Archive for the ‘food as love’ Category

h1

Universal admiration

July 24, 2012

A Love & Hunger dinner at Universal Restaurant

One of the cool things about writing books is that through them you get to meet some fantastically interesting people – and I am so excited that Christine Manfield, the renowned chef and cookbook author from Sydney’s Universal Restaurant (anyone see Christine on Masterchef the other week?), has invited me to speak at a special dinner at her restaurant.

It’s on Wednesday, August 8 and is extra special because Christine has invited Alex Herbert, former chef at one of my favourite restaurants Bird Cow Fish (which Alex closed earlier this year) to cook with her.

Together, Christine and Alex are coming up with a four-course menu “inspired by” Love & Hunger  – but I can tell you now the food we’ll eat that night will be far more wondrous than any of the recipes in my book!

If you’d like to go, tickets are available now at a very reasonable $100 per head, which includes four courses and wine by Ulithorne wines by Rose Kentish, as well as a reading by One.

I would so love to meet any How To Shuck An Oyster readers there, so if you do come, make sure you say hi, okay?

Bookings are being taken now via Universal’s website http://www.universalrestaurant.com/home.html, by email eat@universalrestaurant.com or phone (02) 9331 0709.

Tell your friends!

h1

Why cook?

June 19, 2012

This post is rather a cheat, but as I’ve been travelling so much lately (last week back to  good old Varuna, where I spent a week remembering what it is like to sit still, think in silence for hours at a time and even – gasp – write a little) I’ve hardly been home to cook anything. It’s been a pleasure to meet readers of Love & Hunger at events around the place, including a couple in Sydney, one at Bathurst, another at Huskisson. And this coming Sunday I’m in conversation with the Jennifer Byrne at the Noosa Long Weekend Festival, after an event tonight here in Sydney which promises to be a real treat – not abut my book this time, but I’m in conversation with the wonderful Ailsa Piper about her book on pilgrimage, Spain and ethical life without religion. It’s called Sinning Across Spain. Do come along if you get a chance… 

All this running around, while such a gratifying response to the books, can tend to separate one from real life and what for me are the grounding, nourishing routines of ordinary domesticity. So I’ve decided to remind myself about that real life by posting the first chapter of Love & Hunger. It’s called Why cook?

And soon I’ll be back with some new adventures in the kitchen, hopefully starting with a successful first edition of homemade yoghurt – stay tuned. 

PART 1: ORIGINS

WHY COOK?

I began really learning to cook in my mid-twenties, at about the same time as I began really learning to write. I have only recently wondered if there is a link between these two things, other than the circumstances in which I found myself: an idle university student in possession of time for dawdling, some vague creative urges and new friends who inspired me with their own creativity and skill with a pen or a frying pan.

I had, of course, been cooking for years, in the way one does to feed oneself on first leaving home. I cooked sturdy, cheap and cheerful meals that were nutritious enough, if not exactly adventurous. I had also been writing for years, as a journalist on our small-town local newspaper, and I suspect the properties of my writing echoed those of my cooking. My articles—about artificial insemination of cattle, say, or the latest Lions Club fund-raising effort for a new piece of hospital equipment—were competent, and no doubt accurate enough. But the desire to write creatively, to bring out into the light and give shape and purpose to the inchoate longings and imaginings of my young mind, was still too unformed—or else too deeply buried to acknowledge. I remember once being asked if I had ever thought about writing a novel. The idea seemed utterly ludicrous. My questioner might as well have asked if I had yearnings to captain a ship to Antarctica, or to become a world-famous belly-dancer. It was not just that such an achievement was beyond me, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to expose herself—to danger, to knowing—in such a way.

Skip a few decades to a recent dinner, when a dear friend who likes to be provocative suggested that people like me cook for others as a way feeling superior to them. I admit I was a little rocked by this idea. Could he be right? Might there be even a kernel of truth in this? And if it wasn’t true, why then do I cook, and why does the satisfaction it brings me feel so profound?

I hope my friend is wrong about my motives—or mostly wrong—but I do see his point, given the almost obscene contemporary obsession with what I think of as fashion cookery: the slavish reproduction of the latest television fad, the obedient queuing outside this cake shop or that restaurant, the cult-like allegiance to this brand of olive oil or that cookbook. All this worries me, because it seems born of a kind of competitive social anxiety rather than a confident love of food, and it makes cooking into a club of knowing insiders, excluding all others. The fetishisation of chefs and dishes and ingredients and equipment led one woman I know to declare in exasperation that she just didn’t get this obsession with something as basic as food, she said. ‘I mean,’ she cried, ‘it’s just petrol!

