Hooray, Hooray the 1st of May

J has a variety of friends from all walks of life - from his school days thirty odd years ago through to those that he has acquired more recently. And of course there is one friendship that is nearly two years old and which has blossomed into something else, but that's the subject of an entirely different and personal blog.

As with any group of people whom have known each other for years, J's friends have a number of rituals that mark the passing of each year. Lives change, partners come and go, children swell the numbers and yet the essential rites of passage remain the same. One such event is the annual Pimms Party which signifies the official start of Summer. Hence, whatever the date of said party, 'Hooray Hooray the 1st of May, outdoor sex beings today' is the huzzah of choice. (No, I don't really understand the whole thing either).

D and P were the generous hosts of this year's party and it was an opportunity to christen their new garden. Or it would have been had the heavens not decided to pour forth their scorn with a soaking of drizzle accompanied by a chilly wind. Not exactly garden party conditions. However, in true British spirit, that which singles us out as the only nation curious (and some would say mad) enough to picnic outdoors, come hell or high water, the party continued. In the kitchen. Where all parties end up gravitating regardless of where they commence. (Does this happen the world over or is that also a British trait?)

For me each season has a distinct taste and texture. Winter is the time for long, slow cooking that allows flavours to marry and to develop into rich and soothing casseroles with their soothing smoothness. The season for the deep, red fruit flavours of old vine Grenache and Syrah.

Spring is synonymous with the new season of fresh greens; asparagus, spring cabbage, onions, purple flowered broccoli and the welcome tart relief of forced rhubarb. And of course, Summer with its berries, bursting with colour that bleeds onto one's fingers and stains one's lips with their unctuous juices. With fresh crisp salads, silky goats cheese and the chilled grassy flavours of French Sauvignon Blanc.

But there is one combination of flavours, other than the obvious strawberries and cream, that typifies an English summer for me; that of gooseberries and elderflower. I only have to hear the very words and images of cricket whites and village greens fill my mind.

So the obvious contribution to the ultimate Pimms party had to be an elderflower and gooseberry sponge cake. I cannot recall from whence this recipe came as I found it amongst my treasure trove of 'must make' clippings, amassed over the past few years. However from the smeared plates and happy grins, I surmised that it hit the summery nail on the head.

Gooseberry and Elderflower Cake
225g unsalted butter, softened
200g golden caster sugar
4 medium eggs, beaten mixed with
4 tbsp elderflower cordial
225g self-raising flour

Filling
142ml pot double cream
2tbsp elderflower cordial
5tbsp gooseberry conserve
icing sugar

Preheat the oven to 180C/gas 4. Grease 2 x 20cm sandwich tins and line the bottoms with baking parchment.
Cream the butter and sugar. Add the egg and cordial mixture a little at a time with a spoonful or so of the flour (this prevents dreaded curdling). Stir in the rest of the flour and gently combine. The mixture should easily plop off the spoon when tapped - if necessary add a touch more cordial to soften.
Spoon equal amounts of the mixture into the cake tins and level. Put on the middle shelf of the oven and bake for 20-25 mins until the cakes are springy to the touch and have a beautiful golden hue. Allow the cakes to rest in the tins for five mins and then turn out onto wire racks. Peel of the baking paper when cool.

For the filling;
When ready to serve, whip the cream until it forms soft peaks (boyfriends come in very handy at this stage) and stir in the cordial. Spread the top of one cake with the gooseberry jam and then top with the cream. Sandwich the cakes together and then dust with icing sugar.

Note: if traveling with the cake, assemble it upon arrival - we learnt the hard way and oh my, is gooseberry jam slippery!

Oh and the outdoor sex? Not in 10 degrees centigrade with a howling gale. Nature's answer to birth control.

A Whiff of the Future

Whilst sitting at a desk in the offices of my client, pensively staring at the beautiful green domed roof of Smithfields market, fingers pressed together in a prayer position against my mouth, wondering how best to deal with an increasingly awkward situation, I breathed in deeply, hoping for calm. What I was to receive was the most delicate hint of garlic from my fingertips.

A smile played on my lips as the smell evoked a feeling of comfort, the pleasure of creating a dish the previous evening, of conjuring up a recipe, of cooking for the man I love after he'd battled through a weary and frustrating day. Of the important things in my life. My breathing slowed, my shoulders eased as the tension ebbed out of me and I remembered why I am working as a consultant - to give me time to work out if I can find a way into the world of food. Officially.

I sat up straight, thrust my glasses along the bridge of nose and resolved to redouble my efforts; not only with the task in hand that day, but also with my search for a new career.

If persevere, my food future will happen. I have to believe that.

Hake Days and Holidays

My return to the land of 'serious work' has, by choice, been on a part-time basis on the grounds that I could devote time and energy to working out how, indeed if, I can turn my passion for food and writing into something that could financially fill more of my life. Also it's a time to try different things out - an eight week stint in a chocolate shop was fun but I soon realised that life behind a counter is not for me. An evening food journalism course was exciting and has left me hungry for more. And yet I am still struggling to find my way.

Plus, of course, it is amazing how quickly those 'spare' two days are filled with house hunting, running errands and recently, traveling. So last Friday I was determined to do something food-related so headed to Borough Market for inspiration.

The market on Saturdays is now almost impossible to navigate unless visited at the crack of dawn due to the coach loads of gastro tourists, however Fridays are slightly less bustling with a strange but happy mixture of suits buying their lunch, serious shoppers seeking ingredients for the weekend and, of course, the ubiquitous film crews.

