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.