experiment, chicken stock, demi glace, trials of western world

Tonight, I am trying an experiment. In an excess of boredom (tube strike prevented me from getting into work and the failure of the remote server precluded any other useful activity) I made two enormous pans of chicken/turkey bone stock yesterday. This means that, for the very first time, I have enough to play around with. So, I currently have three pots on the go, aiming to solve a couple of things that have bothered me. Firstly, what is demi-glace, is it worth making and freezing? Secondly, does straining stock through muslin really make that much of a difference/are new tights really a fair replacement? And thirdly, does star anise work in chicken soup?

Now, I've rather failed on the demi-glace front as apparently it's a combination of: "Espagnole or brown sauce, beef or veal stock, and Madeira or sherry, which is reduced by half." I have, as formerly mentioned, chicken stock. Veal and chicken stock are similar enough, I reckon (and I did include a pig's trotter). However Espagnole sauce is a rather different thing. It appears to be made from browned onions, celery, carrot and tomato concentrate,mixed with a 'hazelnut brown' roux, and simmered for about 2 hrs. Basically, well, bugger. The Espagnol sauce and the stock are then combined with sherry or madeira. I stopped at the crappy station M&S (the shop for people who are frightened of ovens but the only one open after my pubbing went on for longer than planned) and bought, mistakenly, port. *sigh.

Oh well. I've decided to make a demi-glace inspired reduced stock, which I'll then freeze in ice cubes, plus a chicken soup/stew thing for tomorrow. My pots are therefore as follows:
1. (the thin bottomed white crappy one incapable of diffusing heat) Contains chicken stock with a healthy pouring of port, plus tomato puree and bay leaves. On a medium heat.
2. (the thick bottomed but ludicrously small one) Contains chicken stock that has been sieved through some tights from the pound shop opposite, also with same balance of port and bayleaves. On a very high heat.
3. (casserole dish, missing one handle) Contains chicken stock, one star anise and a bouquet garni, plus a couple of drops of fish sauce as I was about to turn it chinese before changing my mind. This is over a very gentle heat and will soon have pearl barley, garlic, chicken and cabbage added to it (and potentially some soy sauce, rice vinegar and more fish sauce if it doesn't taste of anything). Am wishing very much that I had an onion, but it's too cold and miserable out there to brave it. Hmmm. As irritating boyfriend would say, 'oh, the trials of the Western World...' I notice, however, that he only says that if I'm moaning about having lost my lovely panda hat and having to rebuy it, and not when he's moaning about his xbox not loading up as fast as it used to...)

It is now 11.11pm, and results so far are as follows:
1. Still reducing, tasting ok, a bit porty (may have added slightly more or may be a result of not reduced enough yet). Now have turned on high heat to test difference to pan 2.
2. Slightly gloopy seeming (yet actually simply liquid), very black, almost dark liquid. Absolutely gorgeous. Could reduce on very high heat, ferocious heat without queering the flavour, owing to having removed impurities beforehand (supposedly) and this appears to be the case.
3. Star anise was working, whereas crappy bouquet garni (which was dried) made it taste like tea. Took it out and have put pearl barley in. Tastes ok, but not greatly rich - though wasn't my best stock. Put pearl barley in far too late, and will probably have to cook this over night in the oven. On the good side, if it's not nice I can just add some of pan 2 and it will become the yummiest thing in the world.

Fisher is soon returning from his sister's, and I have a present for him - a lego advent calendar! Very excited as think I've been sneaky enough for this to be an actual surprise (rare as normally I get impatient with not getting the credit immediately after having spent the money and start dropping lead-like hints at an early stage).

Right, now it's 12.02, and I really should go to bed. Fish returned, to be greeted by a manic girlfriend rushing between three pots. I gave him a taste of the best reduced stuff (from the small pan, sieved through tights) and he said, 'hmmm. Have you reduced that whole pan down to make that?' *sigh. Both pans have a fantastic depth of flavour, but that flavour isn't quite balanced (over sweet/salty, not enough 'brownness'). Have a feeling that some heftier beef stock would definitely have helped, and can see that sherry/madeira would be more subtle and less vibrantly sweet and winey, plus the slow cooked vegetables would have added a caramel flavour that would have been amazing. Anyway, all the reduced stock/demi-glace is now in ice cube trays and in the freezer. The chicken/cabbage/pearl barley/whatever thing is in the oven on slow, and all is right with the world.