I am not immune to food fashion, and some of it can be fun. But I aspire to something nearer to the ground, more elemental. The home cooks I know who have the most strongly anchored, easy relationship with their skill and interest in making food are somehow both serious and casual about it at once. They might make their own passata, but they would never dream of replicating an Adriano Zumbo cake. They spend hours a day reading food books, but couldn’t give a damn about where ‘the best’ olive oil comes from.

But I’m drifting from the question. What is the nature of the pleasure I get from cooking?

Whenever we whined about being bored as children, our mother would call over her shoulder that we should ‘go and do something constructive!’ This may well have merely sprung from the desire to get yet another of her five children out of her face for a moment, but she touched on something important: the deep arising from the act of creating something that didn’t exist before you made it. Whether it’s a drawing, a paper plane, a garden bed or a tub of baba ganoush—there is something fundamentally enriching about bringing something new into existence. It’s constructive, in the most literal sense.

Another aspect of my pleasure in cooking is in the mental diversion it creates. When cooks speak of preparing a meal as a way of ‘unwinding’ or ‘relaxing’ after a hard day at work, I think there are several things at play. I am reminded of the great joy I felt for the year or so I went to Latin dancing classes. As with any kind of dancing involving patterns, what’s essentially happening when you cook is a focused engagement with something physical and momentary, with patterns of repeated movements (chopping, stirring, turning a piece of fish or meat, for example). And in that focus on the physical, the mind may be freed from whatever had previously been occupying it. One woman I spoke to about this described it as ‘free concentration’—a graceful transition from the intellectual part of her day to the leisure part of it. I wonder if this kind of freeing of the mind from niggling worries of the past hours or days, or of future expectations, the intense focus and control only of the present moment, is part of the serenity that people seek from meditation.

At the same time as I am freed from the past and the future, though, in some subtle but definite way I am also connected, at least once every mealtime, to a cycle of life greater and more permanent than my own. This might sound grandiose, but pour a cupful of dried Puy lentils through your fingers and tell me you don’t feel at least a faint twinge of earthy delight. Similarly, whenever I thump a cleaver through a piece of raw meat, it inevitably provokes a subtle but definite stirring of some primal life-and-death struggle.

Pinching the balled-up bud of a basil flower off a knee-high plant by the kitchen door and tossing it into a pan of pasta sauce might not satisfy as deeply as making cheese from the milk of your own cows, as does one gentleman of my acquaintance, but it’s still there, this tiny thread of connection between me and the earth. This thread is so fine nobody but me would notice it – and to others it may sound tenuous and highly romantic, but I don’t care. It’s true for me.

This kind of creativity is also mercifully free of public evaluation. In a creative field, your work is always attended by the possibility of humiliation—when a novel is published you are at the very least subject to several cool public assessments of your work, if not to newspaper declarations of your failure, or screeds of online comments about how stupid are your characters, how scant your ideas, how tedious your voice. Even when reviews turn out to be positive, the period of waiting for them makes opening the Saturday newspapers an exercise in nausea control for weeks, if not months, around publication time. So freedom from critical evaluation of the result makes the creative pleasure of cooking even deeper for me. Nobody is going to publicly declare your soufflé a workmanlike attempt in which the slight dip on the left-hand side ultimately led to the failure of the whole dish. For me, cooking (and gardening, a related pursuit) represents creativity in its purest form. It’s no surprise that many fiction writers I know also have other private creative pursuits: one plays the ukulele, another sews stunningly beautiful bed quilts. We do these things partly, I think, because the strain of producing creative work under the watchful eye of reviewers, even publishers, even our beloved readers, can leach the work of much of its joy. It’s work, after all. But cooking – or quilting, or ukulele-playing—is pleasure.

Ah, pleasure. Of course physical pleasure must also be at the heart of every good cook’s desire to do it. A friend (who, ironically, doesn’t drink much at all) once told me she didn’t trust teetotallers. To her, permanent abstinence from alcohol equates to a pathological fear of losing control, which in turn equals a fear of life. Having a couple of life-loving friends who don’t drink at all, I’m not sure about that—but I certainly agree that a love of eating and drinking seem to correspond, among the people I know, with a love of life. A powerful appetite for food and an open emotional and intellectual appetite tend to go together—or perhaps that’s my convenient prejudice.

