I'm dying. This could be my last blog.
The symptoms are almost beyond description: mouth feels like week old cat litter, stomach feels like I did a scene in Alien and eyes resemble, to use popular parlance, piss holes in the snow.
Thankfully by the wonders of modern technology I've saved on medical insurance and managed to self-diagnose via Wikipedia but the diagnosis doesn't look pretty. I'm staring down the barrel of either:
I) Ebola;
2) Bubonic Plague; or
3) The half bottle of tequila and 5 Jagermeisters I drank last night.
I'd pick option 1 but given that the most prominent symptom is that I look like I share hairdressers with Helena Bonham Carter its more likely the result of last night's all out renal assault. Damn you Bacchus.
Now from the ancient Chinese philosophy of Yin and Yang right up to the Muller yoghurt TV ads, the theory that all pleasure must be accompanied by pain is fairly well known. Surely though if one thinks they went to bed with Shakira yet actually woke up next to
a cold Biryani then such utter misery is undeserved ?
The gods are indeed cruel.
Now I'm not one for self-pity (yeah right) so its time to enact that age old cure-all used by hangover victims the world over: eat anything it takes to make the pain go away. You know the scenario: walk into the supermarket and emerge an hour later with 27 different items that bear absolutely no relation to each other.
Today though I'm taking a more focused approach - the sniper rifle as opposed to the H-Bomb - today I have the elixir to tame even the wildest withdrawal ... A classic Eggs Benedict. A combination of deliciousness that would have dietitians running for the hills I make mine with smoked Canadian bacon as opposed to ham.
Next time you wake up looking like an extra from 28 Days Later give it a try, it might just save your life.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Monday, 12 April 2010
Damien Hirst, Gilt-Edged Toilets and the Humble Shepherd's Pie
The evolution of perceived luxury is an incredible thing. Once upon a time the height of epicurean extravagance was considered to be the addition of a bidet to you en-suite bathroom or having Egyptian cotton bed sheets.
Nowadays though the bidet has to be encrusted with diamonds à la Hirst whilst our bed sheets must be woven from the wool of an extinct Tibetan sheep by a hand maiden named Rapunzel. Keeping up with the Jones’ is so 1990 – now its all about keeping up with the Al Maktoums.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m no stranger to decadence – last week I even bought a ready meal from Marks & Spencer (its not just food…) but recently there is a trend that has irked even my conception of what is acceptably pretentious: Gold plated food.
I crap you not.
A few days ago I tried out a new restaurant with some friends and after a 6 course tasting menu to underwhelm the appetite of even the skinniest Lilliputian I happened across a dessert that promised to save the day. The description mentioned something about golden pastry and cinnamon apples such that the reminiscence of strudels gone by was too much to resist. Unfortunately what turned up looked more like a Fabergé egg on an off day (with a price tag to match).
Suspecting a security guard might cosh me over the head for even picking up my fork it took me a couple of minutes to muster up the courage to take a bite. But take a bite I did…and impressed I was not. By its very nature the notion of a dessert fondled by Midas is style over substance and goes against everything I love about food – hearty, simple dishes that make your insides want to take you on a spa day to say thank you.
Call me traditional but there is a time and a place for gold. The Crown Jewels yes; your new dentures no. Spanish Doubloons yes; your twice baked cheese soufflé no.
If you happen to be the wife of a Russian oligarch and you like your pudding to match your handbag then this is the stuff for you…if not then this week’s recipe is probably more up your street – quick and simple yet unctuously tasty its time to get your teeth into my traditional English Shepherd's Pie...
P.S. Best eaten with a cold glass of Dom P ;-)
Nowadays though the bidet has to be encrusted with diamonds à la Hirst whilst our bed sheets must be woven from the wool of an extinct Tibetan sheep by a hand maiden named Rapunzel. Keeping up with the Jones’ is so 1990 – now its all about keeping up with the Al Maktoums.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m no stranger to decadence – last week I even bought a ready meal from Marks & Spencer (its not just food…) but recently there is a trend that has irked even my conception of what is acceptably pretentious: Gold plated food.