In conclusion: - demi-glace is extremely complicated and requires beef or veal bones. Will try making Espagnole sauce though, as sounds both straight-forward and cheap. Approximation of demi-glace is good, but try with white wine or simply strained stock in the future, as will be more versatile for soups etc. Worried that putting my attempt in anything will make it taste the same, and Fisher will end up banning it, like rosemary. (*sigh)
- straining the stock through tights actually did some good things. Not so much for the taste (though think was slightly cleaner) but the texture was less greasy and far fewer impurities while boiling. Also surprisingly easy to do. Try again for normal stock.
- star anise is too strong for chicken soup - started ok but began to dominate, so I took it out. Light tone ok, but think would be better added with fennel.
- if presenting advent calendar as gift, remember to do so before boyfriend falls asleep and you have to wake him up by switching the big light on. The reception will be better.

I love Sundays. Woke up this morning luxuriously slowly, giggled at my boyfriend (who is immensely pathetic for the first 30 mins of his waking up) and then lay in bed with coffee and the fabulous third season of the wire (oh, McNulty, however you spell your name, you are gorgeous). We then went to the pub to have a very late brunch and play Rummy, which I lost as usual (grrr).

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/4370/five-spice-roast-duck-breast

Today was quite a good day. I was dreading going to work again (unfortunately an increasing trend over the last few weeks). Slowly, it's become clear that promotion is a far, far distant thing, for which I need to actually become superwoman for at least three years. Promotion, in my office, feels like a battle. Rather than any sort of reward for actually doing your job, it is taken for granted (apparently) that you will excel at your job. What is needed is to excel, and then revitalise the structure of the company, find several new authors and lick the boots of HR. All this for an assistant editor position and a measly grand raise. Without doing those things, they will just continue, apparently, to pay you 19 grand for the next twelve years and expect you to work overtime. Without attempting to come across as bitter and twisted - this is a company actively trying to look for reasons to avoid promoting you and therefore paying more. It's like trying to actually get on the plane if one is flying with Ryanair. There are four of us in the same cramped yellow seats, at first sight. However, after a while it becomes clear that actually the entire editorial team, excepting the senior eds, are in the same position. And even the senior eds are chasing bonuses, raises and probably attempting to move into better paid and less stressful positions in another company altogether. It's exhausting, and having just moved into it, I can't seem to care enough. I'd like to work somewhere doing your job gives you a bit more money to start with, and where people aren't endlessly scrounging for scraps from the company that owns the company that owns that company that owns us. There's a really horrible, scared and resentful feeling throughout editorial. It's clearly time to leave and go into food technology.

Speaking of food (and I usually end up doing so), tonight was the pork steaks. I've never had pork steaks before, and I'm not entirely sure what they are really for. Steaks, surely, are worthwhile only to eat as rare as possible? Also, Donald-Russell-extremely-posh-butchers, tell your customers what cut the steak is! Pork leg steaks are going to be a bit different from pork fillet, and not knowing made me nervous. Maybe I'm meant to know automatically but, well, I didn't. Anyway, I was considering what to do with them, in between laughing at one of my (not completely intentionally, but so incredibly sweet) funniest authors, and decided to try out a Spoonfed recipe. I don't know if any of you -

*pause in writing as my incredibly drunk boyfriend, who returned from a gig 15 minutes ago and has spent the intervening time being very sick, comes to stand naked in front of me, grin on face, singing the Venga boys, and swaying slightly. He's continuing to talk, sounding like a stoned Stuart Lee, but with a waggling willy. I am continuing to ignore him (and it). He is also emanating a faint smell of vomit. Ah, true love.
- have tried Spoonfed suppers href="http://www.spoonfedsuppers.com/">http://www.spoonfedsuppers.com/. It's worth a look. However, since my most beloved recipes all take at least four hours, and the USP of Spoonfed suppers is 'a recipe for every day that takes only 30mins to cook', I'd considered myself slightly the wrong audience. However, the honey sticky chicken recipe of today seemed to lend itself perfectly to pork steaks. I made a couple of adjustments but basically just marinated the pork steaks in olive oil, soy sauce, tomato ketchup, mustard and honey, plus some diced and crushed fresh garlic. I left them for about 30 mins, then as per the recipe laid them in a roasting tray with some thin slices of courgette, poured over the marinade and grilled them for about 15 mins, turning halfway. I ate them with sesame seed noodles and cabbage - and have learnt a couple of things. Cook pork steaks a bit less long (they were a little tough, if incredibly tasty, but think I prefer fattier cuts), greek basil and cabbage have an unexpected affinity and make sure the noodles still have some bite when you try to stir fry them. It worked very well though - good marinade, if not the most interesting - might add a bit of rice wine next time as I think this would have helped, and lovely caramelized taste. I think, however, that there wasn't enough fat in this cut to get the real sticky, pig/honey taste I was going for. However, also very unsure that this would work better with chicken breast.

