Tomatoes

R bought me the greenhouse for my 40th birthday.

The fact that I was actually 43 when it arrived didn't take the edge off my excitement one little bit.

Life at the top of our hill is windy. Very windy indeed. I had wavered for a couple of years between a polytunnel (bigger, but less robust) and a greenhouse (not so much growing space, but less chance of being uprooted and ending up in the next county).

After one very windswept Winter, during which the barn roof nearly blew off, we decided that the sensible option would be the greenhouse.

Never knowingly under-engineered, R dug the foundations and put in enough reinforcing bars for a small tower block before pouring the concrete. Believe me, that greenhouse is going nowhere!

From the moment it went up, it has been my place.

I love to stand out there on an early Spring afternoon, pricking out seedlings and listening to the Sunday play on the radio.
It was my bolthole in the days after R died. I would hide in there with Moose when the noise from all the people in the house became too much for me.
Its warmth makes it a safe cocoon from the world. I am happy in there.


And most of all I love to grow tomatoes.

Tomatoes have never grown well outdoors here. If the blight didn't get them, the cold or my chickens would. But in the safety of the greenhouse they grow beautifully.

When R was alive, I mostly grew the cherry varieties as they were the ones he loved. Once the plants started to produce, I would put a large bowlful of tomatoes on the kitchen table every day and he would eat them like sweets, picking up two or three whenever he went past.

I am a sad creature of habit, so was unable to prevent myself from planting the same number of cherry varieties as usual this year (the sweet-as-sugar Sungold and the much more tomatoey old favourite, Gardener's Delight). I can happily eat a small mountain of tomatoes every day myself, but even so I am still not making a dent in the daily output. So pasta sauce-making is underway already, even before this year's paste variety (San Marzano) comes onstream (apart from the one enthusiastically premature specimen at the back of the tray).


Over the years I have tried various methods for making sauce, but I find that the best-flavoured and easiest is to throw the tomatoes into a roasting tin along with a couple of chopped onions, a few cloves of garlic, a couple of chopped courgettes and assorted herbs (in this case leaf celery and thyme), add a little olive oil and then to roast the lot for 30 minutes or so.

When everything has softened nicely, it all goes into the food mill with a few sprigs of fresh basil, which gives a slightly chunkier result than the blender and has the added benefit of removing all (or at least most) of the tomato skins.


The end result is the best tasting pasta sauce in the world - even if the colour could be improved somewhat.
I make a batch of this most evenings at the moment. Most of it is destined for the freezer to cheer me up during the winter, but I can feel a pot of my favourite soup coming on


Watch this space!

Samphire

Another trip to the tip to consign some more junk to oblivion meant that I was later than usual with my shopping on Saturday morning. By the time I reached the fishmonger, the choice was limited. But what he did have was some vivid green samphire, which really cheered up my morning. I love the salty crunchiness of this strange, almost prehistoric half vegetable / half seaweed and always buy some when it is on sale.

So that decision was easy, but what to have with it?
All the interesting choices had gone by the time I arrived. There were plenty of salmon fillets and farmed rainbow trout, but they didn't appeal. In the end I opted for a piece of worthy-looking, but rather dull naturally-smoked haddock.

If R were still here, he would automatically have demanded kedgeree. Specifically the Delia Smith recipe - still my favourite version of the dish, although my own rendering looks a lot greener from the excess of parsley I always add.

As it is technically impossible to make a worthwhile kedgeree for one, and I didn't fancy eating it for the next few days, I opted for my second favourite thing to do with a piece of smoked haddock - fishcakes. There is nothing at all sophisticated about a fishcake, but I find them very comforting; it must be the nursery food nature of the beast. There was also some leftover mashed potato in the fridge that needed using up.

The haddock was gently poached in a mixture of milk and water, boosted with a little onion, a few peppercorns and a couple of bayleaves. Had there been no leftover potato in the fridge, then this poaching water would have served nicely for mashing some spuds. As I had no need for it, the dog happily obliged.

I then mixed the flaked haddock (Moose had the skin as well) with the mashed potato, added a couple of finely chopped spring onions and a few snipped chives, plus salt and pepper. It is a good idea not to break up the flakes too much so that the cakes retain a bit of texture. Then I shaped them into little patties. I was intending to dip the patties in egg and then breadcrumbs, but my recent minimal bread intake meant that there were no crumbs in the freezer. So, the patties had to be satisfied with being coated in seasoned flour.