Mindful that we were having friends over for dinner on Saturday night to celebrate their engagement (yippee), I headed for the Morcombe Bay fish stall. I explained to the lovely fishmonger what I wanted to cook and he recommended Scottish hake, promptly disappeared into his walk-in fridge and emerged with a huge, glistening fish. A few deftly applied blows of a cleaver ensued and I was presented with two beautiful fillets with a silvery, pinkish skin that shimmered in the light. I was also offered the head which I declined to which it was plonked onto a waiting spike to either ward off or to entice my fellow shoppers. I couldn't quite decide which.

Last weekend in Vienna I ate a delicious salad of green and white asparagus with strawberries and a balsamic dressing, in which, unfortunately the ingredients swam. Seeing both kinds of the veg nestled side by side on a stall, I whisked them up and decided to replicate the dish as a starter at home. The greengrocer insisted that the Dutch white asparagus was not grown in banks and that is was 'just white' naturally - hmmm. My research begs to differ but who am I to argue with a chap in the know?

One jar of wonderful gooseberry and elderflower jam for an afternoon cake and a bunch of end of season of rhubarb and I was good to go. The makings of a three course meal were in my bags - let the cooking commence.



Roast Hake with Salsa Verde (serves 4)
leaves from a handful of flat-leaf parsley
leaves of a spring of mint
2 tbsp capers
3 anchovy fillets in olive oil, drained
2 cloves of garlic
2 large vine-ripened tomatoes, cut into eight slices
bunch thyme (the lemon variety is great if you can get it)
olive oil
white wine
2 fillets hake approx 500-600g each (salmon works equally well as does cod)

Heat oven to 220C/gas 7. To make the salsa verde roughly chop the first four ingredients with one of the garlic cloves and then give them a good pounding in a pestle and mortar with a good grinding of black pepper.
Line the base of a roasting tin with baking parchment and lay the tomato slices in four lines across the base of the tine. Slice the remaining garlic clove and scatter over the tomato along with most of the thyme sprigs (save one). Sprinkle over approx 1tbsp oil and a glug of wine - this prevents the fish from sticking and produces a wonderfully fragrant sauce.
Brush the skin-side of one hake fillet with oil and place, skin-down, on the tomatoes. Cover with the salsa then top with the other hake fillet, flesh side down. Rub a little oil into the skin, season and sprinkle with the leaves from the remaining thyme sprig.
Roast for 20-25 mins until cooked through. Cut the fish into slices and serve with the tomatoes and spoonfuls of the sauce.

J turned the asparagus into a delicious (and in my opinion far superior) version of that which we ate in Austria - simple, elegant and seasonal with a delicate dressing of balsamic and oil which complemented the sweetness of the strawberries whilst not overpowering the asparagus.














And the rhubarb?

Rhubarb and Orange Cake (from a Waitrose recipe card)
400g rhubarb, washed and cut into 2cm pieces
200g golden caster sugar
150g butter, softened
2 eggs, lightly beaten
75g self-raising flour, sifted
1/2tsp baking powder
100g ground almonds
grated zest of one orange plus 2tbsp juice
30g flaked almonds

Preheat oven to 190C/gas 5. Grease an eight inch springform round cake tin and line.
Place the rhubarb in a bowl and cover with 50g of the sugar and leave for a minimum of 30mins.
Cream the remaining sugar with the butter and incorporate the eggs and flour, a little of each at a time to avoid curdling. Fold in the ground almonds and baking powder and then stir in the orange zest and juice.
Add the rhubarb and its sugary juice to the cake mix and pour into the waiting cake tin. Sprinkle over the flaked almonds, put the tin on a baking tray and bake in the middle of the oven for 25mins.
Reduce the temperature to 180C/gas 4 and cook for another 20-25 minutes or until firm. Allow to cool in the tine for 10 mins.

We served with double cream which J so cruelly, but expertly, whipped.

Gosset non-vintage champagne and Porcupine Ridge sauvingon blanc tickled our palates and helped us to celebrate both a new engagement and a new friendship.

Lemon Fairies to the Rescue

The past few weeks have been something of a whirlwind in some ways, but also the creation of a mountain out of a molehill, the combined result of which has been a dirth of blogging. A weekend at home however has enabled me to breathe, relax and to create.

So far the spring has not only awoken nature but seems to have breathed life into my social life, which although is incredibly fun and interesting, is also at times exhausting. I have caught up on and cemented friendships, watched new ones develop and blossom and have spent time with family, both mine and J's. In the past month alone we have stayed in the Home Counties, Hamburg and France and ever occasion, every meeting of friends has conjured up a plethora of emotions.

I have let myself become crowded by what needn't be, but what has at times become, the 'serious' side of life; my consultancy business, the search for a house, the start of a new French class, tax returns (actually I think that anyone would find that one troubling at the best of times), the hunt for a specific outfit (how on earth can the thought of new shoes become stressful?!) and a recurrent bout of stomach problems. It sounds silly but I have not had the headspace (such a loathsome phrase and yet so accurate) to write, to relax, to cook.

Yet I am fortunate enough to have been reminded that life is too short to worry constantly and that a crowded mind can not be a creative one. And so this weekend I took a deep breath, had some fun and let the baking tins edge their way out of the cupboard.........

