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.