weather in Snowdonia, we got a bit creative in the kitchen and started by blanching shredded celeriac before mixing it with a thin, homemade, garlicy mayonnaise. The flavours here were remarkably subtle, and sat beautifully with ribbons of quality parma ham.

The main course was an altogether more robust outing. A combination of a French recipe stolen from Rick Stein, and given a Tuscan twist by the younger Jiffler. It started as a basic ragu-type sauce thickened by cooking very slowly with lamb shoulder and a generous amount of red wine. This was then left overnight, before the addition of a couple of tins of lima beans and some gentle heating. At the last moment we stirred in some finely chopped garlic and parsley and served it up with giant penne, to much critical acclaim.

I was somewhat disappointed that the traditional cheese and biscuits had to make way for some posh ice cream with crushed up almond biscuits.

A visit to Wales means a night out in Bangor on Saturday with 3s. This time we have the pleasure of our friend H, who has travelled down from Manchester to celebrate getting a new job.

These night outs always follow an amusing arc, bending towards drunken oblivion on a slippery dance floor, and Saturday was no exception. The Fat Cat is fully booked, so we take a chance at getting a table in the Harp. Previously I’ve praised the Harp as having the finest pub food in Bangor. Since then its been taken over by new management, who it seems have stripped the love and creativity out of the menu.

The three of us order burgers, with 3s opting for the ‘Mega burger’. They arrive huge, and freshly cooked. The mega burger is not so much a burger as a mixed grill in a bap, with burger, bacon, cheese, egg, onion rings, and a live octopus all spilling out on to the plate.

The company is good, and the conversation irreverent and intelligent. The food was sufficient to provide fuel for the next 8 hours of drinking without us feeling too greasy, but the Bangor pub grub crown has been snatched back by the Fat Cat.

Mrs Jiffler's Blog

Mrs Jiffler has finally entered the blogosphere:http://seneblog.blogspot.com/

She's in Dakar, and will be keeping us posted on all things Senegalese. I'm rather concerned that she's been surviving on a diet of donuts though... I should be joining her soon to sort this out.

She reckon's Experimental Jifflings is 'Wacky'. Clearly she can't identify gonzo food writing when she sees it.

Rabbit and Chorizo Risotto

No actual rabbit bits in this recipe, but the stock from Christmas eve’s feast provides enough of the flavour to make this risotto a bit different:

Ingredients:
(once again, this is a zen operation – adapt depending on how many you’re cooking for)

Rabbit stock (if you don’t have much you can top it up with white wine, or water)
Risotto rice – I used carnaroli this time
A small onion, or shallot, chopped
Chorizo sausage, chopped into half slices (semi-dry is fine, or fresh if you can get it)
A pinch of cayenne pepper – if using a mild chorizo, otherwise you can leave this out
A bit of courgette, finely sliced.
A bit of butternut squash chopped up into small cubes.
A healthy chunk of butter
Grated parmesan cheese

Heat the butter and start frying the onion and the chorizo. Once the onion has softened and the chorizo is imparting a bit of colour to the butter, throw in the rice and let it coat in the butter. Add the squash and spices and stir a few times.

Add the stock in a bit at a time with a ladle, stirring gently and allowing the rice to soak up the liquid before adding more stock. Keep doing this until the rice is fat and tender. About halfway through, throw in the courgettes and stir. At the end, add the parmesan, and stir it in until it is melted and creamy.

I had a pleasant surprise with this risotto, as the squash disintegrated slightly and became part of the stock, giving a creamy texture and a sweet flavour which was very more-ish in the same way as a good rice pudding. With this in mind, I enjoyed eating this out of a bowl with a spoon…

Duck with quick orange sauce

Asdas in town is knocking out two decent sized duck legs in a plastic box for £2.10. Normally I’m fussy about meat in plastic boxes, but this semi-bargainous treat appeals to me on some level. Its in the basket and through the checkout before I have chance to think it through.

Anyhow, it seems appropriate as a Friday supper, and as the oven warms up I scan the fridge for something to put alongside them. Mash seems like the obvious choice, with the remains of the wholegrain mustard thrown in, and I decide to get a bit cheeky with a lo-fi orange and ginger sauce made from orange juice out of the carton.

The meal satisfies, but the oven is being a temperamental shite. For some reason its only cooking at furnace–like temperatures, so all of the fat that I’m collecting as it runs off the duck is burning, producing acrid smoke that fills the kitchen and makes my eyes water. The skin crisps up nicely but the meat remains partly cooked on the inside and requires all manner of fussing and re-timing. I’m beginning to suspect that the oven is haunted by the ghost of a miserable old bastard.

The recipe is as follows:
Two duck legs (one each will just about do, or two if you’re hungry like me)
Spuds
Orange juice
Ginger
Sugar
Salt and pepper
Butter
Milk
Colman’s Wholegrain Mustard
An obedient oven.

Rinse out the duck legs and pat them dry with kitchen paper. I like to rub them with some salt before they go in the oven on about 190 degrees (or about 600 degrees in my oven). I like to cook them directly on the oven rack, placing a terracotta dish or similar vessel on the rack underneath to collect the fat as it runs out (don’t put this on the bottom of oven as you will have all sorts of problems with burning). The fat is good for roast potatoes in the same way as goose fat, or if you’re feeling decadent one Sunday morning, you can use it to fry eggs.

Those with well-behaved ovens can leave the legs for about 40 minutes, or until the juices run clear, as they say. Its worth keeping an eye on the collected fat, perhaps emptying it into a jar once or twice to stop it smoking.

Mash is as per usual, but I recommend the addition of wholegrain mustard to this one for a little bit of heat.

To make the lo-fi orange sauce, peel a piece of ginger – about half as big as your thumb, and press it through a garlic crush. Pour a large glass of orange juice into a small frying pan, add the ginger and a couple of large pinches of sugar. Over a low heat allow the mixture to gently reduce, stirring occasionally until you are left with fragrant syrup of a gravy-like consistency.

Lay the duck legs on top of the mash and pour over the orange sauce. You could pop a few steamed green beans, or peas on the side if you feel like it.

So-so Sushi

Its been a week of random ‘Do you fancy a pint?’ moments, which is always good. An invitation to half price sushi and some beers in London with a couple of old mates from Guyana appeals, despite meaning a school night trip into London.

Meeting in the Porterhouse in Covent Garden, M and I discuss our latest culinary experiments and failures. M was famous for his shark curry, and as the inventor of the pink Russian cocktail. I’ve been meaning to do his Basque chicken for a while. K joins us for another couple of pints of Porterhouse red and we move on to Yo Sushi near Trocadero for a bite to eat.

Yo Sushi currently has a half price meal offer that requires you to print out a personalised voucher from the internet. M goes under the name of ‘Sinclair Le Geyt’, while K and I play safe with our real identities.

I’ve enjoyed Japanese food before, and rather like the whole conveyor belt experience. M and I order a jug of Sake, which is hot. creamy and smooth, but goes down as quick as my first coffee of the morning. A mistake that became apparent the following morning.

The busy conveyor belt brought an array of colourful dishes, which went beyond my limited Japanese food vocabulary. I tucked into a few plates of sushi, sashimi, hot fried rice, and those funky little rice rolls with sesame seeds on. I probably hit the wasabi and ginger a bit more than I should have, but nevertheless enjoyed a bit of variety and watched the assembly line at work.