While they were frying in a little sunflower oil, I washed the samphire and braised it quickly in nothing more than a little butter and the water clinging to it. That's all it needs - its natural saltiness means that nothing else is required apart from a little ground pepper.

There are lots of other things I could have served this with, but for once I didn't fancy a salad. A few capers sprinkled on top added a little sharpness, and that was it.
Not even any ketchup!

Chanterelles

I have had a minor obsession about wild mushrooms for several years, but it was only when we moved to Wales that I graduated to picking and cooking them.

R was happy to indulge this interest, even though it meant that, at certain times of year, our walks were spent with me peering into the undergrowth or leaping up onto a bank with a shout of triumph at seemingly random moments. On several occasions he was required to surrender his cap or pockets to carry my prizes as I had forgotten to bring a bag with me.

Naturally cautious, however, he would only ever eat anything that had been thoroughly identified to his satisfaction - both to determine what it was and what it could NOT be.
First we would take a spore print and check the colours of the spores. Then the mushroom was cross-checked in two books, and any possible impostors were identified as well.
The final proof was furnished by the simple expedient of allowing me to eat them first, then waiting a couple of days to see if I turned up my toes as a result. If I survived and pronounced the mushrooms tasty, then he would happily tuck in as well.

This isn't great mushroom-hunting country; whether this is due to the height or the soil type or what, I really cannot say. But if you know where to look there are still a few pockets here and there for the taking. We don't get the huge patches of St. Georges or fairy ring champignons that friends at lower altitudes find in abundance, but one mushroom that I do find in relative quantity is the chanterelle. There is one mossy bank in dappled shade under some scrubby oak trees that always comes up trumps at this time of year when we have a couple of days of sunshine after a good soaking of rain.



In years of really great abundance, I have dried the surplus chanterelles for later use. While they do add flavour to a winter soup or stew, the texture remains a little chewy after they are reconstituted, so I have decided henceforth to simply eat them on every possible occasion while they are in season and then wait impatiently until the next year.

Essentially chanterelles can be used in any recipe that calls for mushrooms. Risotto is good, as are pasta dishes, particularly as a filling for home-made ravioli. But I find that with their slightly more toothsome texture, they are enjoyed to best effect simply sautéed in a little butter and olive oil along with some baby leeks or spring onions and half a clove of garlic. Add a little red pepper or a mild chilli for colour. A few cubes of pancetta or chopped bacon added at the start make it a more substantial lunchtime dish, as does a fresh, poached duck egg. Sprinkle a few chives on top for maximum viewing pleasure and serve with some crusty or seedy bread to absorb the buttery, mushroomy juices.

Currant dilemmas

One of the oddest consequences of finding myself suddenly alone is that the food I eat has changed quite drastically.

In any quantity, simple carbohydrates like jams, or even just too much bread, send my blood sugar levels haywire. A couple of hours after eating a breakfast of toast and marmalade, I often find myself shaky and clammy and feeling altogether unwell. So I rarely eat jam these days, unless it is to stir a spoonful into a bowl of yoghurt or very occasionally to be sociable and eat with guests for breakfast.

So when I did my early summer check of the freezer contents and found about 4 kilos of blackcurrants, I was initially rather at a loss as to what to do with them. Particularly as I can see that this is going to be a bumper year for soft fruit, and the harvest is practically imminent.

If jam is out, there is always cordial. That uses a lot of blackcurrants. I used to make this Ribena substitute for R, as he would drink gallons of it during the Summer. Well I guess I won't be needing that either. I'll keep some for making Summer Fruit Pudding, but that will barely make a dent in the stockpile. So what then?

The answer came during the recent run of hot weather. I went to the freezer again, looking for ice cream, but ice cream found I none. This was an emergency. And the only solution was sorbet!


So I unearthed my little manual ice cream-maker and put the bowl in the freezer to chill for a few hours. Then I dug out a bag of blackcurrants. When I harvest these, I simply open-freeze them on trays and then decant into bags. No topping and tailing required. Into the pan they went with a little water to prevent sticking. I added about 4 oz of sugar for every pound of currants (I like the tartness this leaves, but more sugar can be used if a sweeter end result is required).

