Zanzibar Fish Curry & Coriander Yoghurt

  
Last week we decided to counteract the impending darkness of November by heading for the spice isle.

Not that spice aisle, though it’s rather popular in our house, but the Gauguin-green, beguiling beauty that is Zanzibar, the one one-time hub of the spice trade – and a great deal less palatably, the slave-trade between Africa and the world.
And Freddie Mercury was born there.

She, let’s call her she, has had more outside influences than I have had hot dinners (and that’s a lot); Oman, Portugal, the list goes on. The old part of the capital, Stone Town, witnessed the shortest war in the world at the end of the 19th century: the Anglo-Zanzibar war, which lasted all of between 38 and 45 minutes depending on who you ask. This amazing piece of trivia has not only been banked by the BSG amongst his treasury of random facts, but is greatly bumped up his favourites chart due to the fact that it was begun at about 9am… once the British had finished their breakfast.

Our breakfasts each day were altogether more peaceful affairs, consisting of some of the greatest tasting fruit I have ever encountered. Every bright orange mango was a good one, the bananas were short and sweet and the custard apples were a revelation. Considering that pineapples were brought over by the Portuguese - so aren’t strictly native to Zanzibar - it’s hard to imagine them tasting better grown anywhere else.
  

Of course, some food tourism was inevitable, and between bouts of competitive reading and swimming sessions we took a spice tour, to see the origins of the spices we know so well in their orange-topped jars; I have a new-found respect for each and every one. Fresh  nutmeg looked like a formidable armoured beetle, black in its in its danger-red mace casing. The turmeric and ginger roots were fiery when scratched out of their earthy bed and the cardamom and cloves unrecognisable in their pungent greenness*. Huge almond trees provided cool shade underneath dark, waxy leaves. Like all good tourists, we spent a small fortune in Tanzania Shillings on a few bags of the stuff, still drunk on raw nutmeg, ginger and turmeric. One of the bags contains a rust-hued curry powder, the same colour as Zanzibar’s fertile ground. We used it this week to make a fish curry; the closest to kissing the spice isle a fond farewell, until the next time. Asante sana!

* pics from left to right: cardamom, nutmeg, cloves

The mix looks like a lot, but chances are you have nearly everything in your cupboard already. Make up a big batch and keep it to use again and again - I guarantee you’ll want to. Equally it will make a great meat or veg curry too. It takes no time at all to put together.

For the curry:
1 onion, chopped
Zanzibar spice mix (ground turmeric, cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, chilli powder, coriander and garlic)
500g skin and boneless firm white fish (or a mix including squid and shellfish) in bitesized pieces
1 carrot and 1 courgette, chopped into short batons
Tin of chopped tomatoes
Tin of coconut milk
Salt and pepper

For the yoghurt:
3 tablespoons Greek yoghurt
Handful of chopped fresh coriander
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
Salt and pepper

Soften and lightly colour the onion over a gentle heat. Add the mix of powdered spices and cook for 2 minutes. Add chopped tomatoes and carrot pieces, turn up the heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Add coconut milk and turn down the heat. Cook for 5 minutes, before adding the courgette and fish. Place a lid on the pan and cook for 5 minutes, until the fish is cooked through.

Serve with the coriander yoghurt, some warm chapati (or rice) and cauliflower cooked in ginger, turmeric, cumin and cinnamon.

Kedgeree (and other breakfasts.)