Not sure I would have been too pleased with my bill if I was paying full price mind. My appreciation of Japanese restaurants and sushi in general is partly down to the generally calm arrangement of things and a sense of artistry in the food. Yo Sushi was sadly lacking on these fronts, as we watched the mass prepared fish portions being assembled in front of us, along with plenty of nudging and shouting from the staff.

Post nosh we retired to a nearby pub populated mostly by theatrical types. A couple of pints of Timothy Taylor’s slipped down easily in good company, and the train back to Hemel passed by without anybody eating a smelly burger in my carriage.

Cookie Monsters

There was some cookie experimentation on Sunday afternoon. Normally cakes and cookies are Mrs Jiffler’s area of expertise, and I stay out of the way until my services are required in ‘testing’. Mrs Jiffler makes great smarties cookies, much better than the weirdly chewy ones you get ‘fresh’ from the supermarket.

There is a recipe in the Guardian for ‘Customised Cookies’ by some chap I’m unfamiliar with. Normally I would skip over this sort of recipe, and head for the restaurant reviews (cue much swearing and shaking of head as yet another restaurant in South London with parsnip crisps and cauliflower foam on the menu gets an above average review), but this time the Guardian has opted for a very sympathetic photo of said customised cookies, and I imagine myself standing in a sweet smelling kitchen wearing my apron and shaking a tray of cookies, looking very pleased with myself.

The recipe is as follows (I’m sure the Guardian won’t mind…):

(measurements aren’t zen this time. I think you have to be a bit more precise with this sort of thing)
125g unsalted butter
100g unrefined granulated sugar
75g light muscovado sugar
1 egg
2 tsp vanilla extract
150g plain flour
half tsp baking powder
pinch of salt
100g extras – chocolate chunks, raisins, dried fruit, nuts etc etc.

Melt the butter and pour over the two sugars in a mixing bowl. Beat together, then break in the egg and the vanilla flavour. Beat again, then add in the flour, baking powder, salt and the extras, and mix.

Drop dessert spoonfuls of the mixture on a baking tray lined with baking paper, leaving lots of space for them to expand (lots of space – they go massive!), and bake at 190 for about 10 mins or so. Let them cook so they harden up – although I can guarantee that you’ll have at least half of one in your gob already…

My extras where 50g-ish of white chocolate chunks, 50g-ish of dried cranberries, and most of the zest of one lemon. The smell in the kitchen was great – soft and sweet and very appropriate for a Sunday (later giving way to roast chicken, then chicken stock). I even left the flat for a minute to take the bin out just so I could come back in and smell it fresh again.

Although a bit soft in the middle, the cookies came out well. The flavours were nicely in tune, although I felt they were a bit too sweet for my tastes (I have to add water to fresh orange juice in the morning otherwise it’s a bit too sweet…). I thought I’d take a few in to work the following day to get the opinion of a few colleagues.

Said colleagues set about the cookies like they were going out of fashion, and a general thumbs up was awarded, along with significant pressure for a repeat performance…

Well I suppose I’ve got some leftover cranberries to use up…

Latest Carrot Fad

Mrs Jiffler is currently in Mauritania, being generally jammy, and hopefully enjoying the privileges of our work by having a good neb around the Parc National Du Banc D’Arguin (an important wetland and stopover for migrating birds). Despite being stuck in Hertfordshire, I’m still in the habit of doing a solo Sunday roast, partly for the fun of it, and partly because it means I can use up the stock and leftovers for my lunch and tea for the next few days. This Sunday seemed an appropriate day to do a roast as a walk in the hills around the town had given me an appetite. It was the music monthly magazine in the Observer as well, which I enjoy cynically flicking through in the kitchen while waiting for the oven to warm up.

The purchase of the mini-wok from Lakeland (http://www.lakeland.co.uk/product.aspx/kitchenideas/potsandpans!10985) has brought a few changes to my usual Sunday roast routine. Carrots of course are an essential part of the deal with a roast, and I’ve played around with various ways of preparing them. With a roast dinner, the meat is obviously the main event, the reason for the whole show; while potatoes (and Yorkshire puddings) provide a balance of textures (crunchy on the outside, fluffy in the middle) and also a platform for a good gravy to work its magic. Green veg lend a veneer of healthiness to the meal, but would almost certainly be the first thing we’d sacrifice if we had to. Parsnips should always be used in moderation - its woody sweetness should be more of an occasional surprise rather than dominating the plate. The carrot’s role in the whole roast dinner medley should be to bring along a bit of glamour to the conservative sturdiness of the meal – an eye catching orange sunrise at one side of the plate.

Little mini carrots are very aesthetically pleasing when roasted with the green stalks just slightly trimmed, although I find this sort of thing can be a bit trendy. Once, when I was an undergraduate, I did some experiments growing carrots in pots, spacing them very close together without fertiliser. The resulting stunted carrots were about 3cm long and 4mm at the thickest part. With enough pots (occupying most of one corner of the massive university green houses) you had enough for a couple of good portions, quickly stir-fried, with your Sunday dinner. The flavour was immense, like being poked in the eye with a carrot.

Anyhow with this in mind, and the mini-wok in hand, I set about cutting up my carrot into matchstick sized bits, and stir-frying in olive oil with ginger, throwing in some coriander right at the end. It’s a marvellous way of bringing some new flavours into the Sunday roast and takes no time at all. It looks rather pleasing on the plate as well as the stir-frying really brings out the colours.

I’d recommend the mini-wok anyway. Perhaps through this blog I can do what Delia did in the 90’s for sales of Lakeland’s marvellous omelette pan. Its works marvellously and is ideal for doing side portions or quickie lunchtime stir-frying (I even cooked greek elephant beans in it once). Its handle is slightly too heavy though so you have to be careful it doesn’t tip over if using on a gas hob.

By the way, if you’re planning on making the rabbit casserole from the other week, keep the bones for a stock (you can freeze them, or make up the stock and freeze that). I’ve got a rabbit and chorizo risotto on the horizon for next week which may very well be worth a go.

Mid-January Crabcakes

Mrs Jiffler has just returned to Senegal, and I’m mooching a bit. I need cookery distraction, but can’t face going out in the rain to Asda as my back hurts as a result of a struggle against violent weather in the Brecon Beacons. An audit of the cupboard and fridge is uninspiring, but the discovery of a tin of white crab meat (when did I buy that?) at the back of the cupboard leads to the creation of these thai-style crab cake things:

Thai style crab cakes:

Ingredients:
(as usual, Zen measurements apply)

One baking potato
Some spring onions, finely chopped
A small red chilli, finely chopped
Nam Pla
Sesame seeds
Parsley, finely chopped
Butter
Flour
An egg
One small tin of crab meat (mine was 112g)

Bake the potato, then split and scoop the potato out of the skin. Use a tea towel to hold the potato otherwise you will burn your hands, and nearly drop the potato on the kitchen floor.

Let the potato cool a little, and mash in a knob of butter with a fork. Mix in the chilli, spring onion, the parsley, a teaspoon or two of nam pla, salt and pepper and the white of the egg.

Mix well and roll the mixture into little balls (two big ones will be good for a meal for one, or starter for two. I would roll into four small balls for a starter for two). Flatten these into burger shapes, and dust either side with flour and sesame seeds. Leave in the fridge for an hour or two to set.