When asked which fancies he would like to munch on this week, J replied "fairy cakes" and so I was more than happy to oblige. Upon reflection I think that he would rather have demolished a chocolate cake or a sticky cherry confection, however J sensed that I would have more fun decorating and icing the little fairy sweeties. What a wonderful man he is. As my spirits felt lifted I decided to lighten the air with the aroma of lemons and so made these

Lemon Cupcakes (makes 12)
125 soft unsalted butter
125 caster sugar
125 self-raising sugar
2 eggs
1/2 tsp lemon extract (or limoncello - I'm determined to use it up!)
zest of one unwaxed lemon
1 - 1/2 tbsp milk

Preheat the oven to 200C and line a 12-bun tin with paper cases.
Cream the butter with the sugar and then add by stages, a spoon of sieved flour, a spoon of egg, flour, egg etc until the ingredients have combined (doing this gradually ensures against the dreaded curdling).
Add the lemon extract and the zest. Add a little milk as necessary for a flowing texture - so that it drops easily from the mixing spoon when tapped.
Spoon evenly into the paper cases.
Bake in the middle of the oven for up to 20 minutes or golden brown in colour and springy to the touch. Remove from the oven and transfer onto a wire rack as soon as they have cooled sufficiently to the touch.

Easy! Then have enormous fun decorating them with whatever silly fripperies you have to hand. I can never resist the urge to make baby pink, soft blue and white icing and to use a mixture of hundreds and thousands (J's favourite), crystallised violet sprinkles and sugar flowers.

Three Little Words

Words are possibly the most powerful of all ammunition in the human nelson. They have the power to raise spirits, to elevate expectations, to inspire love, to create a whirlwind of desire and yet conversely they also have the ability to prick one's bubbling joy, to wound, to harm and to instill deep sadness.

Extraordinarily the same words in the English language can create entirely different emotions when used in differing contexts. Within the space of two days, the words "I miss you" were uttered to me. The first was a sign of warmth, of a burgeoning friendship borne from a love, shared interest in and passion for food. I felt honoured and full of joy to be lucky enough to have been missed.

The second however made me feel wretched, deeply saddened, momentarily angry and ashamed. Ashamed that this wonderful person's deep love for me had caused them pain; that I had neglected them in what can I can only think is a strange bid for independence. And yet ultimately I feel incredibly fortunate to be so cherished.

And yet how interesting that three little words created such a maelstrom of emotions. I am left wondering if this is why I sometimes choose to express love and affection through cooking. Why I would rather bake a cake or cook a meal than risk my words being heard with a different meaning than which they were offered. Surely it is difficult to misinterpret the whipping up of a meringue; hard to be upset by the smell of a casserole as it develops in the oven; difficult to be angered by biting into one's favourite lemon cake?

The language of food. A dictionary with a limited subtext and one of which I am increasingly fond.

Cupboard Love

House hunting (an exercise which J and I are currently practicing daily) has proved to fuel an obsession of mine - other people's kitchens.

As a potential buyer one can only wistfully view cupboards from the outside and occasionally (oh heavenly joy) be permitted a snatched glimpse into the secret world of what lies within. I hold my breath as the fridge door clicks, the light leaps into action and one has to blink quickly to take in the sight of a half-empty bottle of Chablis, a pat of butter and if they are people worth purchasing from, a quality jar of marmalade (doubtless J might disagree on this point).

However my real fascination comes into play when we are fortunate enough to stay with friends and family. No matter how hard I try I simply cannot withhold the urge, indeed the compulsion, to poke into pantries, leaf through larders and to foray into fridges. Due to the fact that I naturally wake up earlier than most sensible adults, these gastronomic expeditions are habitually performed in the early hours as the sun is yawning and stretching its rays, and in silence, not wishing to disturb the slumber of my hosts.

And what fuels this weird obsession? I can only attribute it to a curiosity to unearth an insight into the characters whom are our friends and family. What hidden passions are concealed at the back of a shelf, behind the inevitable collection of tins, packets and jars of sauces? To what extent does the opinion of what substantiates a 'staple' vary from one household to another?

There was a time when I could lay a bet that the sole contents of my eldest sister and brother-in-law's fridge would be champagne, Miller lager, orange juice and margarine. One child later and number two well on the way, it is like opening the fridge door to another world - organic milk, organic veggies, freshly cooked meals for my nephew, salads - a transformation, not only of consumables but also of lifestyle.

And what are the staples of our little household? We are rarely without lemons, apples, goats milk, dark chocolate, apple and ginger tea, salad leaves, walnuts, parma ham, yogurts, ketchup, fresh pasta, brandy and wine. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions as to which of us eats which foodstuff and what (if anything) that reveals about our life.

Oh and one last thing. Please don't take offence at the thought of me having nosed in your cupboards. It may sound peculiar, but if I wasn't interested in you and didn't care about you then then your larder would remain untouched. Consider it a rather strange sign of affection, albeit a secret one.

Encourage - to inspire someone with the courage or confidence to do something

It must be a rare occasion when one can recognise a life-enhancing moment as it happens, and yet that is what I was fortunate enough to have experienced last week. A mind-broadening, horizon-widening conversation that I now must have the the courage to truly recognise as the inspirational occurrence that it was and to take action.