I crap you not.
A few days ago I tried out a new restaurant with some friends and after a 6 course tasting menu to underwhelm the appetite of even the skinniest Lilliputian I happened across a dessert that promised to save the day. The description mentioned something about golden pastry and cinnamon apples such that the reminiscence of strudels gone by was too much to resist. Unfortunately what turned up looked more like a Fabergé egg on an off day (with a price tag to match).
Suspecting a security guard might cosh me over the head for even picking up my fork it took me a couple of minutes to muster up the courage to take a bite. But take a bite I did…and impressed I was not. By its very nature the notion of a dessert fondled by Midas is style over substance and goes against everything I love about food – hearty, simple dishes that make your insides want to take you on a spa day to say thank you.
Call me traditional but there is a time and a place for gold. The Crown Jewels yes; your new dentures no. Spanish Doubloons yes; your twice baked cheese soufflé no.
If you happen to be the wife of a Russian oligarch and you like your pudding to match your handbag then this is the stuff for you…if not then this week’s recipe is probably more up your street – quick and simple yet unctuously tasty its time to get your teeth into my traditional English Shepherd's Pie...
P.S. Best eaten with a cold glass of Dom P ;-)
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Circus Acts, Superman and the Egg White Omelette...
Performing mice, trapeze artists and a human chandelier. Nope, not another episode of Come Dine with Me, but my weekend at the training camp for the new Cirque de Soleil show in Macau... Technically its not Cirque at all but a company called Dragone - bigger, better, brighter ...and then there's me.
Watching these guys reminds me of watching kung fu movies with my brother when were were kids. You watch enough and suddenly you get to thinking you can do it too. Our mum's antique coffee table never did recover.
This time a few days with the pro's had me convinced I could match them at their own game and they were more than happy to oblige me with a ride on the wires ... See below for your general amusement.
As you might have guessed, lunchtime here is as exciting for me as the performances themselves. These guys are the best in the world at what they do and they need a diet to match.
Every lunchtime sees an Olympian's banquet of fresh fish, steak, salads, freshly baked wholemeal breads, pates and more ... Today I tucked into seared beef with soya sauce and ginger, puy lentils and courgettes, butternut squash with pumpkin seeds and green salad with with beetroot, walnuts and feta. Luckily this was after the bungee or I would have ended up re-decorating.
As it turns out only lunchtime is catered here so for the rest of the day the x-men need to fend for themselves. Some clearly more competently than others. For the more kitchen averse amongst them my dinner recommendation was something fast, high in protein and low in carbs and fat. enter stage right: egg white omelette with grilled chicken. Its the perfect meal for anyone in training or on a diet and you can customise it anyway you like with mushrooms, tomatoes, ham and a simple side salad.
Right, I'm off to work on my triple salco.
Watching these guys reminds me of watching kung fu movies with my brother when were were kids. You watch enough and suddenly you get to thinking you can do it too. Our mum's antique coffee table never did recover.
This time a few days with the pro's had me convinced I could match them at their own game and they were more than happy to oblige me with a ride on the wires ... See below for your general amusement.
As you might have guessed, lunchtime here is as exciting for me as the performances themselves. These guys are the best in the world at what they do and they need a diet to match.
Every lunchtime sees an Olympian's banquet of fresh fish, steak, salads, freshly baked wholemeal breads, pates and more ... Today I tucked into seared beef with soya sauce and ginger, puy lentils and courgettes, butternut squash with pumpkin seeds and green salad with with beetroot, walnuts and feta. Luckily this was after the bungee or I would have ended up re-decorating.
As it turns out only lunchtime is catered here so for the rest of the day the x-men need to fend for themselves. Some clearly more competently than others. For the more kitchen averse amongst them my dinner recommendation was something fast, high in protein and low in carbs and fat. enter stage right: egg white omelette with grilled chicken. Its the perfect meal for anyone in training or on a diet and you can customise it anyway you like with mushrooms, tomatoes, ham and a simple side salad.