What is not a prejudice but firm, proven data is something social researchers have been telling us for years: that connection with other people is what gives meaning and purpose to our lives. For me cooking creates the occasion and the place for those connections to happen. I remember several years ago stirring a pot of something in the kitchen, listening to the near-deafening hubbub of a dozen people sitting around the table in the next room, and thinking: I have never been happier in my life than in this moment.

But what about my devil’s-advocate friend’s assertion, that people become good cooks in order to impress—even intimidate—others? Well, no doubt this is true for some. But I think the inverse is far more prevalent: that people become good cooks in order to be loved. The writer and former restaurateur Gay Bilson has spoken of her ‘need to be needed’ in this context, and in her book Plenty: Digressions on Food writes of the moment she learned, by making cream puffs at age eleven, that cookery leads to praise. I think it would be a rare cook who could truthfully deny sharing these desires. For one thing, this kind of praise is so easy to get: any good cook will tell you that the compliments lavished upon them usually far exceed the effort it took to bring the lauded dish to the table. (This is not all sweetness and light, however; so bound up is my social life and my cooking that in my darker moments I have occasionally wondered whether, if I didn’t make food for them, I would have any friends at all. If there is a sombre underside to be found in my cooking life, that is it.)

But some of the deepest satisfactions of cooking are not necessarily to do with sharing food with others, with the big dinner party or the impressive dish; it might be a single perfectly seared piece of salmon eaten on a weeknight in front of the television, or the pleasing consistency of a pea and mint soup eaten at your desk for lunch.

Thinking about the quiet but serious pleasure in these small moments, I finally recognise the most persistent feeling I have about my skill with cooking. It’s not superiority, or even wantedness—it’s that I feel lucky.

Every now and again someone will say to me wistfully, ‘I wish I liked cooking.’ I think my mother was probably this sort of person. My siblings may have differing opinions, but it seems to me she did not really like cooking much and yet she did it, hour upon hour of it, every day, with very little money, to provide nourishment for five children and a husband. Her garden was where her heart lay, and I think with a kind of sadness sometimes about how often she must have longed to be out in the garden instead of buttering yet another biscuit tray, or chopping another carrot, and I blush at how much we complained about the food she so selflessly put on our table each night.

This is when I realise my luck. To derive so much pleasure from what to some people is a chore as joyless as vacuuming feels like an enormous stroke of good fortune.

Writing and cooking are, as I have said, two separate arenas of my life, and their separateness is part of what makes them both so satisfying to me—and yet here I am, bringing them together. But there is another thread that joins them. Like many before me, I write fiction to find out what I think about the world; to open it up, look at it and place myself in it—and, in sending those books out into the public space, to share with others what I have found. In some ways, cooking does this for me too. When I try out a new technique or a recipe on my friends, or I pick a bay leaf from the little potted tree outside my kitchen, or I get excited by something as simple as a well-made frangipane tart, I am extending myself, discovering something new, and connecting myself to my world in a way that feels important.

As I write this I am increasingly impatient to get into the kitchen. I have ten people coming for dinner this evening, and I’m roasting two experimental chickens. I’m brining one of the birds before cooking, for the first time, to see why people make such a fuss about brining. As well, I’ve just been given a whole real truffle—an amazing black, chocolatey nugget of a thing—which I’m to shave and put under the skin of the second chicken before roasting. I am more excited by these two experiments to come, and yet so anchored to myself and my place in the world because of them, than it is possible to explain in words.

From Love & Hunger: Thoughts on the Gift of Food, by me.

Now it’s your turn. What is the nature of the pleasure you get from cooking? 

h1

Roadside assistance

April 1, 2011

Sometimes it’s difficult not to feel swamped by the grime and aggression of urban life (not to mention the deeply depressing nature of ghastly world events – sorry about that dispiriting last post, folks). If you live in the inner city, as we do, you may be faced with a constant barrage of noise from cars, leaf blowers, power tools, garbage trucks, street sweepers and aircraft. And if you live near a dodgy shopping centre, as we do, you may also be treated to various instances of human aggression floating in through your open windows as people pass to and fro. Shouting, spitting, swearing, parents screaming at their kids, kids at each other, young men at young women and vice versa – there are days when city living  just becomes too much.

Happily, this urban stress syndrome (I believe it’s official now) can be quickly alleviated by a drive into the country. Last week we spent a night with friends at a house on the Hawkesbury River, only about an hour and a half away from home. Sitting on that verandah early Saturday morning watching the river was the most restorative tranquilliser I could have wished for at the end of a long week.