One evening last week, I spent a treasured hour and a half of my boyfriend's father's precious time. J (my boyfriend) is an intensely private person and so I have refrained from dipping my toe into his very deep waters, but I am moved to plunge into the depths that are the Hope family. Christopher Hope is a writer of such enormous talent that I feel honoured to have discussed writing with him and certainly that occasionally reads this nonsense blog.
Christopher (henceforth referred to as 'CH' to save my fingertips) lives near Carcassone but was in London briefly to meet his agent and publisher in the run up to the publication of his new novel, 'My Mother's Lovers'. He had a little time to spare and so we met up for what was an extraordinary evening, for me at least.
CH suffered my questions about how he writes a novel, from the discipline of physically writing to the frustrations and complete obsession with one's emerging piece. It is as if the characters in his novels are shifting sands that develop and move in relation to one another which CH relates to a game of chess. CH spends periods of time in his native South Africa in isolation, devoted to pouring out his emerging story from dusk 'til dark, to the extent that on his last trip, a relative expressed concerns that Christopher was having an affair. And in many ways he was. In essence he was in love, absorbed by the characters and the lives that he had created.
The latest book was three and a half years in the making and he has devoted the magnitude of that amount of head-space in two little words that barely fill a hundredth of the title page - "to Jasper". To his son.
And why was this conversation so powerful, so able to make me nervous and excited at the same time? Because it is the first time that such a talented writer has shared thoughts about their art and, more significantly, has given me encouragement. "Have courage" were CH's enduring words. Yes I am a hopeless novice but be brave. Broaden out. Read beyond your current parameters. Expand your mind. Take encouragement from every quarter and have the courage to allow your mind to create. And the last step - to allow your fingertips to pour the creation out onto the page.
I was, indeed am, excited but also incredibly nervous. Only I can make the effort to learn, to change, to improve. Will I have the courage to bare my soul in the way that writers like CH do, to open myself up to the opinions and criticism of others? Will I ever be able to find any talent and then a vehicle to use it? Only time will tell. Just don't expect too much now that I have shared my fears with you.

Bun Fight en France – les gateaux de fées

My parents moved to Angouleme in France a few weeks ago, having retired and sold up in the UK and built a house from scratch not far from Limoges. At first I did wonder if they were in danger of losing their marbles, but then I soon realised that to follow one's dreams, to make a new start later in one's life and in a new country, takes enormous courage. I am full of admiration for them. Plus I can't wait to stay with them and to faire les achats in the local market. My fingers are itching at the thought of fondling juicy red tomatoes, plucking out plump ripe plums and stroking fronds of lettuce leaves.

Any initial concerns I had about my parents being embraced by the local community were swept aside very soon after their arrival. A Sunday evening telephone conversation revealed that they had (hic) just returned from a five hour lunch (hic), hosted by the Mayor of Lessac for all people of retirement age in the area, whether they be French or English (and no, not a timeshare or retirement sales guerrilla was in sight). A terrific number of dishes had been consumed, bottles upon bottles of wine and the local marc had been appreciated and then my father had driven (slowly) home. Only in France. Oh yes, they are well on their way to becoming locals.

Although Angouleme is far from being an English enclave, there must be a fair smattering of 'les rostbifs' as the convivial Mayor has invited the ladies to whip up a collection of traditional British cakes for his mid-May fete. Upon hearing this my mind was filled with visions of an Anglo-Franco bake-off. A war of the whisks. A veritable competition of confectionery where bread and butter pudding is to be challenged by clafoutis des cerises. Where Dorset apple cake will be pitched against tarte aux pommes. Lemon drizzle cake versus madelaines. Treacle tart against financier aux raisins. Victoria sponge versus far aux pruneaux.

Having convinced her fellow bakers that her scones have a striking resemblance to rock cakes, the good old fashioned fairy cake is to be my mother's weapon of choice. Deceptively innocent in appearance, these little beauties are bound to charm the French judges into submission. Especially when they are nestled in pretty paper cases and are decorated with the sweetest of sugary flowers - just a few of the essentials that I have been asked to deliver on my forthcoming trick (apparently these little items are very hard to come by in the local shops whilst they are in abundance in London cookery shops. The upper hand will be gained on aesthetics alone I feel).

So, although my mother has her own tried and tested recipe for 'les gateaux de fees', I thought that I would post mine here. The use of almonds gives these little morsels a lovely dampness without robbing them off airiness, as befits a cake of fairy qualities. Even the hardest of hearts tend to melt a little when faced with these little puffs of pixie dust.

Almond Fairy Cakes makes 12
100g unsalted butter, softened
100g caster sugar
pinch of salt
1tsp almond essence
2 medium size eggs, lightly beaten
25g plain flour
100g ground almonds
2tbsp milk

Preheat the oven to 180 C/gas 4 and arrange 12 pretty paper cake cases in a bun tray.
Beat the butter, sugar and salt together until light and fluffy.
Add the eggs, flour, almonds, almond essence and milk and mix well. The cake batter should be of a consistency that drops easily from the spoon. Add a tiny bit more milk if necessary but go steady.
Divide the mixture between the 12 cases and flatten the tops with a spoon.
Bake for 20 minutes or until the cakes have risen and are of a golden colour. They should bounce back when lightly pressed.
Transfer to a wire rack and leave until cold.
Decorate with icing of your choice (I like to use fondant icing for these flavoured with lemon juice) and with sugary flowers or other such fripperies.

Bonne chance Maman.

Easter Fare

Easter, like Christmas, is a time of year that has certain culinary connotations. Hot cross buns, simnel cakes, spring lamb and of course, chocolate eggs all spring to mind. However are we really aware of why these particular goodies are eaten? In a recent poll, 43% of British people had no idea what Easter commemorates and yet a staggering 75% of us happily buy Easter eggs. So why exactly do we choose certain foods?