Right, I'm off to work on my triple salco.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Muffin Tops, Colonic Irrigation and The Culinary Resolution
"Muffin Tops", that perennial nemesis of the perfect beach body. The phrase in itself is beautifully descriptive in its depiction of those dimpled, dough-like slabs unfurling over our post-Christmas belts and your average gym operator just loves them. Around 4.5 million people in the UK have a gym membership and when do most of them join ? Yep. January.
For some the battle is lost before its even begun - the thought of being seen in the buff on the way to the showers and the threat of athletes foot (a misnomer to most) is too much; the temptation of the SITC/Entourage boxset too great. For others the will (if not the physical capacity) is there, until one false move on the bench press almost leads to asphyxiation and the embarrassment is just too much to go back.
And so summer comes in all its flesh bearing glory, but the waist line still looks like it could do with 30 minutes in the baker's oven. Its time to get inventive. But as you lie there wrapped in Nepalese seaweed and clingfilm with a vacuum tube lodged in your most holy of holys, you can't help but think what could have been. That's why this week I am shifting the focus to tasty, healthy eating. Training for the summer starts here and it doesn't necessarily mean a gallon of hot water with tree sap and a side order of military boot camp.
Ratatouille was the only way my mum could get me to eat healthy food as a kid - its basically vegetables in disguise and teamed up with Salmon en Papillote (easy as pulling your hamstring) you're already on your way to skinny muffins.
If you like the recipe let me know and if there's something else you're hankering to learn shoot me a message and I'll feature your recipe in one of my next posts.
Chiropractor strictly optional.
For some the battle is lost before its even begun - the thought of being seen in the buff on the way to the showers and the threat of athletes foot (a misnomer to most) is too much; the temptation of the SITC/Entourage boxset too great. For others the will (if not the physical capacity) is there, until one false move on the bench press almost leads to asphyxiation and the embarrassment is just too much to go back.
And so summer comes in all its flesh bearing glory, but the waist line still looks like it could do with 30 minutes in the baker's oven. Its time to get inventive. But as you lie there wrapped in Nepalese seaweed and clingfilm with a vacuum tube lodged in your most holy of holys, you can't help but think what could have been. That's why this week I am shifting the focus to tasty, healthy eating. Training for the summer starts here and it doesn't necessarily mean a gallon of hot water with tree sap and a side order of military boot camp.
Ratatouille was the only way my mum could get me to eat healthy food as a kid - its basically vegetables in disguise and teamed up with Salmon en Papillote (easy as pulling your hamstring) you're already on your way to skinny muffins.
If you like the recipe let me know and if there's something else you're hankering to learn shoot me a message and I'll feature your recipe in one of my next posts.
Chiropractor strictly optional.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Christmas, Osama Bin Laden and the Humble Brussels Sprout
When it comes to totally pointless traditions us Brits have surely cornered the market. Morris Dancing, The Queen and the Christmas Day Brussels Sprout are just a smattering of things that we continually humour with seemingly little thought to their merit.
But that's the point of tradition isn't it ? It doesn't need any justification because by its very nature a tradition is something we do without question - that's the way its always done. That's why abolishing the monarchy and the Christmas Day Brussels Sprout is unthinkable - they are part of the idiosyncratic fabric of this little island we call Britannia - they are things that make us, well, us.
That's not to say tradition doesn't occasionally need a face lift ... The Queen has taken to using public transport these days and I could swear there is a hint of purple rinse going on too, but what of revamping the humble sprout ?
Thought of with about as much affection as the smell they produce halfway through the Eastenders Christmas Special the Brussels Sprout only seems to rear its bulbous little head once a year in my house. I don't think its inherently evil as vegetables go but years of systematic torture at the hands of amateur cooks now ranks it alongside Osama Bin Laden as guest least welcome at a dinner party.
For that reason this week I'm resurrecting our little friend with an incredible recipe I put together using wine, herbs, garlic and pine nuts. I'm going to eat them while I watch the Queen's speech today and if the worst comes to the worst, well, I can always blame it on the dog ...
Merry Christmas everyone !