Finally, today picked up at the end as I finally reached the end of a book one of my authors had revised. I had been worried, as it looked like a lot of the revisions hadn't been done, however it took flight near the end and I finished the book in tears! Proper, driven by a good happy ending tears! This has only happened to me once before, and was very exciting. I therefore have the high that comes only from telling an author how they might be able to make a book more effective, them being talented enough to go beyond what you've said and turn the book around rather than blindly following your orders and then the book becoming immeasurably more powerful. I suppose really that's the only thing that can hope to justify the 19 grand. Banking just doesn't have the same allure...

Hello all,

I've been promising myself to come and write about Edinburgh and Meat Day before I forget all about both, so here goes:

Meat Day:

I turned 26 on the 10th of August and am now only four years away from 30 and an increased possibility of dying alone. Especially, I am reliably informed, if I continue to leave wet towels on the bed instead of hanging them up properly. However, more importantly than my increased age, five white hairs (the hairdresser actually Mentioned them), and vein on one leg, my mother sent me a gorgeous box of organic, beautifully butchered meat. It arrived at work, scaring the hell out of Brenda the receptionist and proved far too large to fit in our crappy work fridge. Since the library is by far the coldest place in our windowless, factory-aired sauna of an office, I was obliged to store the package next to the books and send an email round. "Don't mind the white package beneath the Romances, it's just meat. Please leave it alone."

I eventually made it home (turns out a massive, white, polystyrene crate will ensure you a seat on a carriage even when people are too grumpy to form whole words), and discovered a fabulous mix of lots of mini-cuts for me to test out. I was deeply, incredibly happy, and have therefore decided to make a concerted effort to document what I do with each bit of meat. That first evening I picked the pork burgers. They were the kind of pork burgers I've never had before - they were pure, beautiful, juicy meat all the way through. They took longer to cook than I'd imagined as there was simply so much meat to cook through- turns out breadcrumbs and bits of nostril cook far faster than real meat. I fried them on a medium heat for about 20 mins.

With the pork burgers, I made mushrooms and broccoli with soy sauce, chilli and 5-spice. It was a bit salty, so remember not to over soy sauce it (one table spoon is easily enough), and also made a quick version of dauphinoise potatoes (par boil the potatoes first, then slice thinly. Fry up some onions and garlic in a saucepan. Rub a bit of butter round an oven proof dish then layer in potatoes, onions and garlic, herbs of choice and salt and pepper. Repeat this until the dish is full, then pour over some full cream milk, about a third up the side of the dish. Grate parmesan or cheddar over the top, and whack it in the oven at about gas 5 for at least 20 mins. Par-boiling isn't ideal, as makes the texture a bit mushy, and ideally you want to be cooking the potatoes in the milk. However, it is quicker!). It was actually extremely yummy.

Tonight, I've defrosted the lamb noisettes. There are four, and they are beautiful. The plan is to fry them to medium rare (they are quite small) make a roasted garlic, wine and redcurrant sauce from some of the pan juices, wilt some spinach and serve with mustard mash. We shall see how it goes, and if I manage to serve it before 11pm...

As to Edinburgh, we've just got back after four exhausting but extremely fun days of watching endless stand up, sketches and theatrical attempts. It was fantastic, and also fantastically expensive, but never mind. We saw: "Do We Look Like Refugees?" a fantastic play where the actors could hear the voices of the original interviewees through headphones and had to repeat them exactly, leaving no room for artifice and effectively turning the actor into a mouthpiece rather than an interpreter. Sounds incredibly pretentious, but actually was Brilliant - made far more difference than I had imagined. Also saw Frisky and Manish again (insane pop mash up couple who are ridiculously talented and could carve up Girls Aloud and eat them medium rare for dinner. Although most people could probably do that). Sammy J was really good - sweet, funny little songs and a sweet, incredibly hot and long-legged man who you wanted to take home and cuddle for ever more. Cabaret Whore - the most beautiful woman alive - incidentally, Fish and I have both come back from Edinburgh deeply in love, but with other people - who moved smoothly through four different incarnations while occasionally playing a ukelele (an unexpected theme of the festival, as happens in Edinburgh when all the acts suddenly seem to hook onto a particular thing, Inception jokes being another one). David O'Docherty, a very appealing Irish man during whose act I fell a bit asleep, but who was really talented and the lovely, archaically-voiced Miles Jupp. *sighs happily. His voice could cut diamonds - screw glass. Finally, saw a free play that was very worth mentioning: called The Flat, it was mainly notable for some fantastic portraits of archetypes, particularly when it came to sharing a flat with girls. 'Like, I don't want to be a bitch, but has someone been at my John Frieda shampoo again? It's not, like a massive deal, but it is really expensive, and like, I just think it's a bit out of order...' Sharing flats with girls involves gritted teeth and picking endless clumps of hair out of the bath - give me a smelly man and free sex any day. Though I admit I miss the occasional unexpected nights of white wine and sofas, still probably worth it in the long run.