Use an oiled griddle, or a non-stick pan to fry for five minutes or so on each side and serve with a dash of thai sweet chilli sauce and a salad (I reserved the potato skins and let them crisp up in the oven with some olive for a bit extra).

Happy New Year

Happy New Year! By now I should have made a few changes to Experimental Jifflings – I felt a bit of reformatting was in order to brighten things up a little. I’ve a vague New Year’s resolution to change the content a bit, by including more recipes as well as the usual ranting. Hopefully readers will enjoy some of the recipes as much as I have, and will maybe send feedback, or ideas for new things. It would be great for people to send me their favourite recipes so I can have a go and maybe publish them on the blog.

Anyhow – to catch up a little – Christmas came and went with the usual levels of overindulgence. Christmas Day was spent at the Ship and Shovel restaurant (a name easily satirised as I’m sure you can imagine) in Sleaford, Lincolnshire. I managed to dodge around the turkey options and ended up enjoying a juicy bit of pork. I’ve some admiration for the food in Lincolnshire – if you stay with British meat and two veg you’re generally in for a treat. Everyone was pretty satisfied in any case, and it was Christmas, so I won’t be a picky bugger (smoked salmon under heat lamps, packet salad, rubbery cheese, bah humbug etc).

We also managed to get through a goose while in Anglesey, which was a nice treat. Our starter of Langoustines really got me going though. Dad has managed to find some in Aldi, or Lidl, or one of those weird shops where you have to go on the right day to get the good stuff. The Scottish fishing industry depends heavily on langoustines, but sadly they are mostly exported to France, Spain and Italy, where they are prized and are a feature of many a menu. You rarely see them here, although the fishmongers at the Arndale market used to have them now and again.

They take no time at all to cook, in butter, garlic, and a bit of white wine and a squeeze of lemon. We tucked in at the table and enjoyed the ripping and rendering to get at the lovely sweet flesh inside. Chunks of crusty white bread mopped up the juices, followed by satisfied smacking sounds as we sucked our fingers clean.

Rewinding a little, Mrs Jiffler arrived back from Senegal on Christmas eve. With no plans to travel until Christmas morning, I spent a good chunk of the day preparing a very British supper of rabbit in cider. The smell that filled the kitchen while it was cooking immediately took me back to childhood winter visits to my Uncle Harry in Wigan, with my parents trying to fob me and my sister off that we were eating chicken. Likely story.

A recipe for Rabbit and Cider Casserole

Ingredients:
As always, quantities are approximate, and a zen approach to measurements should be adopted.

A rabbit, jointed with the bones left in (get the butcher to do this). About 1 kg in weight.
A bottle of cider (about 400 ml) – I used Bulmers as it was on offer.
A handful of shallots, sliced.
4 bay leaves
Some plain flour
Groundnut oil
A couple of parsnips
A couple of carrots
Two tablespoons of wholegrain mustard (Colman’s of course)
Salt and pepper.

Start off by cleaning the rabbit. A rinse under the tap should see off any excess bits of blood etc.

Place the rabbit in a bowl and add the cider, mustard, onions and bay leaves. Top up with water if required. (At this point I decided to resist the temptation to throw in some dry chorizo that was in the fridge – I decided to stay British, but you could easily take this in a more Mediterranean direction). Cover and leave overnight in the fridge.

Remove the rabbit joint, pat dry and toss in a little seasoned flour. Heat the oil in a frying pan and brown the joints. Pop the joints into a casserole dish with another large pinch of flour, add the chopped carrots and parsnips, and the marinade, then bring up to the boil on the hob.

Cover the casserole and bake for about an hour at 180. Season to taste and serve with mash and beer or cider.

A Hangover Cure

In South London they live in the future. They have rectangular pizzas about the size of a doormat. This is an innovation that has yet to reach other, less civilised, parts of the world. Its hard to describe the excitement of opening a pizza box the size of a sledge, let alone four of them at once.

My favourite, with a gorgonzola, potato and red onion topping, tastes best eaten cold the morning after approximately 12 pints and some dancing.


Oh yeah. I’ve got a rabbit in the freezer. What shall I do with that?

Birmingham Spice

Prefixing a word with ‘Dirty’ can send the meaning either way. ‘Dirty Old Man’ and ‘Dirty Bomb’ come with pretty negative connotations, whereas a ‘Dirty Weekend’ sounds like fun.

A ‘Dirty Curry’ cuts both ways though, as I discovered in a Birmingham curry house the other night. The promise that a ‘Dirty Curry’ was just what the doctor ordered (it was recommended by two actual medical doctors as well) after six hours drinking Greene King IPA on an empty stomach appealed to my sense of adventure as much as my post-pub hunger. The restaurant on broad street looked promising - like an upmarket burger joint serving day-glo curry.

I had something. lamb? Or was it chicken? I can’t remember. It made my lips sting and my eyes water slightly, it was a touch heavy on the chilli, and a perfect pissed pleasure.

The following morning was a different story mind you.

Pasta Pigs Ears

Slacking again…

Locatelli’s column in the Guardian got me excited about making a variation of his pheasant ravioli. Mrs Jiffler looked sceptical but I was determined. After a night in the fridge, the legs from the other day’s bird where picked clean and chopped up fine to check for shot. I let some panchetta (not the wild boar stuff I fancied: asdas, out of a plastic box) sizzle in the pan with a couple of shallots before chucking in a glass of marsala to reduce. Once the kitchen is smelling sweet and the boozy sharpness has disappeared everything goes into the blender with the pheasant meat and a handful of parmesan for a quick whizz. It was a bit of a wooden spoon job getting it all mixed up, then scraping it out into a bowl. In with a raw egg, and too much single cream, to make a paste for the ravioli filling. It looks a bit sloppy but I manage to get it into fairly regular shaped lumps and into the freezer where it is forgotten for a week or so.

It takes a while before I can be bothered going through the hassle of making the pasta. I don’t have one of those machines with the windy bit, so its hands and a rolling pin and lots and lots of swearing when it goes wrong.

Once, in Brussels I had a business dinner in an Italian restaurant where my Tuscan colleague told me they served the finest ravioli in Belgium. I tried some, straight up spinach and ricotta – four pillows the size of floppy discs - with a healthy slab of butter to help them down. Marvellous indeed (followed by quarter of a chicken cooked in ragu, too much peroni and a sickening high speed taxi ride across town) I had this bright idea about making giant pheasant ravioli. How hard can it be?

Well yes. The main problem is my fat sausage fingers. My digits are more suited to handling a masher at best. Fiddling around with fine sheets of pasta is a recipe for disaster, and my ‘velvet pillows’ came out looking more like (well, exactly like) pigs ears. I’ll just tell Mrs Jiffler that they’re ‘rustic’.

While the pigs ears are drying in the airing cupboard I set about making some sauce to go over the top. Being something of a stock obsessive, I already had some pheasant stock set aside (half had already gone into a ‘Mrs Jiffler’ risotto earlier in the week) and reduced it slowly in a frying pan with more of the marsala until I had some thick, robust, sweet smelling gravy.

Here’s how it turned out:


OK, it looks a bit rough, but it tasted spot on. The marsala hit the high notes while the pheasant provided the bass. Pheasant pasta pigs ears. I’m not sure if I can be arsed making it again though.