The ancient Greeks and Chinese gave eggs as a symbol of springtime hope and the early Christians granted them with a religious connotation, choosing eggs to represent the tomb from which Jesus emerged. The tradition of Easter eggs was henceforth born and today a cracking 80 million chocolate ones are sold in the UK alone every year and the British Retail Consortium estimate that we Brits will spend no less than £520 million just on choccie eggs in 2006.

Decorating eggs started with simple vegetable dyes and red was often used to symbolise the blood of Christ. In Germany and Austria they are coloured green for Maundy Thursday and in the Ukraine, eggs are exquisitely decorated with intricate patterns. These 'pysanki' are blessed by priests and then given as gifts on Easter Sunday. It was the Russian Tsars however who introduced an element of bling to Easter. From the 1880s until the revolution in 1917 they commissionedjewelerler, Faberge, to bedeck eggs with diamonds and gold in order to make the ultimate Easter pressie.

Eggs, along with butter are just some of the goodies that Lentern fasters are supposed to give up and so Easter time has long been a baking celebration across Europe. Spiced breads, cakes and biscuits abound to herald the rebirth of Christ and take on all manner of shapes from crosses, fish and even lambs. Hot cross buns were traditionally baked on Good Friday in England and in the 17th century were first cut with their distinctive cross to let the devil fly out. Happily it also let the butter ooze in.

Just as the devil had a part to play with buns, he was instrumental in the choice of lamb at Easter time. Superstition has it that one is lucky to cross the path of a lamb at Easter time (and this doesn't mean in the supermarket meat aisle) as it is the one animal that the devil can never take the form of because Christ is the lamb of God. New season lamb also happens to be deliciously tender and juicy in the spring and so often forms the main course of Easter meals across Europe.

And what of the Easter Bunny? Amazingly this is not a myth dreamt up by the Hersheys and Cadburys of this world. Hares and rabbits have been viewed as the most fertile of animals since Pagan times and have long been held as a sign of an abundance of new life. The roots of the 'Easter Hare' and his philanthropic habits can be traced back to the 16th century although today one wonders if it is a tradition that dentists the world over would like us to maintain.

So as you tuck into your Easter eggs, cakes and roast lamb be confident in the knowledge that you are helping to perpetuate traditions that are hundreds of years old.
Happy Easter.

Chocolate Compulsion Cake

Ralph, my brother-in-law to be (note to self - must bake wedding cakes next weekend) has a very serious chocolate habit.

I agree with Chloe Doutre-Roussel of Fortnum & Mason fame that quality chocolate is best tasted first thing in the morning whilst one's tastebuds are at their freshest and frequently have a square or two of something devilishly dark before elevenses. I somehow suspect however that this is not the motivation for Ralph's early morning chocolate consumption.

Ralph adores an instant 'hit' and if chocolate is in the house, what better time is there to partake than when he wakes up? That way his addiction for the day is satisfied. He has yet to stay with J and myself and I am not sure that he would be able to cope with my cache of dark, sensuous bars that pour out of various chocolate cupboards or the store of chocolate that J keeps in one of the vegetable drawers in the fridge (and yes I know that this is by no means an ideal way to keep chocolate and yet J is resolute that he prefers his chunks cold. He also likes to delude himself that as cacao beans grow on trees and he keeps his goodies in a vegetable compartment, that every bite counts towards his five fruit and veg count a day. Hmmmmm.).

Anyway, back to Ralph. Knowing that he adores all things chocolatey and homemade and yet also knowing that I am feeding his habit, I cannot help myself from making a chocolate fridge cake whenever I go and stay with Ralph and my sister (and the new addition to the family, my little nephew Otto). And sure enough, the sticky confectionery mysteriously decreases in size with every morning that passes......

And so I make no apologies for producing yet another version of the timeless classic that is chocolate fridge cake. After all, if the proof of the pudding is in the eating, then I need look no further than my future brother-in-law for an endorsement of this particular version.

Chocolate Compulsion Cake
125g unsalted butter
75g golden syrup
200g dark chocolate, broken into pieces
1 egg
1 large cookie, broken into chunks (I used one of those doughy, shop bought ones that resemble a cow pat - oddly they fit the bill perfectly! It weighed around 75g)
50g pecans, roughly broken
50g dried fruit (I used chopped dried prunes which added a lovely chewy depth)
50g glace cherries, plus four for topping

Line a 20cm x 8cm loaf tin with cling film.
Gently melt the butter and syrup in a small pan and bring it to a gentle boil. (A tip to measuring golden syrup is to use a metal spoon that you have just run under the hot tap - the syrup glides off the spoon with ease. Also pop your pan on the scales and measure the syrup straight into it - saves on the washing up).
Melt the chocolate in a heatproof bowl over a pan of simmering water. When liquid, remove from the heat (taking care not to scald yourself in the process), add the butter and syrup mixture and stir well to incorporate.
Beat the egg slowly and continuously into the hot chocolate mixture.
Add the broken cookie, the nuts, fruit and 50g of the glace cherries.
Mix well and then pour into the prepared tin, smoothing the top as you go. Dot the remainder cherries evenly along the length of the tin and leave to set in the fridge for at least four hours.
When you want to serve the cake, it should come out of the tin as easily as a ten pound note from a wallet. Slice or cut into chunks.