And even though we couldn’t stay long, the drive home was just as recuperative as the night away. This time, instead of flying past in a hurry as we often do when returning from the country, we decided to take the trip very slowly and stop at many of the roadside food stalls along the way.

I think from now on I am going to try to do this every time we leave the city – apart from filling your fridge or your fruit bowl, there’s something else very satisfying about buying food in this way. It’s partly to do with bringing something of the landscape home with you, and partly to do with closing the gap between you and where your food comes from. Even if the veg is from a van on the side of the road rather than the farm itself, the person selling it to you has usually either grown it themselves or knows the person who did.

There’s a human connection – a warmth in this passing of basic, simple food from their hands to yours that I find deeply soothing.

It also usually means you’re eating seasonal food – most stalls seem to sell stuff when there’s a glut or oversupply – which promotes a direct connection to the earth and the weather. This is a welcome contrast to the kind of grocery shopping that can tend to make you feel like a cog in a great big industrial food machine.

And lastly, there’s the aesthetic pleasure involved. Lots of the stalls and the signs and the food itself are, I reckon, quite beautiful. Each one has its own particular character and casual, amateur beauty. So much so, actually, that I’m thinking of setting up a separate blog purely for photos of roadside food stalls,where people can send me a pic and I’ll post it. What do you think? I didn’t take my camera away with us last week so these photos were taken on the good old Hipstamatic iPhone app, and I love the result.

Anyway – by the time we made it home from the Hawkesbury we had a dozen fresh eggs, two kilos of beautifully ripe tomatoes, a kilo of borlotti beans and two kilos of figs.

The seasonal, gluttish aspect of this kind of exchange also means your cooking gets a nice kick of rejuvenation too, as what you buy dictates your cooking for a bit. For two people, for example, it takes a fair bit of imagination to get through two kilos of figs in the few days they will last before they are too ripe to use. So this week has been fig city at our place, and we’ve loved it.

Apart from the usual fig halves wrapped in proscuitto as a snack, we’ve made a dessert of figs with spiced yoghurt adapted from that published in SMH Good Living  a couple of weeks back (sorry, can’t find a link online!), and then a really delicious dinner in which we adapted this recipe for Maggie Beer’s spatchcock in a fig ‘bath’, replacing the bird with a very succulent bit of quickly roasted pork fillet (from Feather & Bone, natch).

We still have about a dozen very ripe figs left, so this weekend I’m going to throw a few into this salad from last year, and use the rest to make Justin North’s fig preserve published in this week’s Sydney Magazine.

As for the tomatoes, I’ve slow-roasted about half to use in everything, pureed another six or so to throw into a fish curry the other night, and have a big bowl left for salads and whatever else might take our fancy. Next stop, the fresh borlotti beans. I’ll get back to you (or tell me what to do with them!)….

In the meantime, I would love to know if you partake in the highway harvest too? Or have you perhaps even solved your own produce glut this way? If you’re lucky enough to live outside the metropolis, tell me your favourite roadside veg stall or pick-your-own orchard or farm gate stall, and what you love about it.

PS: If anyone knows what ‘moad’ is, and why it should be left in the jar, please enlighten me!

h1

A moment’s grace

September 10, 2010

Does anybody ever say grace anymore? A while ago a friend confessed an unusual phobia: he lived in terror of being asked to say grace before a meal. The old fear of public speaking turned up a notch by the requirement for solemnity and reverence, I suppose. I forgot about that amusing moment until a few weeks ago when we dined with friends and their kids at a celebratory meal, and one of the guests said a few words of grace before we tucked in, and I found it a lovely gesture.

Even though I grew up in a solidly Mass-attending Catholic family, I don’t recall saying grace regularly at all – it was always said at Christmas dinner or some other special meal, but the idea of giving thanks for food on a daily basis was not big in our house.  Perhaps it’s more a Protestant thing? What about Judaism – in such a food-based culture I imagine it’s pretty standard? But whatever our religious or cultural origins, grace certainly isn’t said much among my circle nowadays, and even a quick Google search comes up with the name of a removal company before suggestions of how to say grace. Often thanks is given to the hosts or the cook, but that’s not the same thing at all as gratitude for the luck and grace that has brought the food (and the friends!) to the table.