Once the sugar had dissolved and the blackcurrants were starting to give up their juice, it was time to start sieving, pressing the pulp through the mesh with a wooden spoon. I advise wearing something old or indeed an apron for this job, as the juice splatters everywhere (or at least it does when I do it) and is very hard to get out of a white T-shirt!


After ten minutes or so of sieving you have a bowl of syrup and a lot of dryish pulp. If you keep chickens, give the pulp to them. This is a good way to show how much you love them - it will disappear in seconds - otherwise the compost heap will appreciate it too.

Put the bowl of syrup in the fridge to chill for a few hours. If you have a posh ice cream-maker that does the freezing for you, this step may not be necessary, but with a little manual jobbie like mine it is essential. If you don't there just isn't enough cold stored in the bowl to freeze properly.

If you happen to have an egg white lying around needing a home, this is a good use for it. Whisk it up to the soft peak stage as though you are making meringue, then fold it into the syrup. Then pour the whole lot into the bowl of the ice cream-maker, put the lid on and start cranking those gears. After about 10 minutes, you should have a bowlful of sorbet that you can decant into a tub and store in the freezer. This is absolutely fabulous on a hot day just on its own. It is also good as a palate-cleanser after a rich meal, perhaps with a couple of buttery biscuits or served with a scoop of good vanilla ice cream.

(If you don't have an ice cream-maker, you can still make sorbet. Pour your syrup into a shallow Tupperware box and put in the freezer. Every couple of hours, take it out and give it a stir around to break up the ice crystals or, alternatively, wait for about 4 hours, then remove from freezer, tip into blender, blend and then return to freezer.)

Now I know a picture of the finished product is traditional here, but I forgot to take one at the time and the weather has turned cold and non-conducive to sorbet-eating. Rest assured, that as soon as the weather perks up again, I shall oblige!

First harvest

The greenhouse has been yielding lots of salad lately, but there has been very little else of interest now that I have dug out all the winter crops and replaced them with summer vegetables. Salad is great, and I can eat a lot of it, but today was wet and cold, and cried out for something a little more substantial.

So I was really pleased to see that some of the first early potatoes were looking ready. The Roseval plants looked the most likely, and a quick firkle just under the surface revealed several perfect rosy pink baby spuds.
Last year, our potato-growing efforts were almost entirely wiped out by the slug epidemic. The wet conditions grew some lovely big potatoes, but almost all of them were riddled with slug holes and fit for nothing but pig food. I am hoping that the combination of a hard winter and timely application of nematodes will mean a reasonable harvest. With any luck I won't have to buy another spud until at least the end of the year.


The first new potatoes need to be celebrated, and ideally partnered with some other baby veggies. A quick look around revealed some 'just about, but only just' ready peas and a potful of early carrots destined to be eaten in their infancy.

R's Mum introduced me to the idea of cooking early new potatoes with mint to bring out their flavour, so a sprig of apple mint went in with the other pickings. Last, but not least my trip outside revealed a couple of eggs that I had missed earlier in the day.

So, what to do with them?
With vegetables that tender and fresh, my initial reaction is always to do as little as possible; to steam them gently and add a knob of butter. But today was crying out for something rather more robust and, for no logical reason, the new potato / mint combo didn't seem right for the pink-skinned variety. Nor did I fancy an omelette, which was the obvious end for the eggs.

What then?
A cursory examination of the fridge contents revealed some cooking chorizo - its spicy, robust flavours would be ideal for a less than perfect day. There were also some baby leeks on the vegetable rack.

The potatoes were set to simmer gently. Fresh-from-the-ground spuds don't take long to cook at all, so around 12 minutes would be fine. Meanwhile I braised the leeks, carrots and peas in a little butter. The chopped chorizo was dry-fried until the fat started to run and it crisped up a bit. Then I drained the spuds (which had lost their lovely pink skins in the water), roughly chopped them and chucked the pieces in with the chorizo to cook for a little while.

The result wasn't particularly pretty, and could probably have done with a little salad, but it was exactly what was wanted given the conditions.

Something fishy

Originally posted 02.05.09

For a pair of unashamed foodies, our knowledge of the world of fish was remarkably scant for a long time. We had a few standards that were trotted out every time – salmon fillet, various versions of white fish in a sauce, kippers for breakfast or perhaps kedgeree for Sunday brunch. But never anything very exciting or out of the ordinary.