Treats from home

Getting behind again. There is a fair amount to catch up on...

Mrs Jiffler returned from Lincolnshire with sausages and pin wheels as requested. A wedge of Lincolnshire poacher comes smoked, giving it a more brittle texture which lends itself to jiffling hands breaking off chunks for a nibble everytime the fridge door is opened.

We both head up to Wales at the weekend to visit my folks. My Dad has prepared a fish pie for us, with the last of the peas from the garden. This is about as close to food heaven as Mrs Jiffler can imagine - the concept of fish, in a pie form, with peas turns Mrs Jiffler's eyes into saucers.

Dad has sneaked some mussels into the pie which add a bit of colour and make things a bit more special. I note that he has been more generous than usual with the parsley after my previous feedback. Good. A bottle of bubbly is opened to celebrate Mrs Jiffler's new job in Senegal, and we start to unwind after the long car journey.

On Saturday we head to a food and craft fair on a country estate near the menai straits. Sadly it was a bit underwhelming, with only a few stalls. We still escape with bara brith, mango chutney, some jam, and a few Welsh cakes to share. Heading off to Betws y Coed we scoff trays of hot, salty chips standing in the cold by the river.

Its been a few years since I last visited the Bull in Beaumaris for a meal in the Bistro. Its probably Anglesey's finest eatery (there is a flash restaurant above) and I'm hoping that standards are still high.

A few specials tempt us, and I go for local mussels in cider. Mrs Jiffler opts for a bizarre but delicious potato salad tower thing, Mum and Dad play safe with good portions of smoked salmon and chicken livers respectively (although Dad pinches a couple of mussels from my bowl).
Dad and I both opt for the belly pork main - this is a serious and even piece of meat, with crackling just right. Our portion is fist sized and comes floating on smooth mash. Mrs Jiffler attempts the Turbot special, which comes pan fried, skin side up, and thoroughly healthy looking, while my mother provokes jealousy around the table with her enormous portion of lamb with a rustic Italian
style red wine and bean sauce. we all steal some of her chips in revenge,

Shared ice creams and another round of drinks bring the night to a close. Stilll the best on the Island.

A pheasant surprise…

I’m sorry, that’s a dreadful pun, but I couldn’t resist.

The butcher has come up trumps with a pheasant – A reasonably sized hen sets me back four quid – a little pricey, but I do live down south these days.

These birds can dry up pretty quickly in the oven, so I wrap some streaky bacon over the breast and stuff a knob of butter, a shallot and grated lemon zest into the cavity. Into the oven at 200C for 45mins to and hour… ish. This oven is still a bit cheeky. Off with the bacon for the last 15 minutes to brown the breast a bit.

Mrs Jiffler and I tuck into the breast and body meat with some mashed butternut squash and potato (with the crispy streaky snipped up and stirred into the mash). The pan juices make good gravy with a slosh of Rioja.

The whole lot disappears pretty quickly, and I feel like lighting a cigar and having a nip of brandy afterwards. A good game supper has that effect.

There are two meaty legs leftover for some home made ravioli sometime soon, and the carcass for a stock. The home-made ravioli might be a serious undertaking with a lot of swearing… lets see.

Mrs Jiffler is off again, to see family at home in Lincolnshire. I’m a bit unhappy to see her go away again for a few days, but I’m promised the usual batch of Lincolnshire food goodies - Sausage, stuffed chine, haslet, and with a bit of luck a block of Lincolnshire poacher for an autumn salad – when she returns.

Pumpkin Soup

Pumpkins are cheap at the moment, for obvious reasons. Mrs Jiffler has returned from Rwanda and was expecting a friend to visit for the afternoon while I was at work. I thought I’d rustle up some pumpkin soup the night before so they could spend less time making lunch and more time catching up. It went down a treat apparently.

Pumpkin and Red Pepper Soup

Ingredients:

One pumpkin – not one of the monster ones, something that you can hold in one hand will do.
About a litre of chicken stock (good stuff, from the weekend roast, will make all the difference here)
A small red pepper, chopped
A medium sized red onion
1 small red chilli
Butter or olive oil
A juicy clove of garlic
A generous amount of single cream
A handful of fresh coriander
Large teaspoon of ground cumin
Salt and pepper

Chop the onion and gently fry with the garlic and chilli in butter in a heavy bottomed pan until the onion starts to go soft and sweet. Meanwhile, peel, de-seed and chop the pumpkin into cubes. Fry the pumpkin cubes and chopped pepper in with the onions and garlic until they start to change colour to a deeper amber colour. Stir in the cumin and cook for a few seconds. Pour in the chicken stock and leave to chunter away gently until the pumpkin is soft (about 20-25 minutes). Add the chopped coriander and cook for a minute more.

Take the soup off the heat and pout into a blender. Make sure there is an outlet in the top of the blender as the steam will shoot out as you blend. Blend to the desired consistency – I went for smooth, but a few lumps here and there is a bit more rustic.

(You can keep the soup for a day or so in the fridge, or freeze at this point)

Pour the mixture back into the pan and stir in a generous amount of single cream. Heat, season, and serve hot on a cold day.

Serving ideas:
Mrs Jiffler sliced some chorizo very thinly and fried until crispy, then stirred it into the soup – she reckons this is marvellous. You could also grate in a bit of parmesan if you fancy. This soup would go nicely with a ciabatta style bread, or better still, some fresh sourdough.

Mushrooms

I found these mushrooms in Kigali.

October 31st

Locatelli’s column in the Guardian (fast becoming my favourite bit of the Saturday paper) is talking pheasant ravioli. I tear out the column and wonder where I can get hold of a pheasant.

During my lunch hour I stroll down to Adeyfield and pop into Nelson’s butchers. Sadly, its the only independent butchers in Hemel Hempstead, and does its best to be a cut above the supermarkets. People must just get on the Tescos conveyor belt in this town and accept what they’re given, which is sad as there is plenty of money about. Anyhow, I wonder in and ask the chief if he can get hold of a pheasant for me – and I swear the guy looks proud! He looks like he’s been vindicated, by a young(ish) bloke walking in and doing what would be unthinkable in Tescos – ordering some decent meat. We arrange for a hen for me to pick up on Friday, and he promises to ring if there is a problem.

On the way out I spot some minted lamb shanks, a decent size, at £3.50 a pop. I hesitate for a minute, as it’s a bit much for a Tuesday night dinner… but there will be some left for a butty tomorrow… and I can keep the bone for a stock (I have a collection of lamb bones in my freezer, Mrs Jiffler will no doubt throttle me for using up valuable ice cream space when she gets back from Rwanda)… there is a fiver in my pocket…

It goes in the oven for a slow roast with a couple of shallots and glug-glug-glug og marsala. 160 degrees, covered for 45 mins then uncovered for 45 more. It comes out nicely cooked, perhaps slightly overdone (the oven has a vicious edge), but the gravy looks a bit too black. I try dipping some sweet potato mash in and the gravy is burnt, so goes straight down the sink. A partial success though as the shank is juicy, and the mash gets an extra knob of butter to loosen things up. Not much in the way of leftovers for a sandwich tomorrow though…

Weekend in Manchester?