Right, on that uninspiring ending, I've just realised the time. Shit. Now really do not have long to cook at all if I'm to beat the 11pm deadline... *runs.

I'm off sick today, as I have a cold. *pauses for sympathy. Why, thank you. Yes, yes - I'm struggling on, bravely, even though I sound like Darth Vader and drip like BP's oil hole of death. I logged on remotely, to show willing, and achieved a small amount of work quite badly. And I got thinking about being ill, and how it's an essential part of working life. I don't know about you, oh fictional reader, but if I go for a long time without having a sick day, I start to rather miss them. There's something very luxurious about being able to take a complete break from the usual routine, and instead limping about town via the chemist, looking mournful on the outside but secretly eyeing everyone you meet suspiciously and wondering 'why aren't you at work? You lazy, non-taxpaying skiver...' (I become markedly more Conservative when I'm not feeling well - maybe everyone does as there's nothing like being ill to make you resentful of the modern world, self-obsessed and wincy at rude children who Don't Say Sorry). It's the freedom to completely spoil yourself I like. I have a rather spectacularly croaky voice too, which is always lovely as is an instant sympathy gatherer.

After attempting to work this morning, I watched three episodes of Heston's Feasts. In spite of all channel four programmes apparently being made for morons with ADD (must they repeat their single point 17 times within each segment of the episode? Surely this is insulting to the average viewer? Even if I've been forced to watch 8 mins of ads in between, I will still be able to remember the goal of the episode - my short term memory is better than that of the average goldfish) I am continuing to watch it because even though he's not very good on tv and does look like a foetus, he is an amazing chef. Really wish he'd met Roald Dahl and could have cooked him a feast as currently most of the stupid guests don't seem worthy of the fabulous food (Dawn Porter? Seriously? I loathe her. Her shiny hair and not-quite-funny-enough Stylist articles and pretend kookiness...there are many worse people in the world yet somehow there's something about her in particular that makes me want to vomit. On her head be it. (literally). Hmm. It appears I am also meaner when I'm ill.)

Anyway, in other news, I then went for a walk to find reinforcements to fight the Evil Cold, and lovely chemist lady made me buy a yummy syrupy lemon and honey thing which has made many things better and also makes me feel about six, in a good, egg-and-soldiers-on-a-tray sort of way. Unfortunately, I then continued my wander in an attempt to find something I wanted to eat (I'm picky anyway, and when not feeling wonderful even more so - for example the only thing I want right now is beef consumme. Perfect, clear, brown, made from proper bones, beef consumme. Sadly, my wander took me past the Vegetable Shop. A strange remnant from the days where Finsbury park was not entirely overrun by kebab shops and 'saunas', Michael's Fruiterer's is one of my very happy places. It's lovely in there. The problem is, I can't visit it without buying something, and today, not hungry but knowing I should eat something, I had almost no judgement at all. As a result I have come home with some gorgeous English yellow tomatoes (they are the sweetest things in the world, though seem like they are just going out of season), a lemon (vague idea for lemon and honey, I think), a bunch of carrots (they do proper carrots that are a bit malformed and completely yummy) and a large marrow. It's apparently just come into season, and was only 60p. I think I'm going to stuff it with sausage meat, garlic and onion and then bake it - should be interesting, at least. I don't actually want to eat it, but assume Fish probably will.

Right - time to go and watch some more crap tv, as my head is feeling increasingly full of gloop. *sigh.

Bath and ham

I have spent today being contrary. I keep making statements to Fish, then immediately changing my mind as soon as he makes the mistake of embarking upon agreement or conversation. I'm not sure why I'm doing this, and am vaguely sorry for it, but can't seem to help it - it's like picking at a scab. So, news.