Then we moved to Wales and found to our delight that our nearest town had a proper fishmonger. And a helpful and enthusiastic one at that. Over the years, he helped to extend our fishy education. Part of the Saturday morning ritual was to visit Derek the fishmonger to see what looked good. Always enthusiastic about his products, he was keen to teach us how to make the best of them. From him we learned how to fillet fish properly (both flat and round), dress crabs, shuck oysters, pot tiny brown shrimps. We learned what to do with samphire, the relative merits of brown and rainbow trout, not to ignore a fish just because we had never heard of it before and when which fish was in season and therefore at its best.

Derek’s shop was also the scene of one of my more dramatic meltdowns in the early days after R died. It was during the period of no appetite and I was following the sound advice of simply eating what I fancied, regardless of cost or whether it provided a balanced diet. That day, my fancy turned to crayfish tails.

I knew the moment I walked into the shop that he was going to ask where R was. But not even this foreknowledge could prevent the floodgates opening. The poor man sat me down and patted my hand for a while, but we were both very embarrassed afterwards.
Now we stick to safe topics like the weather or rugby, but he never fails to add a couple of extra prawns to my order or round my bill down to the nearest pound.

One discovery (or perhaps rediscovery) from Derek's shop was mackerel. Before, it mostly came in a tin and was covered with a dubious sauce. Then we found that it had a season, and that a mackerel freshly landed that morning, with plump body, shiny scales and bright eyes was both cheap and difficult to beat for flavour.

R’s favourite way to cook it was to dredge the fillets in seasoned oatmeal and then quickly pan-fry in butter until the topping was crispy. Served with new potatoes, broccoli from the garden and a generous spoonful of rhubarb or gooseberry chutney, it set me up perfectly for cleaning up the scene of devastation that I invariably found in the kitchen after he had cooked it!

For me it has to be devilled mackerel. Melt some butter and add to it some brown sugar, mustard powder, ground coriander, paprika, chilli powder, balsamic vinegar, S&P. Then slash the skin of the fish on both sides and slather on the buttery goodness. If the BBQ is fired up, cook the fish on there. If the weather is not so clement, line your grill pan with foil and grill for 3-4 minutes on each side.

That's all it takes for fishy perfection. And practically no washing up either.

Rebellious rice

Originally posted 13.05.09


After R died, some online friends had a collection so that I could buy bulbs to plant at his grave. In the event, they sent so much money that I could probably have covered the entire burial field with daffodils, so I spent a lot of it buying plants to create a small memorial garden in front of our house.

As I was putting in these plants one afternoon, a neighbour stopped by for a chat, and I explained what I was doing. "That's a lovely hydrangea," she said. "Did R like them very much?" "Ummm." I replied. "Actually, he hated them with a vengeance and always pulled a face when I suggested planting one in the past. So I thought I'd take advantage of the fact that he isn't here to argue to have one at last."
At which point she gave me a rather odd look and went on her way.

I have been taking a similar approach to my food lately, and have been eating things that don't bring back memories.
R was wonderfully non-picky about eating, and would happily tuck into most of my culinary efforts. But he wasn't at all keen on risotto, accusing it of being nothing more than a savoury rice pudding. And not in a good way, either. So I rarely bothered making them. I mean, who wants to spend 30 minutes stirring if there isn't going to be fulsome praise at the end of it?

I, on the other hand, love risottos. I received a posh bag of arborio rice and bottle of truffle oil for my birthday, the freezer is full of good chicken stock and the garden is starting to produce at last. So the choice for supper tonight was made for me.

I am particularly proud of my baby leeks. In early Autumn last year I found a pot of plantlets that for some reason hadn't been planted out. I put them in the greenhouse when the tomato vines came out, not really expecting them to do much. But they have done me proud this year.

So, the chopped leeks are softened with a little olive oil, then in goes the rice. Stir round until everything is nice and shiny. Add a glass of dry white wine or the first ladleful of hot chicken stock if feeling abstemious. Stir until absorbed.

Keep adding stock and stirring until the rice is just al dente. Throw in some leftover chicken and add a last ladleful of stock. When this is almost absorbed and the risotto is looking beautifully creamy, season with salt and pepper and add a good handful of freshly-grated Parmesan. Serve with the salad you made while the rice was cooking (you did remember, didn't you?), top with some chopped parsley and a generous splash of truffle oil. If you didn't receive any truffle oil for your birthday (and I do recommend that you put it on your list) a knob of butter would be nice too.