This weekends nutrition has mainly come from alcoholic drinks. Two small highlights were my friend’s chocolate, pecan and banana cake (H – the recipe?), and a meal at the revamped ‘Koffee Pot’ in the Northern Quarter in Manchester. Formerly a greasy spoon frequented by down and outs, the arrival of a funky hostel in the building above has brought new custom and a revamp. Its now a funky, slightly rock and roll, enterprise in only the way that little businesses in Manchester can be. There Sunday breakfast is a treat, with quality sausages, bury black pudding and a decent brew. My friend L has smoked haddock rarebit, which comes served on crumpets and looks pretty cute. I might try that at home sometime when Mrs Jiffler is not expecting it.

Apart from that its party food and a bite on the go. Oh, I popped into Wing-Fat in Chinatown for a big pack of my favourite fresh udon noodles. They have razor shell clams again, but they look a bit manky. That means they must be on the beaches again in the North West. I’ll ask Dad to keep an eye out…

The Greek

The originally named ‘The Greek’ restaurant has opened up down the road, so a few of us from work trundle down for a look see. Expectations are medium, and we go for mixed meze to put things to the test.

Our cold meze are a generally up to scratch. The usual taramasalata and houmous comes out, with some interesting potato salads and beans. The waiter takes us through the dishes carefully even telling us that the taramasalata is made from cod’s roe (rather than the smoked roe of grey mullet as you get in Greece, but its that fish in Hemel issue vs snobbish jiffler thing again…).

Fried whitebait gets everyone smiling and pretending not to be greedy, although the accompanying calamari has been in the pan for a bit long and is chewy. The plates are cleared and a few dishes of Greek salad appear - a bit light on spring onions, and with the seeds still in the cucumbers which is a major faux-pas as far as I’m concerned. The others look fairly happy with it though, especially when a huge plate of meat and grilled halloumi appears and almost gets a round of applause. A plate of kleftico is melting off the bone and thankfully spend most of the time at my end of the table. Accompanying roast potatoes are a bit weird, like they were pre-frozen, but the assorted gammon, lamb, chicken and sausages are a pleasure. We ask for the leftovers to be wrapped in foil so I can drop them round at my neighbour’s later.

Coffee is the genuine deal and comes with decent Turkish delight, rounding of a satisfying meal and providing enough sugary energy to get me rolling up the hill home. One of the most enjoyable evenings out I’ve had in a good while – with great company as well as food – was completed by busting a senior colleague and junior (although recently promoted) colleague enjoying an illicit liaison in a pub in the Old Town… we laughed all the way home.

Hemel Hempstead foodie paradise!

Well not quite. You still can’t buy decent fish anywhere in town. However I’ve just found an independent supermarket called ‘Hemel Food Stores’. I went in there a few years ago after it opened on the site of an old Sainsbury’s in town. It was pretty low quality stuff back then – tins and packets and cheap pop – but I went for a return visit on the recommendation of a exotic food loving colleague.

Lemon grass, fresh dill, papaya and bora (!) all within the first aisle got my heart beating – after the last year or so of Chinatown and asian veg on my doorstep I was back in business. What’s more the place caters for the Greek, Turkish, Asian, and Polish communities – who are shopping in force at this place.

I escape with bundles of fresh herbs (sans supermarket style plastic boxes and absurd prices), lemon grass, preserved chilli-stuffed with sheeps cheese, tins of stuffed vine leaves, tahini paste, giant beans in sauce,an enormous plastic jar of lime pickle, kalamata olives, and even a tin of stuffed red peppers (I’m nervous about opening these as they are almost guaranteed to be vile). Makes Hemel more bearable after all my whinging.

Hemel Hempstead foodie paradise!

Well not quite. You still can’t buy decent fish anywhere in town. However I’ve just found an independent supermarket called ‘Hemel Food Stores’. I went in there a few years ago after it opened on the site of an old Sainsbury’s in town. It was pretty low quality stuff back then – tins and packets and cheap pop – but I went for a return visit on the recommendation of a exotic food loving colleague.

Lemon grass, fresh dill, papaya and bora (!) all within the first aisle got my heart beating – after the last year or so of Chinatown and asian veg on my doorstep I was back in business. What’s more the place caters for the Greek, Turkish, Asian, and Polish communities – who are shopping in force at this place.

I escape with bundles of fresh herbs (sans supermarket style plastic boxes and absurd prices), lemon grass, preserved chilli-stuffed with sheeps cheese, tins of stuffed vine leaves, tahini paste, giant beans in sauce,an enormous plastic jar of lime pickle, kalamata olives, and even a tin of stuffed red peppers (I’m nervous about opening these as they are almost guaranteed to be vile). Makes Hemel more bearable after all my whinging.

On the move

Getting into the swing of the new kitchen now. I’m still gathering store cupboard essentials together and so on, but I’ve had a few satisfying meals this week. OK, they’re old standards (Sausage and Mash, Roast Chicken, Tom Yam Gai, and a variation of Mrs Jiffler’s risotto) but I’m just getting used to the oven. I’m not sure what the weekend brings food-wise as there aren’t any plans to go out (although a new greek restaurant has just opened down the road). I might make a special trip to the butchers near work, and stop by the market on Saturday – I could do with some new recipe action…

A few years ago I had a job for the European Commission that involved a lot of travelling about the UK, Ireland, and occasionally continental Europe. All the early starts and long journeys by train and plane did my head in after a bit, especially as the food on offer in these circumstances is never as good as it should be. An endless round of flatulence-inducing buffet lunches, teatime sandwiches in airport departure lounges, and early morning coffees on train platforms were neither nutritious nor satisfying. I put on a fair amount of weight as well.

I seem to be slipping into that familiar trap with this new job as it requires me to spend a fair amount of time out of the office. Thankfully not on planes, but I’ll be doing a fair amount of rail travel over the coming months - multiple visits to London, Cheshire, Lancashire, Warwickshire and Devon are all on the cards between now and Christmas. So far I’ve been reasonably good – there have been one or two packaged sandwiches and expensive train station coffees, but otherwise I’ve been carrying a bit of fruit with me to pick at, and trying to make sure I eat something balanced in the evening instead of just flaking out on the sofa and shovelling whatever I can find in the fridge into my mouth.

I got thinking how there are plenty of people around who are living this sort of lifestyle – tiring train journeys, low quality, fatty food on the go, and no time or energy to cook when they get home. Looking around on the train there are dozens of them, clutching laptops and wearing dark circles under their eyes. There is definitely a market for a self-help book along the lines ‘how work on the go and still eat well’. I might give it a crack (when I can find time between changing trains at Watford maybe?).

Hello again

More people than I anticipated have been asking me what has happened to the blog… I’ve been pretty busy never seem to get round to posting. Anyhow, the backlog is below… at last…

September 21st…

Back in the UK. There is a gaping hole on my blog where the last few months should be. Well I was in the field for much of the time, somewhere near the border of Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda. Not a bad place to be if I’m honest, it wasn’t too hot and I’ve certainly worked in rougher parts of the world. The food was unremarkable, which is a shame as I was eating out a lot.

Kigali had more riches to offer, a few decent curry places, a slightly odd Thai, a Greek, Italians (proper pizza ovens too) and an Ethiopian place, which probably provided me with my most interesting food experience of the trip as I’d never tried Ethiopian food before. I guess Injera and Doro Wat is not to everyone’s taste, but I’ll be hunting some of that down over the coming months when I return to the South of England and the rat race.