Super served with coffee after dinner. Or if you cannot wait that long, with a smoothie for breakfast. Why prolong the anticipation when it could be satisfied immediately? Enjoy.

Apple Pleasure

I had never fully understood why Eve succumbed to temptation when that slippery serpent presented her with a glistening, shiny apple. Why Snow White threw caution to the wind when faced with a glossy, red apple by her wicked stepmother. But that was until the first morning that I was given permission to break from the anti-candida regime.

How I had underestimated just how much I had missed that delicious 'kerunch' as one's teeth penetrate through the fruit's skin to its sparkling flesh beneath. Whether it be the nutty, slightly fluffy joys of an Egremont Russett or the more tart and solid delights of a Cox, that first bite, that first trickle of juice that rolls down one's throat is an utter joy. Made all the sweeter after three weeks of fruit abstinence, save for the occasional pulpy experience of apple puree.

Virtually reeling in the enjoyment of an apple, my senses went into overload with anticipation at the prospect of sinking my teeth into a plum, releasing that distinctive honeyed perfume and allowing the juice to drip down my chin, licking it off in sheer sensual delight.

It is all to easy to become blinded to the simple pleasures and moments of joy that are to be had in everyday life, beset as we are by deadlines, emails and mobile phones that demand instant attention, by our busy modern lifestyles. Just occasionally it is such a treat to take a few moments to smell the flowers, to bite into an apple, to close one's eyes with pleasure and contentment and to just be.

A Fragrant Dish

Even though spring is definitely in the air and the daffodils are in full bloom in the parks, the evenings still retain a chilly nip that makes one yearn for warming food. Something to chase away the gusts of wind that take one's breath away with their severity, and to ward off the colds and flu bugs that seem to be hovering across London.

Ginger, hot chilies, oodles of garlic and limes are usually my preventative medicine of choice, however whilst on the anti-candida diet I have to go for slightly milder options and so I conjured up a chicken curry that was fragrant as opposed to tongue-stingingly hot.

Fragrant Chicken Curry serves 2
1 onion, peeled and quartered
2 garlic cloves
1 nub of fresh root garlic, peeled
1 green chili, halved and deseeded
2 tsp curry powder
1 dsp ground coriander
2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp garam masala
1 tsp mustard seeds
2 handfuls of fresh coriander
2 skinless organic chicken breasts, cubed

Tip the onions, garlic, ginger, chili, ground spices, mustard seeds and half of the coriander into a food processor. Add a little salt and whizz to make a gorgeous green paste. Scrape every last particle into a saucepan and cook over a low heat for approx 10 minutes, stirring often so it doesn't catch. Inhale the super aromas as the spices release their magic.

Add approx 200ml boiling water to the paste and return to the boil. Add the chicken, lower the heat and simmer for 20 minutes or until tender.

Chop the remainder coriander and stir into the chicken (I have also added tinned chickpeas at this stage but J seems to think that they are the nuts of the devil so I avoid using them when I'm cooking for both of us).

Serve with rice (I love adding a stick of cinnamon and a few cardamom pods to rice when it is cooking to add a little more flavour. Just remember to remove them before you serve) and a little sprinkling of extra coriander for colour.

A very easy, fast and healthy curry which certainly brought a little exotic spice into SW5 on a cold and rather dreary evening. I just hope the flat doesn't smell quite so exotic for days to come.

Salad Days Are Here Again

Whenever the sky contains a modicum of sunshine and there is a hint of warmth in the air, I find my attentions turning away from cooked the cooked greens which sustain me through the winter months, to the light and delicate leaves of salads.

There is something rather sad and unappetising about munching one's way through a chemical- laden pillow of leaves from a supermarket, and so last weekend, with its promise of burgeoning spring, I walked up to the Marylebone farmers market to see what leafy goodies were on offer.

It seems that everyone in London, including tourists, are aware of Borough Market which does means that actually trying to purchase anything has become an exercise in bustling, which rather robs robs one of any pleasure to be had in selecting delectable morsels and reminds one of rubbing up against fellow underground commuters in rush hour. Luckily the Sunday morning Marylebone market is a much more relaxed affair albeit a tiny fraction of the size.

So, determined to try something new I headed for the Wild Country Organics stall, tempted by their crates brimming over with a huge variety of weird and wonderful leaves in addition to the more usual suspects. After a consultation with the lovely stall holder I filled bags with ryokusai, greenin snow and claytonia, none of which I have ever encountered before, let alone nibbled.

How glad I am that I have. Ryokusai is a form of Chinese cabbage, its glossy dark green leaves resembling those of chard or savoy cabbage. It is also called Chinese mustard although I found that it had more of a peppery character. Unlike the spiky leaved greenin snow. A vivid shade of emerald, this distinctive leaf has a fierce mustard flavour which was superb when stir fried with garlic, spring onions and red chili. And then there was the delicate, feminine claytonia. These little leaves have a soft, almost dewy texture and have a slightly lemony taste. Perfect when combined with ribbons of cucumber and sugarsnap peas to accompany grilled fish.

Having had an introduction into the exciting world of leaves and so early in the season, I am looking forward to a long spring and summer of glorious salads. If only the weather would be as similarly enthusiastic.

Chocolate Characters Cont - the Truffler

Champagne Truffle in Milk Chocolate

There is a saying that a soft centre masks a hard heart and this particular truffle certainly proves the rule.

The lovers of champagne chocs verge on the self-indulgent side and exhibit ruthless behaviour – nothing will get in the way of them achieving their goals and pleasures in life.