Tastes wonderful, but darned difficult to photograph satisfactorily.

Pork mince. Boring? Never.

Originally posted 01.06.09


This will be the first year since we moved to Wales that we haven't had a couple of weaners to fatten.
With the exception of their final road trip, every aspect of keeping pigs is an absolute joy. Their infectious enthusiasm, playfulness and appetite for eating the most unlikely-looking food combinations are so endearing. I love how they throw their empty food bowls in the air for the sheer fun of doing it, the way they fall over in a heap of quivering ecstasy when you scratch behind their ears or rootle in their bowls looking for the best bits to eat first. I am sure the world would be a better place if everyone who fancied keeping pigs were able to do so.

I can't have any more yet because it takes one person with not much appetite a long, long time to eat half a pig. I have also lost my pork pusher - R used to sell it to his colleagues at work. I'm hoping they will still be interested if I go it alone next year.

In the past, when the pigs came back from the butcher as pork we always invited a few friends and made a weekend of it, making bacon, brawn (not for the faint-hearted!), pâté and sausages. Kilos and kilos of sausages.

The first day largely involved deboning, chopping and mincing. Then came the fun part, when each participant would run riot in my spice drawers. The mixes would be made up, a couple of small patties fried, solemnly tasted and critiqued. A little more chilli needed here, too much allspice there. Perhaps polenta would be a better filler, rather than breadcrumbs.

Only after the recipe had been tweaked to perfection would the sausages be made and the ingredients written down in our Book of All Things for the smallholding. We each had our favourites, but I have to say with all due modesty that my lemon, fennel and black pepper sausage is a culinary masterpiece!

Inevitably at the end of the day there would be a small amount of minced pork left over that was not enough to put into casings. By that time, the last thing that anyone wanted to eat was another sausage. Mr M, one of our regulars at the sausage weekend, devised a Chinese-inspired mix that we put into some bread dough and baked, and so was born the Welsh pork bun.

Today it was far too hot for bread, and I needed something a little healthier than the crisps and black coffee that had been sustaining me for most of the weekend. I found a small amount of minced pork in the freezer, and decided to make Mr M's recipe and serve it with lettuce wraps, which seemed a lot more summery:

Finely chop a clove of garlic, a few slices of ginger and a couple of spring onions. Fry quickly for about 30 seconds, then add the pork mince and brown over a high heat. Add 2 or 3 finely chopped mushrooms, followed by 1/2 tsp chilli bean sauce, about 3 Tbs Chinese rice wine and a good splosh of soy sauce. Turn the heat down and cook gently for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add a little stock or water if it sticks. When cooked, stir in a small amount of sesame oil, then spoon onto large lettuce leaves and sprinkle with a little chopped spring onion and a few sesame seeds. Wrap up tightly and enjoy.

New season, new soup

Originally posted 16.04.09

At last the garden is starting to yield some produce other than parsnips and Jerusalem artichokes.

The new season kale and PSB are exciting enough, but the first picking of mustard greens from the greenhouse means one thing, and one thing alone.

Noodle soup.
Noodles and R went together like, like.... Well, they just went together.

When we lived in the city, we always headed to Chinatown for noodle soup after a post-work beer or six. After we moved away from 'civilisation' it was often his first choice for a birthday treat, and was what I cooked for him when he was feeling down.

Good stock, noodles, of course, spring onions, garlic, ginger and star anise. Plus the all-important greens and topped with the protein of choice. Crispy pork belly is good, so are chicken, prawns or beef in their own way. But for preference it was always duck. However, as it took us a couple of years to start rearing our own ducks when we moved here, we had a long wait before it returned to the menu.

But so worth the wait.

I don't recall ever cooking it for anyone else, though. It was one of our guilty pleasures together. Soup, spoon, chopsticks, dish of pickled vegetable. Then silence punctuated only by happy slurping.

It is a dish that is so bound up with R that I haven't been able to eat it since he died. But the new mustard greens needed to be celebrated, so I took a deep breath and broke my duck, as it were.

It was as good as I remembered.
Quack quack!

(This is one of my girlies. She will never be soup.)

Give us this day...

Originally posted 03.04.09


I like making bread.
I quite like eating it, too, but mostly I enjoy making it.
Saturday morning always used to be baking day. I would make a week's worth of dough and leave it to rise while we went shopping. On our return, I would shape the loaves or rolls, put the oven on, and 45 minutes later we would have steaming hot bread fresh from the oven.