I have, finally, got a new job! As of June, I shall be a Proper Editorial Assistant. After so long feeling like a child only allowed into the entrance of the sweetshop, this is quite exciting. There's no more money, of course, but people in publishing do always seem vaguely surprised by the idea that one might need money with which to live. There's a slight feeling in the industry that to even mention the word 'salary' is bad manners - the (much better paid) Senior Editors all appear to believe that reading the scrawlings of the insane should be reward enough. 'How much does it pay? How terribly sweet of you to ask, darling. Now do toddle off and marry a banker.'

We've spent the weekend in Bath, visiting my properly grown-up cousin (my age, but at least 12 times more mature) and her equally grown-up partner (they own tall, white salt-and-pepper grinders and thus are officially partners rather than boyfriend and girlfriend). It was, as usual, lovely, if somewhat frighteningly polite. We spent most of today playing bridge and listening to opera, our serene air of middle-classness flawed only by my boyfriend sniggering at every use of the word 'rubber'. Incidentally, we own salt-and-pepper grinders that don't match and are from the pound shop. I'm not sure whether this leaves us in partner territory or not.

Sophie (my cousin) and I, also cooked an utterly delectable smoked ham. For anybody who happens to read this, go and buy one immediately! Then simmer it gently in enough water to cover, roughly chop and throw in 2 onions, some celery, 2 carrots, a leek, cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves and any other herbs desired (thyme works well). Simmer for an hour for 1kg gammon joint, then 20 mins for every 450g (check this first in a real cook book, as not certain about timings). Make a glaze from marmalade, sugar, mustard and soy sauce (mmm....) and get some cider ready. Take the ham out once it's simmered for the right amount of time, then remove the rind and some of the fat. I then rubbed a little salt into the rind, chopped it into strips and stuck it in the oven (which should have been set at 200 degrees - sorry, forgot to say that bit). This bit's optional, but does turn out to make Superb crackling. Back to the ham itself. Put it in a roasting tray. Score the fat with a sharp knife, then cover the fat with the glaze, really rubbing it in, then pour over the cider (should be a couple of inches deep in the roasting tin around the ham. Stick it into the oven, and roast it at 200 degrees, basting it about every 15mins - the recipe said 30 mins, but ours took about 50 mins and was perfect - the top should be caramalised and crispy, but not quite burnt. While it's resting, you can make a sauce with the juices in the tin. Add some fresh thyme, a little flour and boil to reduce. It was superb, although now my stomach is slightly blocking the view of this keyboard, which is rather worrying.

It's now 10pm, and I am overjoyed to not have work tomorrow. We are instead going to Thorpe park, which will be both terrifying and marvellous. I haven't been for years, and although I do always underestimate my innate fear of rollercoasters, I'm confident that I can break through the terror barrier and go on the Saw ride without throwing up on someone's head. Must remember to stay well clear of alcohol. Dutch courage would be a mistake in this case.

So, I'm about to try making ox tongue for the first time. Well, the tongue itself, obviously, comes pre-made, but I'm trying to make it edible for the first time. At 1.5kg of solid meat, it is the biggest piece of meat I've ever tried to cook. Sadly, only just put it in the pan now, and is going to take at least 50 mins per 500g...basically, poor Fish will probably not be eating it tonight. I'm boiling it, taking off the tough outer skin and then going to flash fry it in a lemon marinade, and serve with parsley sauce and roast potatoes. In theory. Except that there's no way I'll be able to serve any of this before 12am at the earliest. Never mind. Cold tongue is famously nice.

Was a long day today, like most of the days. I've realised I have once again forgotten to take home a job spec that my friend has passed to me. Maternity leave in an agency for 8 months. The pay will be rubbish, and the job uncertain (if I even got it). However, is still tempting as I would get to deal with that greatest of all things: real books. I am truly sick of happy endings. Would love to see a Mills and Boon end with utter death and destruction. Just once. 'Can this innocent debutante teach dark-hearted Lord Denford that love can heal the deepest of hurts?' No! No she can't. She is going to fail, and be Crushed Forever by her inability to maintain a functional adult relationship. She will, in fact, die alone, having constructed a noose by ingeniously dismantling a whalebone corset. Meanwhile, Lord D shall die a happy drunken death, mid-coitus, at 41.
Life is unfair and sometimes I wish our books were ever allowed to reflect that.