All this has made me wonder if it might be possible to come up with some way of ritually expressing thanks for the enormous good fortune that brings such good, fresh food to our table in such abundance that we find it shamefully unremarkable. The trouble is that grace is traditionally said to God, and if you don’t believe in him there’s a bit of a problem. Alternatively, thanking The Universe or whatever is a tad too hippie-dippy (or ‘oogyboogy’ as my friend Peter the painter says)  for my taste and would surely embarrass my grace-fearing friend even more that the trad version.

But maybe we don’t have to thank any divine force in particular; perhaps all that’s required is simply to be thankful, and raise a glass in that gratitude.

Would love your thoughts. Did any of you say grace in your childhoods? What kind? Do you still do it? Or if you aren’t religious, have you come up with any other way of marking this kind of thankfulness?

h1

Food & friendship: on Crossing to Safety

February 1, 2010

‘The expression of a civilised cuisine’

It’s been a while since I posted any fictional food, and this morning trawling through my bookshelves for readerlyinspiration I found Crossing to Safety, by Wallace Stegner. This novel (introduced to me, incidentally, by the Parsnip Princess) is One of Those Books – it will remain one of my favourites for ever, I think. It’s about a lifelong friendship between two couples, and the dominance of one charismatic, exceptional, difficult woman over all four individuals. Very little has been written about this kind of complex, meandering, intense friendship, so the subject in itself is a fine thing. But the finest thing is the writing. I love this book.

Here are new arrivals Larry and Sally going to Sid and Charity Lang’s place for the first time.

I have heard of people’s lives being changed by a dramatic or traumatic event – a death, a divorce, a winning lottery ticket, a failed exam. I never heard of anybody’s life but ours being changed by a dinner party.

We straggled into Madison, western orphans, and the Langs adopted us into their numerous, rich, powerful, reassuring tribe. We wandered into their orderly Newtonian universe, a couple of asteroids, and they captured us with their gravitational pull and made moons of us and fixed us in orbit around themselves.

What the disorderly crave above everything else is order, what the dislocated aspire to is location. Reading my way out of disaster in the Berkeley library, I had run into Henry Adams. ‘Chaos,’ he told me, ‘is the law of nature; order is the dream of man.’ No-one had ever put my life to me with such precision, and when I read the passage to Sally, she heard it in the same way I did. Because of her mother’s uncertain profession, early divorce, and early death, she had first been dragged around and farmed out, and later deposited in the care of overburdened relatives. I had lost my security, she had never had any. Both of us were peculiarly susceptible to friendship. When the Langs opened their house and their hearts to us, we crept gratefully in.

Crept? Rushed. Coming from meagerness and low expectations, we felt their friendship as freezing travelers feel a dry room and a fire. Crowded in, rubbing our hands with satisfaction, and were never the same thereafter. Thought better of ourselves, thought better of the world.

In its details, that dinner party was not greatly different from hundreds we have enjoyed since. We drank, largely and with a recklessness born of inexperience. We ate, and well, but who remembers what? Chicken kiev, saltimbocca, escallope de veau, whatever it was, it was the expression of a civilised cuisine, as far above our usual fare as manna is above a baked potato. A pretty table was part of it, too – flowers, wine in fragile glasses, silver whose weight was a satisfaction in the hand. But the heart of it was the two people who had prepared the occasion, apparently just to show their enthusiasm for Sally and me.


h1

Loaves and fishes: my list of miracle foods

December 15, 2009

Okay, I know Christmas isn’t strictly related to that particular miracle (reminds me of the time my heathen brother-in-law demanded of my mother what the hell Easter eggs had to do with Jesus being born in Bethlehem anyway…), but one of the things I really like Christmas & New Year holidays is the tendency toward spontaneous and sprawly gatherings over food.

You know the kind of thing, two people for lunch turns into ten, and an instant party ensues. But to make that kind of thing fun it’s gotta be stress free – so here’s my list of good stuff you can pull out at the last second for lunch or picknicky dinner, or take to a friend’s place to blast off their Christmas stress.