I won’t dwell on the various food experiences of Rwanda, far better to flirt with pretentiousness and refer to them casually in future blogs. I’m back in Wales now, and was completely blown away by the mega-planet sized Tesco that has been built outside Bangor. Its one of those huge stores that sell just about everything under the sun. Now I’m not advocating shopping at Tescos in preference to anywhere else, and although I am a loyalty-card holder, those who’ve heard me hold forth on the key sustainability issues facing modern Britain today will know of my hypocrisy – I would love to see the Tesco (and Wal Mart, Morrisons, and Sainsbury) empire crumble. Town centres would be reclaimed by market traders, local producers, real life butchers and fishmongers, a bakery in every village, happy people riding bicycles, etc…

Anyhow, back to my point, this shop sold just about everything I could think of eating. So, in Bangor, North Wales, which – respectfully – is not exactly the most cosmopolitan neck of the woods, you can go to a big shop, buy Miso soup, Spanish membrillo, about 100 different types of cheese, and about 200 different types of Houmous (which, after nearly three months in Central Africa, I succumbed guiltily to a little plastic pot of organic houmous, despite there being perfectly good tahini in the cupboard at home…). So next time one of our continental cousins looks down their nose at the British lack of interest and sophistication as far as food is concerned, I would direct them to the Tesco store in Bangor…

Anyhow, my mother and I decided to go traditional and bought a bottle of full fat and all the trimmings milk to go in a rice pudding. Its in the oven as a write…


Curry

The rice pudding hits all the right notes, although could’ve been a bit thicker. Perhaps I could have used a higher temperature in the oven.

Anyhow, Mum is off out for a curry with the people from work, so Dad and I stay in, crack open a few beers and I offer to make a curry recipe that is part stolen, part improvised, and still in need of tweaking a bit before I put it up on experimental jifflings. Its as close as I can get to the Karahi currys sold in the caffs in the Northern Quarter in Manchester, although with a few extras like mushrooms thrown in

I decide to go for lamb, and pop up the road to the rather scruffy butchers shop. The butcher is a genial sort of fellow and I think he mistakes me for a tourist. He dices some lamb shoulder for me and makes a point, just as I’m leaving, of saying that the meat is ‘local saltmarsh lamb’. Of course it is local saltmarsh lamb’, what else is it going to be in Anglesey? If I wanted crap lamb I would go to Tesco (I was too kind to them in the last blog entry I think). The other butcher in the village even has ‘local saltmarsh lamb’ painted in his window. I guess the clued up cookery programme watching holiday-makers have been asking for it specially.

I wonder if I can get hold of some goat meat anywhere..? I think I might do a bit more asian food this winter (when I finally get a place down south with my own kitchen). I’d like to do a few currys, maybe some more Thai food as well.

I can’t believe the butcher thought I was a tourist. Botheration. Next time I go in there I’m going to address him in Welsh.

Fruits of the earth

Did I mention my Mum’s tomatoes? There has been some serious greenhouse action going on over the summer and possibly the biggest tomato crop yet - all shapes and sizes from cherry upwards, and even a decent crop of sweet yellow toms. There are also green and red peppers, and flavoursome chillies with a kick that could stun a horse. The cucumber crop seems to be about ready now, and we’re talking proper cucumbers here, that taste, smell and look like cucumbers, not these weird things that we get in the supermarkets here. I’m convinced that there is some sort of conspiracy going on with these suspicious-looking cumbers.

I’m looking forward to what the veg plot will bring at Christmas time. There are stands of sprouts, although they look like they’re having a hard time from the local creepy-crawlies, and my Dad is struggling to maintain his organic credentials against this invasion. I think he’d rather like to make chemical warfare against them, but that would defeat the object. I really hope that on Christmas morning, nursing a hangover and clutching a glass of Liebfraumilch, we can enjoy the pleasure of picking our own organic veg for dinner. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to celebrate?


The Pilot Boat

The last time I ate at the Pilot Boat in Dulas, Anglesey, was in the summer of 1996 with a particularly gobby girlfriend from South Wales. As I remember (and it was ten years ago, TEN YEARS? Bloody hell that must mean I’m pushing thirty…) the food was typical of the standard in Welsh pubs in 1996, in that it was some sort of slice of meat, pie, or deep fried item, accompanied by chips and ‘peasorsalad’. I remember the peas especially, as there was a bit of pea overkill in the kitchen. ‘Peas’ was simply peas, whereas ‘salad’ was iceberg lettuce with cold peas. We had some fun flicking the surplus peas around in the beer garden.

So ten years on, British pub food in general has come on quite a bit (although unlike our continental brothers and sisters, we are still obliged to pay through the nose for the privilege), and it appears that the revolution has reached Dulas, and the Pilot Boat. The table menu is a fairly straightforward and unremarkable pub affair, so 3s, H and I go straight for the specials board. The Goose and Pheasant pie catches my eye, while the others opt for a salad of ‘locally smoked Scottish salmon and prawns’. There is indeed a smokehouse up the road from the pub, but quite why Scottish salmon has to come all the way to Anglesey to be smoked is beyond me. Anyhow, full marks for using the local facilities. Locally caught and smoked mackerel might be more of a story though.

The salad looks fine, and H and T seem to be enjoying it, although perhaps wincing slightly at paying through the nose. The smoked salmon certainly looks good, and the smell even cuts through the cigarette smoke of the pub.

Although still expensive, my pie looks slightly better value, being about the size of a Harry Potter paperback, and coming with mixed veg (cooked just right) and a side bowl of chips. The barman remarks that I should watch out in case there is any lead shot still in the pheasant meat. Nice patter. Anyhow, I guess this is the first game of the season, it seems a bit early actually since the shooting season doesn’t start until 1st October. Perhaps it was roadkill. Anyhow, there isn’t much pheasant in my slice, which is heavy on goose, with a hint of pheasant. Probably a good thing as I sometimes feel that pheasant can be a quite overwhelming flavour (I’m trying to get used to it again after a drunken Christmas party in Norwich in 1998 in which a pheasant ‘au vin’ spent barely and hour in my stomach before seeing daylight once again). The pastry has a pleasant texture, and the chips are, well, chips.

Not a bad spot of food then, although given the general scruffiness of the pub, I would imagine that during the tourist-free winter months standards might fall a bit, as they seem to in most places round here. The chef at least has a bit of sense in sourcing some of the food locally, he knows this idea will sell to tourists and locals alike, and that in general it can be safely considered to be a good thing.


15th October

This weekend I have mostly been knackered. Since returning from Rwanda I’ve spent time in Hemel Hempstead (Twice), Manchester (twice), Anglesey (Twice) and Warwick (Once). I’m pretty tired of trains on the whole… during which time I’ve managed to finish my thesis, start a new job, find a new flat, move in, and furnish it.

Its been pretty stressful, and I probably would have been in deep depression had it not been for some good home cooking. After submitting my thesis (The catchily titled: ‘Land Fragmentation and Consolidation in Rwanda: A Study of Musanze District) in Manchester, I made sure I got a few drinks down me as you might imagine, before an early train down to Hemel Hempstead to start work the following morning.