On the other hand, when a romance story does work (I'd say 2% of the time, my more romantically-minded and less slush-allergic colleagues (they like both Glee and Twilight) would say more like 10%), it is wonderful. I'm still in it, I think, because that moment when the two characters make it, and you truly believe that this is it for them - they will be together forever and everything in their worlds will be just slightly better for it - is one of the warmest, most glowingy feelings that are legally available.

I am in the middle of abject joblust. It is not a comfortable place to be, and is steadily becoming an obsession. In fact, I'm worried I'm beginning to radiate desperation (how many people in the world must have wished that desperation were an attractive force).

Having met a girl who is in the exact position I want to be, I was lucky enough to discover that she is incredibly nice and willing to recommend to people who are important. I've now sent off another twelve cover letters and am trembling fairly constantly. Oh well. At least I already have a job, even if large amounts of it are immensely frustrating.

I also met a girl yesterday who terrified me as she is the exact epitome of everything I never want to be. Sadly, she appears to have this effect on many people, and thus manages to become superbly repellent - nothing scares people like an illustration of 'there but for the grace of...'

However, cover letters now gone off, I am free to drink this yummy goliath beer and caramelise red onions to my heart's content. Behind me, my boyfriend and one of his best friends are discussing intricate aspects of computers. Both are supremely happy and utterly incomprehensible.

new recipe

The last week has been a bit exhausting, workwise. As a deeply disorganised person I sort of struggle through, hoping desperately that my occasional ability to come up with good shout lines distracts people from my general inability to cope with boring, repetitive, yet-surprisingly-important-when-someone-is-asking-you-about-them tasks. Unfortunately, it appears that this is not the case. My lack of skill where library and paper organisation are concerned has been noted. The combination of this and a rather nasty row with my boyfriend reduced me to a bit of a wreck this evening. When he returns we are to have a Conversation. I'm not looking to this, so decided to cook a soup while waiting and sobering up. Thus I have created a new recipe, and one that, right now, I am quite proud of as it appears to be yummy. The ingredients are thus:

Around 40g butter
1 tbsp olive oil3 large courgettes
about half a cabbage (I had savoy but white will probably do)
Chicken stock to cover, about 450mg (make your own or use a good fake, like Telma)
Black pepper
A handful of fresh basil
about 3 tbsp (to taste - add more if wished) mild curry powder
two tbsp 5 spice powder
1 tsp hot curry powder (optional)
a handful of strips of cabbage (for garnish)
Leftover salami or chorizo or similar, cubed (about 2 handful)
1 small avocado, cubed, with a squirt of lemon and black pepper on top (keep cold in the fridge)

Chop up the courgettes and cabbage (you're going to puree this soup, so you want them small enough to cook quickly but not minced)
Melt the butter with the oil in a large, heavy based saucepan
Throw in the courgettes and cabbage and fry for a couple of minutes
Add the mild curry powder and five spice
Fry for about another 5 mins, so that the vegetables sweat but do not brown
Add the stock to cover the vegetables and simmer gently for about 20mins, or until soft. Turn off the heat
Puree the soup with any sort of blender - this is quite smooth soup, so keep going for a while.
Taste the soup, add the hot curry powder if needed, black pepper, salt if needed (but remember we are about to add salami) and torn up fresh basil leaves.
Heat a frying pan till very hot, then add the salami cubes. As they start to brown and release their fat, add the cabbage, along with the last bit of butter if it looks dry. When they are a little browned, throw them into the soup and stir.
Leave for a few minutes - then check temparature and serve, throwing a handful of avocado per bowl.
Serve with crusty bread and maybe some grated cheddar if wanted.

This is quite a fatty soup, but filled with vegetables, which I feel negates all the butter. Plus, it's quite yummy and v. cheap if you already have a stocked spice rack.

It's now the morning after, since I had the Conversation (which took the form of sex, but never mind), but was determined to finish the post! Now, I'm going to go back to bed and read. :)

itchy burning rash of hatred

I am suffering from some kind of allergic reaction. Unsure as yet to what, but my whole body is covered in an itchy, burning, red rash which is, I'll be honest, not the most attractive thing I've ever had covering my body. It's been present since Thursday evening (Lucy did eventually get fed, and also gave me an antihistamine, because she's lovely), so I spent the day on Friday googling various types of rashes rather than taking the more sensible action of registering with a doctor. I therefore spent Friday evening asking bf and friend every five minutes whether I was developing a 'saddleshaped' rash over the bridge of my nose, as apparently that means I have lupus. I know it was silly. It's never lupus.*

72 hours(ish) later and little has changed. Very nice pharmacy man gave me a cream and some tablets when I crossed over the snow on the Saturday, near to tears because of my sudden leper status, and raised my jumper screaming, 'Look! Look! The horror!!' in the manner of a cast member from the Crucible. Sadly, although it's helped a little, much of my skin still looks like I've been rolling in nettles.