Some are old summer holiday faves, and some gleaned from these pages this year. Most of this stuff can be bought in advance and shoved in the fridge, freezer or pantry to pull our for miracle-working when requried…

  • Oysters – of course! Buy them unopened a few days before Christmas and keep in a bucket with a wet towel over them in a cool place – they keep for a couple of weeks.
  • Glazed ham – leftovers, for weeks. Mmmmm.
  • Chutneys & pickles – years ago the Empress introduced me to the killer recipe for Christine Manfield’s eggplant pickle.
  • Smoked salmon – or Virginia & Nigella’s cured salmon! – w creme fraiche and/or salmon roe & sourdough
  • Smoked trout –  keep a couple in the freezer and pull them out any old time
  • Cooked prawns, green salad, mayonnaise
  • Bread – keep a supply of sourdough in the freezer
  • Green salad, nicely dressed with good oil & vinegar
  • Chickpeas – of course! Chuck em in a bowl with bottled roasted capsicum & marinated feta or labneh, or try these ideas
  • Baba ganoush & Steph’s beetroot dip – plus packets and packets of rice crackers
  • Quinoa salad or citrus couscous (make a huge batch – both of these keep forever)
  • Lots of luscious, ripe avocado – buy a heap of those rock hard ones now to have softies on hand for later.
  • Lots and lots and lots of ripe tomatoes
  • Devils on horseback – everybody loves them! And you can keep sealed pancetta & pitted prunes on hand for months…
  • A couple of fillets of salmon in the freezer and a couple of spuds can yield a heap of salmon patties for a crowd.
  • Peas! I am never without a huge bag of frozen peas in the freezer. Actually there will be a new post on peas coming shortly…
  • Eggs – chuck a few halved, hard-boiled eggs in a green salad with some chunks of fresh, cured or smoked salmon and you have a delicious twist on nicoise.
  • Labneh – mmmm.
  • Quiche – if you have frozen shortcrust pastry in the freezer, a quiche takes about fifteen minutes to throw together and another twenty to cook. Fast and fab.

Okeydokes, that’s Santa’s (or Jesus’s?) list of magic expandable food for now – but you must have lots of things to add …

*Oh, and today’s Christmas Excess Antidote is courtesy of www.kiva.org– I absolutely love this site. At the click of a mouse you can provide a micro-loan (as little as $25) to someone in a developing country who’s making a go of things with very slim pickings indeed. I love it so much because your loan just keeps on giving – you can either get the money back (though what kind of a person …) or choose that it goes to someone else in the chain. Perfect!

h1

The platters that matter…

October 13, 2009

4candlesMenu for a 40th birthday lunch

My absence here over the past week has, till now, been almost entirely food-related. Well, celebration-related anyway – and in my family that means food. My sister’s 40th birthday on the weekend involved a bunch of us staying in houses on the coast just south of Sydney, and a few others popping down for the day. The main event was a birthday lunch for 25.

All our old family favourites (both human and culinary!) came to the table – a table groaning with platters of lovely food, it must be said, and as the last stayer at the coastal house I am the beneficiary of my sister’s generosity, still chomping my way through the leftovers.

Sadly I was too busy on the day to take pictures, which is a shame cos it looked beautiful. But nevertheless thought I’d share the menu with you here in case you ever need some stalwart standouts to cook for a crowd – everything on this menu is low-stress, almost all of it can be made ahead of time, every dish can be served warm or at room temperature, the platters set down a long table create an impression of great, colourful generosity and luscious diversity, and with a couple of vegetarians and one coeliac among our guests, this menu makes everyone happy. I’ll gradually add these recipes to the blog down the track – right now I’m still in culinary recovery – but let me know if any strike you as desperately urgent to have now.

  • Oysters – of course! – freshly shucked, with a squeeze of lemon
  • Rare rump of roast beef, according to Stephanie Alexander’s instructions
  • Poached whole salmon (with a horseradish cream for both this and the beef)
  • Zaatar chicken – from the fab Ottolenghi lads
  • Green beans braised in olive oil, garlic, tomato & dill
  • Roast carrot salad with mint & balsamic
  • Citrus couscous salad
  • Fennel, feta, tarragon & pomegranate salad – another Ottolenghi fave
  • Chickpea, roasted red pepper & marinated feta salad (all from jars & cans, but it looks and tastes fab)
  • Lentil, sundried tomato, parsley and Balsamic salad (ditto)
  • Crisp roast potatoes with minted creme fraiche dressing
  • Dessert, made by sweeter cooks than me, was an incredibly good chocolate and coffee birthday cake (Alice, we’ll have the recipe for that, please?) and the Manna from Heaven chocolate crunch made by Miss Jane; this is a lusciously dastardly version of the old fave hedgehog cake, updated into an utterly irresistible  death-by-chocolate experience.

Lunch went on for hours, the birthday girl looked a million bucks, the speeches were lovely, the wine flowed and the love goes on. Thanks Lou and J&B for a great weekend.

And thanks for the leftovers…