Now I’ve moved into my new place in the Old Town of Hemel Hempstead. A Listed building with oak beams no less… Most of the furniture is in place, and the kitchen is ready to go. After weeks of sandwiches in trainstations, and cold suppers in B&Bs I’ve finally stocked the cupboard.

Last night was a pleasure – dinner with six good friends at the Mogul (70 seconds walk from my front door). Much as I think Hemel is a bit uninspiring, I have some great friends in the vicinity, which makes all the difference. At the Mogul, the manager, Ujay, makes a fuss of us all ‘Hi John, great to see you’. Its like I haven’t been away…

I haven’t had the ‘Mogul Surprise’ for a long time. It used to be my regular, with on the bone chicken cooked in beef mince and spices. It arrives slightly drier and hotter than usual, but still tastes great.

This afternoon I’m waiting for my landlord (still a bit of fixing etc to do, but he’s a good guy), so get on with roasting my first chicken in quite a few months. Its an Asda bird, so not exactly amazing, but not awful either. New potatoes get roasted and stir fried julienne carrots with ginger and garlic add veg interest. The old routine of picking the carcass (and preparing tomorrows lunchtime salad) and making a stock is soothing and takes my mind off the last couple of weeks of effort.

My office was destroyed by the Buncefield Oil Depot explosion in December, and the temporary premises are within walking distance of the only Butchers in Hemel Hempstead. There is a green grocer next door and a slightly dodgy bakery as well, so I’m determined to make the effort to shop at these places during my lunch hour at work. I’m missing the ease of living so close to Chinatown, great fruit and veg stalls and a good fishmong. There is a Deli down the road from my flat that everyone raves about, but I suspect it is because it’s the only place of its kind in town. I don’t get the feeling that they are really passionate about food there.

Rwanda Latest

The luggage arrived, eventually, after a holiday alone in Nairobi. So I'm back in business.

Lately I've been working in the North West of the Country near the border with the demoocratic republic of Congo - and close to the Gorillas in the Mist. I intend to visit the Gorillas later this month with Mrs Jiffler.

Food in the field is pretty uninspiring. The district i am working in is very fertile, and there are tomatoes, cabbages, carrots, potatoes, green peppers, red onions, and sorghum (used in brewing in the same way as barley) in season. Unfortunately these ingredients don't seem to find their way to the guest houses and restaurants in the area - but on the back of lorries heading for the markets of Kigali and Butare. My diet during the week consists of Chips, rice, chapathi, occasional beans, omelettes, and goat brochettes. I did have a vegetable curry last week, but it was literally a vegetable, a cauliflower as a matter of fact. I was not a good person to share a confined space with the following day.

The Hotel I eat in while in the field has something called 'Humbugger' on the menu. I haven't dared to try it...

Kigali at the weekend offers more options. A few of us went to an Italian place called Sole Luna in the part of town where all the wazungu live. They had a proper pizza oven, and brought (relatively) marvellous pizzas to our table. My Quattro Formaggi was great - a real cheese feast - with proper gorgonzola too. I shall be returning...

Food aside, I'm getting into Rwanda now - making friends and learning some of the language. If I was here longer I would probably try to take some French-Kinyarwanda lessons to try to improve in both languages. I think I could happily stay here until Christmas or even longer, especially with Mrs Jiffler coming out soon until end of October. I'm still planning to return at end of August, but workwise things are a bit tense at the moment and I'm looking for other opportunities - who knows, there might be some out here.

Rwanda

Arrived in Rwanda, but my luggage hasn’t. Its been a while now and the general consensus and feedback from the airline - the useless SN Brussels - is that its all gone. I have to wait 45 days until the Airline write it off, and then start fighting to get reimbursed.

I travelled with my computer in my hand luggage and my field boots on my feet, so I have the essentials for work. Other than that, I estimate I’ve lost £1300’s worth of gear – my field lenses and kit have all gone. I’ve bought a few clothes and am current dressed like a working class Rwandan – in smart but cheap clothes that don’t fit very well. I even managed to pick up second hand C&A shirt for about two quid. Its been a bit of fun bargaining for stuff. A lot of the itinerant traders speak Kiswahili and get a bit of a surprise when they meet a strangely dressed white-man who speaks the lingo. Best purchase so far: fluorescent green rubber sandals - the only pair of size 11s in the city.

My former boss and his Guyanese partner welcomed me to the country with cool, locally brewed Mutzig lager and a plate full of chana (West Indian-style curried chickpeas) with potatoes and roti.

The supermarkets here are great by African standards. I’ve been around a few already in the search for cheap socks and underpants. The influence of continental Europe is fairly obvious – French bread and croissants are baked daily for example. The meat selection is fairly good too, with lamb chops, beef, and chicken, along with smoked ham and salami.

At one place in town I spotted Port Salut, Roquefort, and Mozzerella on sale for reasonable prices (about 80% more than we would pay at home), and there are some local cheeses as well – even a local chevre. Fruit and veg looks good – I even saw a bucket full of strawberries – but I haven’t had chance to investigate the big fruit and veg market yet – perhaps at the weekend. Avocados are enormous, but a bit bland. Apparently you occasionally get large hass variety avocados which have a bit more flavour. The local peanut butter is excellent. The best peanut butter I’ve ever tasted came from a place called Iringa in Tanzania, and the Rwandan stuff comes a close second.

Local ‘Maraba’ coffee is pretty tasty, although brewing facilities are rudimentary. I’ll definitely bring some of that home.

I’ve eaten out at the ‘Chez Lando’ Hotel. I’m currently reading Lt. General Dallaire’s account of the 1994 genocide and it seems that ‘Lando’ was the leader of the moderate Liberal party, and was considered to be a peacemaker.

At Chez Lando came more Mutzig beer, a plate of chips (not bad, Belgian style) and a large tray of chicken pieces. Well, they told us it was chicken anyway, it tasted more like a cat I unwittingly ate in Nairobi, as the flesh was tough enough to break teeth, and the skin as thick and chewy as a pig’s ear. The only tender meat was the neck meat, although ‘neck’ is hardly the choicest cut of a chicken. Can you imagine that at a Sunday roast? Would you like leg or neck?

I'm trying to keep this blog food focused, but I've got an urge to write about Rwanda a little. Kigali at least is quite an unusual city. The genocide still casts a shadow here to some extent, and although people want to move on, there are reminders everywhere. I read up on the genocide and politics of the country before arriving, and it is hard to make a way around the city without recognising the sites of massacres.

They are currently filming another Hollywood movie here about the genocide. Apparently this is based on the UNAMIR mission. It might give a more balanced view of the events of 1994 than Shooting Dogs and Hotel Rwanda, which both seem to imply that it was only tutsis who were slaughtered. It feels strange that, 12 years on, there is this sudden interest in the genocide. America and the UK did nothing - actively did nothing - when it happened, so why all the interest now? Because it makes a good story in the delicate post-9/11 world?

Enough, I've got a whole belly full of bitterness for the aid 'industry' here as well, but I'll save it for the pub.

Some current affairs.

I've been eating a bit rubbish lately. I'm trying to run down my cupboards, and also I'm in essay hell, so there is a high chocolate hob nob quota.

I know this is a food blog, but I've little culinary enjoyment to report at the moment, so I'm going to venture into a bit of a current affairs rant. Sorry...