Although appearing to be connoisseurs, in reality their tastes are fairly pedestrian. The champagne truffler is swayed by brands and labels which they will delight in displaying visibly. These are not people of a complex palate and their slightly selfish streak will lead them to buy a box of their favourite centres for others, even if they know that the recipient prefers brazil nuts, safe in the knowledge that they will be able to polish off the contents themselves.

Beware the milk champagne truffler - these are not people to trifle with.

At Last - Spring

Spring in this grey town is finally bursting through the curtain of winter and there is an excited anticipation in the newly warm air. People have cast aside their swaddling layers and are smiling at each other in the streets, bathed in the fresh, bright light. Chests are lifted and heads held high as Londoners emerge from their long winter hibernation and eyes are cast skywards like flowers unfurling and nodding towards the sun.

For months I have been waiting for this day, for this moment when the season of new life, new hope rushes into our lives. It may be raining but nothing today can dampen my spring spirits.

I breathe. I smile. I live.

The Candida Challenge - Dining Out

Luckily London is awash with quality restaurants (along with those at the opposite end of the spectrum) that serve cuisine from around the globe. We are spoilt for choice - whether one yearns for substantial latkes, elegant dim sum, fragile sashimi, a fragrant biryani or a good old fashioned roast with all the trimmings, this is the place to be. Without having to resort to 'health food' establishments, it is incredibly easy to eat out whilst having to omit a plethora of goodies from one's diet.

So, dinner out with my great friend, A - a confirmed vegetarian, saw us heading for one of the Maroush restaurants.

Lebanese cuisine is one of my favourites. I love their use of lemons, oil, chickpeas, flavourings such as sumac, chili and mint and that there is usually something to suit even the pickiest of palates. J and I often go for a speedy weekend lunch when he can divulge in his lamb shwarma habit (pieces of rather fatty but unctuous meat lovingly enveloped in a soft flour wrap) whilst I breeze my way through a spicy salad.

And happily dinner whilst on the dreaded anti-candida plan proved to be a cinch at Maroush. The rather diffident staff brought us neon-coloured carrot juices, nutty tasting hummus, silky moutabal with it's smoky aubergine flavours, salty halloumi, vibrant salads and stuffed vine leaves with flat bread for A. Flavours to transport one to distant and sultry lands. Food to jolt the tastebuds awake whilst being healthy and, on this occasion, vegetarian and suitable for weird diets.

We left feeling replete, virtuous and with our wallets still mostly in one piece. I think killing the candida isn't going to be quite so hard after all.

Maroush V, 4 Vere Street, London W1G 0DF (off Oxford Street)

The Candida Challenge - Sipping

I've been on the tricksy anti-candida diet for over a week now and I haven't yet perished due to sheer boredom (or hunger). It's amazing how inventive and resourceful one can be when armed with a fruitbowl of lemons, a fridge full of vegetables, an ocean of fish and a cupboard of herbs, spices and pulses.

Forfeiting a relaxing glass or two of wine of an evening is proving to be rather challenging, especially as I decided that if I was going to detox properly then I may as well hurl myself into it with all the energy I can muster and give up smoking. Today I am 10 days nicotine free and wish I could report that I am already feeling the benefit - sadly my chewed fingers tell a rather different tale.

However I have devised a delicious drink to sip (on the nights when I don't allow myself a cheeky vodka). Bursting with lemon zest, ginger and mint, it really does cheer one up and gives a much needed jolt to my tiring tastebuds. Not quite a glass of wine but, by jove, it will do for the remaining fasting fortnight. And it will be delicious on a summer's evening out in the garden. Where oh where is the sun?

CB's Lemon Zing
2 unwaxed lemons
large nugget of ginger, peeled
large handful of mint
ice cubes
1 bottle of sparkling mineral water (I've fallen in love with Pellegrino)

Zest your lemon and put it in a jug along with the juice of both fruits. Juice the ginger by grating it on the tiniest holes of a grater and add this to the lemon juice. Roughly tear the mint and add to the jug along with a good handful of ice cubes. Pour in the bottle of water and muddle it all up with a spoon. Delicious.

I have also added slices of peeled cucumber on occasions which adds a subtle freshness to this super drink.

Lemon Saviour

After several months of feeling increasingly ill I finally got round to seeing my wonderful, Austrian homeopathist. Weird and wonderful tests revealed that I've got an overgrowth of candida in my stomach - again.

Candida is a minute microflora - a yeast that lives in everyone's tum. Unfortunately it can get out of control due to all kinds of triggers: stress, antibiotics, too much sugar etc. At best it can cause a whole raft of nasty symptoms and at worse can cause a debilitating illness akin to M.E. Luckily for me it just causes horrid tummy problems, ezcema and feeling so tired it's as if I'm carting a ton of bricks around, rather than my arms and legs.

How does one get rid of this evil demon? By starving the little critters (and the patient) with a strict, controlled diet and flushing those little devils clean away, helped by so many supplements that I swear I rattle as I walk. Basically one has to avoid all sugars, yeasts, cow's dairy, smoked or cured foods and refined grains, none of which really affect me, however the things that I will have to live without are hot spices, fermented things (no balsamic vinegar, no ketchup, pickles or alcohol), nuts (unless they're freshly cracked out of the shell), no chocolate and no fruit. The latter two are killing me although, thank heaven for small mercies, for a bizarre reason I am allowed lemons. Something to do with them actually being an alkaline food rather than acidic. I don't really care why, all I know that my fruit bowl is brimming over with these yellow jewels, waiting to yield their sparkling sunshine to brighten up my barren three week food gloom.