I never tire of food-related fantasy games. Forget 'I Spy', how about ‘your last meal on earth’, or ‘if you had to eat one meal every meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?’ Well, that second one’s easy: breakfast.
I suppose I might’ve mentioned my inability to make a decision – or perhaps I haven’t. It drives the BSG round the bend; he is decision incarnate. But this one is easy. Breakfast is a meal where anything goes, thereby removing the choice conundrum from the proceedings. Thus, breakfast is perfect for someone like me.
As well as blurry boundaries between foodstuffs - do I plump for yoghurt, fruit or Bircher muesli, croissants or the full English? - start and end times are also a grey area, meaning that it’s quite possible to graze from waking until lunchtime. Some of my happiest and most enduring university memories are from mornings whiled away in my friend Caz’s room in halls, drinking tea and eating toast and boiled eggs, more with Marmite and perhaps just one more piece - with marmalade - until lunchtime. We may have even missed a lecture (once), waiting for the perfect runny consistency to the yolk. Nothing cements firm friendship like sharing rounds of hot-buttered toast and pots of tea.
Of course, due to obvious time constraints, weekday breakfasts are more confined to the bounds of convenience; toast and its infinite possibilities, your favourite cereal, some porridge and stewed fruit once autumn takes its crisp hold. Eggs and bacon are reserved for the week’s end - a Friday treat of a bacon and marmalade sandwich, perhaps. The BSG and I rejoice in the advent of most weekends with a proper, frothy latte from our coffee machine – smileworthy, even on the dankest of days.
Breakfast is a parade of wonders, where friends’ wacky combinations are frequently exposed; Caz, for example, likes marmalade and Marmite on her toast… My Belgian great-grandmother loved nothing more than to dip toast and Gouda into her morning coffee (white and strong, if you’re interested). I am ever so pleased she passed me this habit. Try it - delicious. My grandpa, the king of the avant-garde food combo, always ate his sausages with marmalade, the Tabasco and Gentleman’s Relish never far out of his reach.
Then you have breakfasts that are ideal for certain situations. This year has been full of weddings, and I don’t think that there’s a better way to start a wedding Saturday than with kedgeree. Protein- and carb- rich, it stops the gap that the skipped proper lunch will leave, lines the stomach for the inevitable afternoon drinking and wakes up the taste buds with hints of spice, lemon and parsley – just make sure you check your teeth for green bits before you leave. Definitely worth prepping in advance, it can sit and wait, warming through under foil in the oven whilst you get on with things. Deal with any fishy/oniony bits before washing and dressing in your finery – no one likes eau-de-cuisine.
You don’t need a wedding as an excuse to whip this up. I reckon it’d steel you for any big (or small) day. It might take the edge off a marathon spring clean, a looming hulk of admin or a trip to a blue-and-yellow hångår to buy silly-named flat-pack furniture, a Venus flytrap and other stuff you never knew you needed.
Kedgeree
Serves 4
4 eggs, almost hard boiled (prob 6 minutes will do) and peeled
680g smoked haddock fillets (or a mixture of smoked and unsmoked fish works too. Try mackerel.)
2 bay leaves
250g basmati rice
115g butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2.5 teaspoonfuls mild curry powder
Juice of half a lemon (and the other half in wedges for squeezing over)
2 good handfuls of chopped flat-leaf parsley or coriander
In a large shallow pan, heat some water (or milk) - deep enough to submerge the fish - with the bay leaves. Add the fillets, bring to the boil and simmer gently for about 5-7 minutes, until the fish is cooked. Remove the fish from the pan and, when cool enough to handle, remove the skin, flake into chunks and set aside.
Cook the rice in boiling water according to pack instructions – it should be on the al-dente side. Drain the rice, refreshing briefly under a stream of hot water from the kettle. Return the steaming rice to the saucepan, covering it with a clean tea-towel and then the lid to stand for a few minutes. This is a top-quality tip from my step-mum and it ensures the fluffiest rice imaginable.
Whilst the rice is cooking, melt the butter in a pan over a low heat, then add the onions and soften them gently without colouring for five minutes or so. Add the curry powder and cook for another couple of minutes, until the kitchen is filled with aromas. Add the rice to the pan and heat gently through, carefully folding in the flaked fish and adding the lemon juice to taste. This can now stand in a pan or dish, waiting warm under foil in a low oven until you are ready to eat.
Just before serving, add the parsley or coriander, seasoning to taste with salt and pepper. Top with the eggs cut into quarters. Serve with the lemon wedges.
Twist: For some extra texture, crispy fried onion bits are often sprinkled on the top.

Lentil and mackerel salad

Each time September rolls around, three small words strike fear into the hearts of many: Back to School. I know even 60-year olds who break into a cold sweat at the prospect – even though it’s been a few decades since they hung up their satchels. So, how to combat these misgivings? As far as I can recall, salvation would come in the form of a stationery spree – a brand new pen, a fluffy pencil case or the crisp white pages of a new diary.

For me, the lentil is the food equivalent to school – I know it’s ultimately good for me and always end up enjoying it more than I imagine. In the lentil’s case, it’s what you dress it with that makes it great. In this case: mackerel. More specifically, tinned mackerel fillets (no grappling with bones necessary).

This doesn’t sound exciting, however since signing up to Hugh’s Fish Fight and eschewing the old favourite of tuna, I have turned to tinned mackerel to top baked potatoes and fill sandwiches too. Judging by the silver-haired company I keep in that particular section of the tinned-food aisle in the supermarket, it is a food as retro as its packaging suggests.

There are certain dishes that recur often in the BSG household and alongside roast chicken and spaghetti Bolognese, this tops the list. A feel-good dish in every sense, it tastes great, is 100% good for you and elevates the lentil to another plain. There’s nothing easier to whip up after a bout of overindulgence, and I swear it makes you shout cleverer answers at University Challenge. It’s back to school without the dread, plus you usually have the wherewithal for it in your cupboards when you can’t face a food shop at the end of a long day. Enjoy its countless permutations.