In spite of my plight, I made it to a friend's birthday party on Saturday night for a whole hour. That may not sound like much, but just try being inside On anon (Piccadilly Circus bar/nightclub) while a) not being able to drink and b) itching all over and c) well, just being in there is pretty much a negative letter all on its own. What a strange place. The music is both appalling and really, really loud. Everyone is wankered because it is the only way to survive and there's nothing else to do - there's no way to talk over the music. By 10pm most of the women in the place had fallen off their high heels at least once and the vibe of, 'right, we've all drunk enough now - whose body is nearest?' was really taking off. The odd thing is, my friend who had insisted on this place doesn't drink. She likes these places. Sober. She likes them. I realise increasingly, the older I get, that not only do I hate loud, expensive, bad musicy bars, but I have never liked them. In order to survive them, I drink more. This is a fairly common thing - most people probably know by now that loud music makes people drink more - it's why bars do it. There are research papers on this - have a google and see. It seems, with the exception of my friend (who is, bless her, extremely strange, while utterly lovely), most people may not like loud places where they can't talk. Being sober in places such as these doesn't usually happen to me - I'd grab the nearest drink or leave - so being forced to stay for a bit and watch was actually quite scary as alcohol, or rather, money made from alcohol, was so clearly the driving force. Surely there's something wrong with a culture where this is a normal Saturday night out in a capital?

I know - you don't have to go to them - but it seems sad to me that my choices, and my friends' choices, on Saturday night are quite limited by most of the mainstream clubs being a bit offensive. If you don't want to spend £50 on drinks just to manage to stay in there, it's basically pub, houseparty, dinnerparty rather than clubs. We need somewhere to go out and dance with good, live music, or good, not massively overrated djs, drinks which don't cost £7.50 per cheap vodka cocktail, where you don't have to be on drugs (Fabrik, I'm talking to you. On both counts) and where if someone is vomiting over the dancefloor, they are gently removed. Fulfilling all of those conditions just isn't easy in London - pay lots of money and you get class, but try to find somewhere where making money is not the obviously driving factor, and you're a bit screwed. I didn't realise how generally icky it is until I went to Berlin. The clubs there are fantastic - there is a genuine spirit and life there - a sort of decadence (raw spirit?), that just seems to be buried under lumpen alcohol consumption in the UK.

Anyway. Rant over. I'm probably just getting old. And increasingly itchy. For god's sake. I just clicked on Wanda to see what words of wisdom she may have for an allergy sufferer and the following popped up:


So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie;
and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street pops its head
into the shop. "What! no soap?" So he died, and she very imprudently
married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Grand
Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all
fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran
out at the heels of their boots.
-- Samuel Foote

Well, bugger you Wanda.

*anyone who hasn't watched House and therefore doesn't get the reference - go and watch it. Especially if you're a girl and so far unaware of quite how sexy Hugh Laurie (yes, really!) is capable of becoming.

Am in the middle of cooking braised pig cheeks. All is going well, except that I have once again chosen a recipe without reading all the way to the bottom. In this case, the stumbling block lies about three quarters of the way down, 'Place in the oven for four hours.' Somehow skipped that bit, and now have a friend coming over at 7.30. *sigh. As always, it looks like no one will eat till midnight. On the good side, there's nothing which will gain you a reputation as a good cook more successfully than starving your guests before you feed them.

Quite a bit later now, and the pig is finally in the oven. Poor Lucy. Am listening, sort of against my will but seem to have been hypnotised, to Jon Benson, a man with a very persuasive voice talking about the 'Every Other Day Diet'. I don't diet. I don't plan to until I become hugely fat, as that is certainly what it will take before I have enough will power to actually do anything. I'll stick to cooking things so slowly that I fall asleep before managing to eat them. God this man's voice is seductive though. Why are Americans so much better at sounding charming and friendly than English people? The English accent (the posh one) carries along with it an automatic, 'This is my personal space. Yours is over there. No. A bit further. Yes, over there.' In contrast this American man's voice says, 'Come over here! Yes you! Here, take this glass of port. Sit down at my feet and relax... That's right. Now, isn't that better? Hmm? And only $30 a month to feel this good...' Wow. Amazing - he just slipped an 'expert opinion' in - Dr. Holly Menson, N.D. Jon Benson, I salute you. Go here http://www.everyotherdaydiet.com/video.php for one of the sneakiest sales pitches around. Just remember - don't look directly into his eyes or all your fat will turn to stone...