X
P.S. Morris Dancing is deeply sinister and is one tradition we can definitely do without ... ;-)
But that's the point of tradition isn't it ? It doesn't need any justification because by its very nature a tradition is something we do without question - that's the way its always done. That's why abolishing the monarchy and the Christmas Day Brussels Sprout is unthinkable - they are part of the idiosyncratic fabric of this little island we call Britannia - they are things that make us, well, us.
That's not to say tradition doesn't occasionally need a face lift ... The Queen has taken to using public transport these days and I could swear there is a hint of purple rinse going on too, but what of revamping the humble sprout ?
Thought of with about as much affection as the smell they produce halfway through the Eastenders Christmas Special the Brussels Sprout only seems to rear its bulbous little head once a year in my house. I don't think its inherently evil as vegetables go but years of systematic torture at the hands of amateur cooks now ranks it alongside Osama Bin Laden as guest least welcome at a dinner party.
For that reason this week I'm resurrecting our little friend with an incredible recipe I put together using wine, herbs, garlic and pine nuts. I'm going to eat them while I watch the Queen's speech today and if the worst comes to the worst, well, I can always blame it on the dog ...
Merry Christmas everyone !
X
P.S. Morris Dancing is deeply sinister and is one tradition we can definitely do without ... ;-)
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Einstein, the Exorcist and the Theory of Marmite
Einstein once said “the definition of madness is to try the same thing over and over again in the belief that next time you will get a different result”. If that’s the case then I must be totally off my rocker.
For year’s now I have periodically wandered through my local supermarket believing that one day I will buy a pot of Marmite, take it home and ravage with the same gusto that a libidinous Jack Russell usually takes to its owner’s leg. Not a chance. Last time I ascended on this flight of fancy my head didn’t actually spin 360 degrees but pretty much everything else remained faithful to a scene from The Exorcist.
But I want to like Marmite. I want to like it in the same way that I wanted to like olives and Guinness and beer as a child. As with all of these things its about that mysterious concept of “acquired taste”…but why the hell would we train, nay, force ourselves to like something that initially made our gills go green ? Maybe I am alone on this one but that’s certainly what I did with a number of foods growing up as a child. They just looked good even if my taste buds were telling me quite the opposite. And so I persevered until one day I liked them…and now inexplicably I love them !
I suppose a simple explanation is that we don’t acquire the taste at all, rather our palette matures such that one day we are struck by the gustatory epiphany of actually liking our former nemesis.
With that in mind this week I have decided to make another ascension of my personal Mount Sinai in the hope that I too will see my ethereal pot of burning Marmite. I’m not going to run before I can walk though so rather than eat the stuff in its unadulterated form I’m making Marmite Cheese on Toast with Red Onion Marmalade…
Tell me if you love it…or even if you hate it ;-)
For year’s now I have periodically wandered through my local supermarket believing that one day I will buy a pot of Marmite, take it home and ravage with the same gusto that a libidinous Jack Russell usually takes to its owner’s leg. Not a chance. Last time I ascended on this flight of fancy my head didn’t actually spin 360 degrees but pretty much everything else remained faithful to a scene from The Exorcist.
But I want to like Marmite. I want to like it in the same way that I wanted to like olives and Guinness and beer as a child. As with all of these things its about that mysterious concept of “acquired taste”…but why the hell would we train, nay, force ourselves to like something that initially made our gills go green ? Maybe I am alone on this one but that’s certainly what I did with a number of foods growing up as a child. They just looked good even if my taste buds were telling me quite the opposite. And so I persevered until one day I liked them…and now inexplicably I love them !
I suppose a simple explanation is that we don’t acquire the taste at all, rather our palette matures such that one day we are struck by the gustatory epiphany of actually liking our former nemesis.
With that in mind this week I have decided to make another ascension of my personal Mount Sinai in the hope that I too will see my ethereal pot of burning Marmite. I’m not going to run before I can walk though so rather than eat the stuff in its unadulterated form I’m making Marmite Cheese on Toast with Red Onion Marmalade…
Tell me if you love it…or even if you hate it ;-)
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Thai Food and The King of Culinary Rock...