We would then hover over the cooling rack, arguing over whether it was cool enough to eat. Invariably it wouldn't be, but one of us couldn't wait any longer and would hack into the first loaf, slather it with butter and the breadfest would start. Half a loaf would disappear before you could say "Isn't hot bread supposed to be bad for you?".

Now I have the opposite problem.

Even with my little loaves, it is still too much for me to eat before the bread goes stale. OK, there are things I can do with stale bread, but I only need so many breadcrumbs and it is an expensive way to feed the chickens. There's also no point in making smaller loaves as they would be too small to make a decent sandwich.

So I started to cut the loaves in half and freeze the halves separately. It's an eminently sensible thing to do, but there is something so pathetic about that sad little widow's portion of bread defrosting on the counter that I can no longer bear to do it.

Rolls are part of the answer. Somehow they don't seem as lonely as half a loaf. But mostly I just make and eat less bread.

When my workforce are in residence working on the extension, though, it is worthwhile making a big batch. At lunch today, I estimate that the first loaf off the production line lasted all of about five minutes. I've no idea why that makes me feel so happy, but it does. Perhaps it is another of those elusive glimpses of normality.

Taking stock

Originally posted 09.03.09

When you suddenly find yourself on your own, you quickly realise how many activities there are that require at least three hands to carry out easily. Not so much two people. Just that extra hand that holds, lifts up or supports something or other. It is not absolutely essential, but it doesn't half make the job easier.

For me, one such job is dispatching a chicken for the pot. If you are a carnivore and subscribe to the Tom & Barbara thing, then at some point you will have to kill a chicken.
There is nothing pleasant about this, but I always feel much better about it if the bird has gone within 30 or 40 seconds of being picked up from the coop. And for this I need another hand - to open the lid of the coop, to open the gate and to wield the all-important broomstick. I could do this on my own, but it is a much swifter, calmer and thus humane process if there is another person there to help.

So I am fortunate in having a number of friends who also raise chickens for the freezer. When one of us has some birds ready to off, the travelling circus meets up at their house to do the deed together, fortified by lots of cake and homemade soup. Once the initial squeamishness about what you are doing wears off, it is an oddly collegial activity in an Amish barn-raising sort of way.

And when the birds have all been plucked, dressed and packaged for the freezer, what remains are several carcases and a large pile of giblets. Combine these rather unprepossessing objects with a bunch of root vegetables and aromatic herbs and the result is tubs and tubs of fragrant and golden chicken stock.

I feel there will be a risotto in my not-too-distant future.

Also-ran soup

Originally posted 18.02.09

Not exactly prize-winning specimens, but 2008 was such an awful year for growing that I am grateful to be able to scrounge anything home-grown at the moment. All of the bigger onions have long since been eaten, but these tiddlers have the benefit of seeming to store better and being much less prone to neck rot. As for the parsnips, what can I say? They need sunshine to grow, and there was precious little of that last year.

Peel, chop and into the pan along with some chopped garlic, chilli and ginger. Throw in some spices - mustard seeds, cardamom, fenugreek and turmeric - and a bay leaf, sweat gently for a few minutes then add water and simmer until the veggies are soft. A little chicken stock wouldn't go amiss, but it really isn't essential as there is so much flavour from the vegetables and spices. A brief application of the hand blender, adding a little more water if it is too thick, check the seasoning and that's it. Serve sprinkled with chopped coriander and a slice or two of homemade oaty bread.

A frugal widow's lunch if ever I saw one!

A tidy mind

In my first post in What Now?, I described how food was a huge part of the life that R and I shared. Even now, 10 months after he died, I always think of him when I tend the vegetable garden, harvest food or go to the freezer to take out a portion of the lamb, pork, chicken or duck that we raised here on the smallholding. He shops for food with me, stands behind me, peering hungrily over my shoulder as I cook and enjoys the end result, asking me to explain what works and what didn't and why a given blend of textures and flavours is particularly good.

Cooking and eating make me feel close to him and bring back so many memories, but I was starting to feel that the food posts didn't marry well with the rest of the blog. Hence moving them to a separate space where I can ramble on about my two favourite subjects in comfort and without clashing.

The first few posts will therefore be copies from the other place. This is possibly cheating, but my inner librarian demands it!