Snow and ramble

I headed home at 3.30pm today as Richmond was hit by heavy snowfall. All the English residents of the office panicked, while our one Canadian scoffed sardonically (a special talent of hers) and announced that it wasn't real snow until you couldn't see the buildings opposite. We all ignored her, and left as she typed away, muttering to herself about the weakness of the old country. No doubt she'll ski in tomorrow with great smugness.

It was strange coming home on the train. After a certain point everything around was white except the sky, which was a threatening yellowish grey. It somehow felt a little like the Fifth Element, down beneath the pollution, only without Bruce Willis in an orange vest (alas). People who would normally be sunk in books or ipods were staring out the windows. Everybody was prophesying journey doom with that pessimistic glee that characterises the English when faced with disruption of routine from unstoppable outside forces. As a nation, I think we might be the closest to the cockroach. I imagine that the cockroach probably greets most forms of disaster with pessimistic glee.

My journey was actually disappointingly ordinary. No trains lost power. The Victoria line continued its seemingly unstoppable two minute march and I arrived home in Finsbury park to confront a disgruntled and mournful boyfriend. He is ill. I could, if I wished, tell you every permutation that his throat "infection" (sore throat and a cold) has taken since it first struck so devastatingly two whole days ago. However, this is my first post and if anybody does happen to come upon it among the hundreds of blogs that surround this one (very reassuring that. Like speaking directly into a howling gale - I could be yelling all kinds of crap), narrating in paralysing detail the sore eyes of yesterday, the aching ears of 3pm this afternoon, the aching neck this morning, the sore middle toe of late last night... would be likely to drive any prospective readers away. He's currently sniffing loudly in the spare room. I'm ignoring him.

I can't work out if I actually want anybody to be reading this. I mean, I haven't made it private and I'm choosing to blog rather than write a diary, so obviously I do want someone to read it. However, I'm also not going to tell anyone I know about it. I think it's the literary equivalent of singing in the loo while drunk. It's probable that people might hear you, but you don't have to take any responsibility for the performance.

What else can I write about? It's nice not having a theme, but does tend to mean that you utterly fail to make a point. The book I'm reading at the minute is called 'Hyperion' and is by Dan Simmons. I've read it before, but had forgotten quite how well written it is. I can only read it in short segments lest I become too jealous of his talent. Every word in the story has a purpose. You'd be surprised (unless you happen to work in publishing or similar) how rare that is. He has recurring themes and everything. The few times I've ever written something of any length, any themes (or indeed logic) are entirely accidental. Unfortunately it appears that to write anything important you need a more structured mind than I seem to possess. Less alcohol, more sleep, I assume.

Alcohol is nice, isn't it? I mean, where would we be without it? I certainly wouldn't be with my current boyfriend. We spent drunken nights and hungover mornings together for a whole year before managing to reach past the awkwardness and hold a sober conversation. Even now, living together, our alcohol cabinet has pride of place. The problem with drinking is that sometimes I become aware of just how lazy it's made me. Not simply 'coming home in the evenings and sleeping' sort of laziness. It is more insidious than that. It's such an easy answer, a shortcut, to so many social difficulties. In some situations it's a necessity. Work parties - where would you be without the tongue coating semi-dry faintly fizzy warm white paraffin in the bottom of that plastic cup? There'd be nothing between you and that twitchy bloke from Accounts who tries so hard but remains so boring. How would you escape a conversation? There's only so many times you can go to the loo.

The problem is that, over time, your social skills atrophy. It's like unused connections in the brain - they decay through lack of practice. A large percentage of British people seem to drink in order to reach that longed for plateau: a place where the minefield of small talk smooths over. No inhibitions on either side equals all parties keeping their limbs. Problem solved. So, although I'm aware I should stop automatically grabbing at the alcohol when awkwardness threatens to strike, I'm even now wanting a glass of wine to stave off the memory of feigning interest and exclaiming too loudly in order to fill an awkward silence.

*goes to get a glass of wine.

*mmmmm...

Well, now I've lost all inclination to continue writing, so I'm going to leave you with this quote from Wanda the Fish (the 'fortune telling' icon which is an option on Linux and gives you random comments when you click on it):

"You are wise, witty, and wonderful, but you spend too much time reading
this sort of trash."