Has anyone seen the latest TV advert from Christian Aid? It manages to patronise pretty much everyone. With the exception of the advertising company involved, who I can imagine are probably laughing their coked-up noses off.

Christian Aid is an actor, and to some extent an agency in international development. In this role the organisation imposes its reality of the world ('progress is good') on another part of the world and attempts to 'normalise' it according to this view of how reality should be. This is especially true of Christian Aid as it has a religious motivation.

The advert is aimed at a perceived - and rather patronising - western European view of developing countries - chickens running around mud huts, slightly simple African people doing their best. It does not seek to normalise that perception to western eyes by presenting the more real and more complex case, but instead chooses to reinforce this outdated, and frankly disgusting perception.

In this case, is it acceptable for an organisation like Christian Aid to attempts to 'normalise' realities in developing countries, but not in developed countries? Both are necessary in order for progress to occur. In adopting this approach, Christian Aid are actively (and expensively) supporting a cultural and intellectual hierarchy, while simultaneously promoting further ignorance at the top of that hierarchy.

Bloody idiots. There are better ways to give to developing countries:

www.wateraid.org

http://www.itdg.org/

http://www.mag.org.uk/

Rural Eating

3stan has issued me with a kick up the backside and requested that I write some more bloggage. Its been a while since my last post, but I have a valid excuse in that I’ve been poking around the lake district looking at Sellafield among other things.

I stayed at the youth hostel in Waterhead, with a fantastic view across the northern rim of lake Windermere. Its been a while since I last set foot in a youth hostel and I was pleasantly surprised by quality of the accommodation and the catering (yes, they do catering). Meals were hearty and wholesome, and ingredients were fresh and fairly local. The only fault lay with the catering staff, who seemed to be antipodean backpacker types with that attitude that is peculiar to them (and presumably to British back packers down under).

Lunch at Sellafield consisted of the usual cold buffet affair, bizarrely accompanied by a huge plate of chips. Apparently the chocolate cake was nice, but I was sick with a sense of foreboding. Sellafield is a creepy place, there are no birds like in concentration camps… a radioactive purgatory processing our nuclear sins.

Post-lakes I made my way down to Dorset for a weekend of unwinding with friends in a massive converted barn near Lyme Regis. For some reason the kitchen smelled like Sundays when I was a boy, when my mother made scones when Dad was at sea…

Anyhow, the highlight of the weekend was the opportunity to cook on an AGA. A marvellous experience for a weekend, but I’m not sure I’d want to maintain one full-time. The Saturday night feast was roast beef for 11, and I think everything went to plan. The roast potatoes were among the best I’ve done without flour and mustard powder.

Mrs Jiffler had the barn to ourselves for a couple of days and treated ourselves to various bits and pieces of Dorset seafood that we’d picked up in Lyme Regis. Our bag of (diver-caught) scallops smelled sweet like the seaside and I was almost tempted to slice a bit off raw for a nibble. I showed Mrs Jiffler how to cook them in simply in butter its safe to say that she is now a scallop convert, and I’m worried for the bank balance that these little alabaster muscles will find their way into the shopping bag on an all too regular basis.

Lovely prawns in garlic and white wine go down well with sticky fingers and bubble and squeak on the side. We should have bought half a dozen more and too hell with the cost. I also had opportunity to revisit the crab linguine, this time with a slosh of white wine for added moisture – just the trick, although I was a bit heavy handed with the cream this time.

Oh yeah, back in Manchester, just finished my tea. Roast Poussin (Spring Chicken) with spuds and a weird gravy made out of balsamic vinegar. There is Poussin stock in the fridge now, ready for a quick Tom Yam Gai to see me through this weekend’s essay action.

Thats all for now. The pressure is on a bit with essays and stuff at the moment. I've got some time off in a week or so there will be some serious kitchen action then I guess. I still haven't got around to the ready steady cook challenge, and I've got an octopus in the freezer that needs sorting out.

Weddo

Mrs Jiffler and I spent Saturday at the wedding of some friends in Lincolnshire – a lovely, relaxed day in good company.

At the reception we discussed my blog with friends, and one of the table asked whether a review of the wedding breakfast would be appearing on the blog. After giving this some thought on the train home, I’ve decided that it might not be good form to review the food when someone else has paid for it! In any case, my piece of beef was lovely, and I could have knocked back the rather drinkable red all night. Lincolnshire is a good place to eat good British food, on the quiet I reckon it could outdo some more traditional foodie destinations such as Cornwall.

At the dinner table, a friend of mine mentions how my occasional casual blog references to past meals in obscure places amuse her. I’ve just revisited a few old blogs, and I can see how this might come across. Although I wish I could enjoy a sybaritic lifestyle, sampling the finest the world has to offer, that is sadly not the case, and many of my foreign feasts are either as a result of hard work, or have been enjoyed in the rather dull company of consultants and bureaucrats.

Anyhow, it got me thinking not just about great meals in appropriately exotic places (although I’d fly to Greece like a shot for some proper taramasalata if someone gave me a free ticket), but about great things I’ve eaten in unexpected or mundane places.

For example, forget Italy - the best Tiramisu I’ve ever tasted was a homemade effort at Frithville village hall, Lincolnshire. Profiteroles? In the small town of Guisborough in North Yorkshire… I also enjoyed possibly the best ever chilli con carne at the same house… Spag bol in Penysarn, Caesar salad in Beaumaris (both Anglesey) and Pastrami sandwiches in the Norwich student’s union in 1998. Bruschetta in Hemel Hempstead, Chicken Karahi and awesome roti in a stinking backstreet in Manchester, jerk chicken in Brixton, samosas in Leicester, thai fishcakes in Aberdeen…

Very few of these things came from professional kitchens, and were generally the product of creative home cooks who have put a bit of love into their cooking. Unfortunately one doesn’t get a Michelin star for knocking out a killer Tiramisu. Its made me think about how sometimes – rarely - I can put together a meal which is perfect and I can be really proud of, but more often than not my cooking output is simply ‘satisfyingly edible’ with the occasional bin scraper. I might choose a few classic dishes to really perfect, so that they can hold their own next to the Lincolnshire Tiramisu.

The other week...

Catching up (again)

Once again, I’ve been idling with the blog. I read a statistic that claimed that 45% of all bloggers stop posting within three months of starting a blog. I’ve done better than that, I guess, but there has been a bit of a dip since I got out of the habit when my laptop went in for repair.

Some highlights of the last week or so include a fish pie, cooked by my Dad in Wales, which had a great texture to the fish and mash. I had some ideas for improvements though, so might indulge in some healthy competition.

I had a chance to catch up with a couple of old school friends at the Bridge Inn in Menai Bridge. We strolled over the bridge from Bangor and enjoyed the first pub beer garden of the year. I was sceptical at first as the pub, in its previous incarnations, had always seemed a bit grotty. These thoughts were quickly dispelled by the range of well-kept ales behind the bar and the general professional air of the staff.

Gastro-pub style eating seems to have finally reached Anglesey, and is hopefully giving some of the old guard of rip-off joints a run for their money. I go for a shoulder of Anglesey lamb with mash and assorted veg. The lamb is superb – as Anglesey lamb always is, and the veg is fresh, seasonal, and perfectly cooked. Could Anglesey be experiencing the food revolution at last? Since it is home to some of the finest lamb, crab, lobsters and mussels in the UK I’d say its about bloody time.