Lemons may prove to be the one thing which preserves my sanity for the next few weeks and will stop my tastebuds from losing the will to live. Oh, and my homeopathist did say that I was allowed the occasional vodka and spoon of apple puree if I really was going slightly round the twist. Vodka with a twist? Now we're talking. I think this is going to be bearable after all......

The Farm, Fulham

I first visited The Farm, a gastropub in South West London, shortly after it opened to much acclaim in 2004, and so was keen to see if standards had been maintained when presented with the opportunity to make a return trip.

We fought our way through the noisy revellers in the bar to get to the restaurant, and to my astonishment, had to find somewhere to hang our coats up ourselves due to a reception which matched the chilly February evening. Sadly, this rather set the tone for the whole experience.

We were proffered the wine list which is divided in a somewhat confusing manner. ‘Spicy fruit’ and ‘Bordeaux’ were the two categories of red wine and yet the latter included wines from Australia and Chile. We opted for a 2000 Chateau la Fleur Carrere from St Emilion having received no help from the indifferent sommelier.

Since my last visit to The Farm, the menu has been changed to ‘French classic favourites’, a theme which is reflected in the starters (although I didn’t spy anyone eating the calves brains in butter), but which fizzles out by the main courses. I chose an artichoke and truffle salad with toasted pinenuts to start and my fellow diner opted for the saffron risottowith rocket and parmesan. These two starters did not sit well together on the table; my salad was tiny - wafer-thin slivers of artichoke sprinkled on a sparse bed of rocket and topped with little rounds of black truffle. Luckily the truffle had a good earthy taste but there was just too little of the artichoke for it to make an impact on one’s palate. Conversely, my partner’s risotto was a huge mound of rice, the saffron flavour of which was killed by a liberal overdose of cheese and an unimaginative presentation. Bland is the word.

18 months ago the menu displayed a touch of flair and imagination, however, unless roast duck, grilled steak, roast lamb and grilled fish are your thing, then you may be hard pushed to find something to your liking. Luckily this is exactly the food my partner loves and he chose the roast rump of lamb with cherry tomatoes with a confit of shallots in a lamb jus with a side order of chips. I plumped for a second starter, peppered tuna with green beans, soft egg and olive sauce with a green salad on the side. No choice was offered as to how the lamb was cooked but happily it was still pink in the middle and very tender. The confit of shallots however was overly sweet as if sugar had been added rather than caramelising the onions. Indeed, the texture of the shallots rather added to this suspicion. The chips were simply awful. Greasy and like something one would expect from a local chippy, not from a gastropub.

My tuna was delicious, two slices of lightly-seared fish with a pepper crust which was complemented beautifully by the salty tapenade. The soft egg was actually hard and only half appeared on my plate, but by then we were no longer surprised, more resigned.

With coffee and water, the bill came to a little over £75. Not the cheapest gastropub I’ve dined in but almost certainly one of the most disappointing. More of a barnyard than a Farm.

The Farm, 18 Farm Lane, London SW6
www.thefarmfulham.co.uk

Fish for Friends

My great friend Peter was over all to briefly from France (see Le Log Lillois) and so we invited him over for supper. Peter is a pescatarian (or 'pesky vegetarian' as I have heard them referred to) and so obviously this determined dinnertime fare.

One trip to the fishmonger later and I was prepared to make my version of a tomato and fish stew, perfect for a bitterly cold February night. This is also a great dish to make if you not sure what time everyone is expected to arrive as the sauce can be made in advance and then the final stages will only take around 10 mins to perform.

Tomato Fishy Stew (serves 3 hungry people or 4 who are less ravenous)
1 onion, finely sliced
3 celery stalks, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1tsp ground cumin
3tsp ground coriander
1/2tsp ground ginger
few branches of thyme
400g tin cherry tomatoes in juice (plus 200g tin chopped toms in juice)
tomato ketchup
red wine (a soft pinot noir is ideal)
large pinch of saffron threads
1 tuna steak
1 salmon fillet
1 cod fillet
150g large cooked tiger prawns
flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Soften the onion and celery in olive oil for around 10 minutes and then add the garlic. Tip in the tomatoes with their juices, the herbs and spices, a good splurge of ketchup and bubble away on a medium to high heat for around 10 minutes. Season with a good grinding of pepper.

When the tomatoes have reduced to a pulp, pour in a glass of red wine and bubble again for around another 10 minutes. Taste and season to your liking. Turn off the heat if your guests have not yet arrived and avoid the temptation to keep on tasting (or maybe that's just me!).

Meanwhile, cut the fish fillets into large bite-size chunks and season with ground pepper. Mix in the prawns and put to one side.

Pour a little boiling water over the saffron threads in a saucer and leave to infuse.

When your supper companions are comfortably settled on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand, re-heat the tomato sauce, add the saffron/water mixture and chuck in the fish. Stir, leave over a low to medium heat for approximately 5-10 minutes (depends on how 'done' you like your fish) and then serve, sprinkled with a good pinch or two of the parsley with a bowl of new potatoes and one of greens.

I apologise to friends who recognise this dish - it's become one of those recipes that I can turn out automatically without having to concentrate terribly hard. Still, we all need them and gathering from the clean plates, no-one was disappointed.