"I think they're all a bunch of c***s..."
The asterisks may cover the gender of the genitalia in question but one thing is for sure: Keith Floyd was never one to mince his words.
Keith gave this touching reciprocation of affection about his fellow celebrity chefs in his last interview with Keith Allen aired on 14 September 2009. It may not have been his epitaph but given that Keith was to pass away that very same day it resonated as a statement of his approach to, and his effect on, the world of TV cooking.
Now I'm not gonna' lie - I might love cooking but Floyd was actually a generation before me. I knew the name of course but by the time I hit university and was really watching a lot of food TV (what else was I meant to do ? Study ?!) it was the likes of Jamie and Gordon who were beginning to catch my attention. One was Naked and the other was reaching his Boiling Point and both seemed more relevant to me than their predecessors.
But with various tributes about Floyd now appearing in the press and on the television I've discovered not so much the original celebrity chef but perhaps the original rockstar chef. Floyd simply didn't give a rat's arse what people thought of him and whilst Jamie was still in nappies and Gordon barely even simmering he was taking food TV out of the studio and into the wilderness. The notion of Ainsley getting half cut on Can't Cook, Won't Cook is unthinkable but to Floyd the ubiquitous glass of wine was a trademark. I find myself watching his shows with the same nervous anticipation you might expect from an olympic figure skating final: will they win gold or will they end up splayed across the ice ?
To me its the honest, unscripted passion for food that fascinates me about Floyd and its to this that I humbly aspire in my own cooking. I'm not going to over-egg the pudding here - Keith would just tell me to "bloody well get on with it man" so for the uninitiated here are a couple of clips of the great man:
Start with this one - a classic scene where Floyd gets told in no uncertain terms by a French Madame that his food is not up to scratch:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfm4en3SC3I
Then the final interview itself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAbnIV2lsQ0
My most recent inspiration was Far Flung Floyd on his travels around Thailand so last week I cooked Thai for a few friends - mussaman curry and the classic moo pad grapow - here's to you Floyd !
The asterisks may cover the gender of the genitalia in question but one thing is for sure: Keith Floyd was never one to mince his words.
Keith gave this touching reciprocation of affection about his fellow celebrity chefs in his last interview with Keith Allen aired on 14 September 2009. It may not have been his epitaph but given that Keith was to pass away that very same day it resonated as a statement of his approach to, and his effect on, the world of TV cooking.
Now I'm not gonna' lie - I might love cooking but Floyd was actually a generation before me. I knew the name of course but by the time I hit university and was really watching a lot of food TV (what else was I meant to do ? Study ?!) it was the likes of Jamie and Gordon who were beginning to catch my attention. One was Naked and the other was reaching his Boiling Point and both seemed more relevant to me than their predecessors.
But with various tributes about Floyd now appearing in the press and on the television I've discovered not so much the original celebrity chef but perhaps the original rockstar chef. Floyd simply didn't give a rat's arse what people thought of him and whilst Jamie was still in nappies and Gordon barely even simmering he was taking food TV out of the studio and into the wilderness. The notion of Ainsley getting half cut on Can't Cook, Won't Cook is unthinkable but to Floyd the ubiquitous glass of wine was a trademark. I find myself watching his shows with the same nervous anticipation you might expect from an olympic figure skating final: will they win gold or will they end up splayed across the ice ?
To me its the honest, unscripted passion for food that fascinates me about Floyd and its to this that I humbly aspire in my own cooking. I'm not going to over-egg the pudding here - Keith would just tell me to "bloody well get on with it man" so for the uninitiated here are a couple of clips of the great man:
Start with this one - a classic scene where Floyd gets told in no uncertain terms by a French Madame that his food is not up to scratch:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfm4en3SC3I
Then the final interview itself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAbnIV2lsQ0
My most recent inspiration was Far Flung Floyd on his travels around Thailand so last week I cooked Thai for a few friends - mussaman curry and the classic moo pad grapow - here's to you Floyd !
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