Lentil and mackerel salad (I think it’s a salad)

Puy lentils

Tinned mackerel

Whatever is languishing in the fridge, but a few suggestions might be:

Cherry tomatoes, quartered

Cucumber, chopped

Radishes, chopped

Carrot, grated

Parsley

Any other soft green herbs or salad leaves wilting into anonymity in your vegetable drawer

Chilli

Lemon

Olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper

Boil the lentils according to packet instructions, with a bay leaf and a bit of stock powder if you have any.

Whilst the lentils are boiling, chop the vegetables and herbs and put everything into a bowl. Make a salad dressing (perhaps a bit sharper than you usually have it as the lentils will slightly dull this – mustard works very well in there somewhere).

Drain the lentils, and then add them to the bowl whilst still warm – if you have used any spinach or rocket leaves, this has the pleasing effect of wilting them slightly. Drain the mackerel fillets from their oil and add them to the bowl, stirring gently through with a fork so that they slightly break up.

Add the dressing, mix and season with salt and pepper. Have a lemon on hand to squeeze over if necessary.

Enjoy a big bowlful and feel very smug.

Secret Garden Party

There is a secret garden in Regent’s Park. You may already know where it is, but if you don’t…well, sorry, but you’ve had a big enough clue already. A very good friend of ours decided to share this secret with us recently and we are enormously grateful that he did. We won’t tell anyone, we promise.

Gardens make me very happy. They are havens from the rest of life and picnics in them are bliss. The discovery of this one was nothing short of magical, its brightly-coloured plants illuminated by the evening rays, as I entered, a good 45 minutes earlier than my dining companions. I’d like to say that my timekeeping was bad but really I think it was sheer excitement that sped me along at such a pace. Beautifully kept lawns, neat borders and gently trickling fountains greeted me, as well as the occasional hidden amorous couple behind the hedges.

As if to remind me that we were not in the grounds of a country pile but in the middle of grubby, 21^st-century London, the idyll was momentarily shattered by the appearance of an almighty rat - but he disappeared as quickly as he’d emerged so I didn’t hold it against him. Nor did I tell anyone about him. Had I done so, the evening might have ended there. Who knows - perhaps he was off for a picnic with his friend the mole*.

Guiding twelve people in to such an unadvertised spot was rather like a mental challenge from the Crystal Maze, so much so that when all twelve were present and correct I briefly considered a career in the army (I’m pretty sure they like navigators there). If only we’d given them all a map to decipher, this enchanted bower would have felt harder-earned. As it was, a mobile phone sufficed. A furious BSG arrived, laden with smoked mackerel pate, sardines and toast, claiming that ‘go diagonal’ hadn’t been the right instruction – it had been more of a 60 degree angle than a 45. Oh well, I never was very good at trigonometry.

Luckily he was appeased by a large slab of terrine on crusty bread made from an authentic French family recipe by an authentic French person, Virginie. However, I fear that her secret recipe will remain so, just like the garden. But sacre bleu it was good: livery richness laced to precision with booze. It vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Other than this, the patchwork of mismatched coloured cloths was spread with countless delights; salads, cheeses, onion tarts, cold meats, bread and dips; a feast that would have made Mr Mole swoon. The BSG and I brought our current favourite munch of the moment, which we have recreated time and time again after being introduced to it at Terroirs. It is a wonderful dish as no cooking whatsoever is required, though it’s probably a good idea to have a mint handy for after.

Anchovies, shallots and unsalted butter on sourdough

Serves 8 for a starter

Anchovy fillets – 2 tins

3 or 4 shallots, very finely sliced

Pale unsalted butter (French is best, though I’m not sure why – it just feels right)

Sourdough bread (failing that, an airy, crusty loaf)

Slice and toast the bread, and cut it into bite-sized morsels. Put all the other ingredients out onto a board or dish, and let everyone help themselves.

Spread the toast with a convincing slab of butter, don’t be shy.

Sprinkle a few translucent shallot pieces onto the butter.

Smear half an anchovy fillet on top with your knife.

Gobble it up.

Assess the flavours, adjust your quantities and make a second attempt. It won’t be long before you have exactly the balance you want.

I promise that you will love this. Like a cold glass of milk with your Marmite on toast, it just works.

*These two had perhaps the greatest picnic of all:

The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions. 'What a day I'm having!' he said. 'Let us start at once!'

'Hold hard a minute, then!' said the Rat. He looped the painter through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker luncheon-basket.

Shove that under your feet,' he observed to the Mole, as he passed it down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls again.

'What's inside it?' asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly;
'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrolls-
cresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—'

'O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstacies: 'This is too much!'

'Do you really think so?' enquired the Rat seriously. 'It's only what I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it very fine!'

From The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Scott’s, 00…

The doorman took my coat whilst another whisked me through them with a smile and without a whisper. I entered the busy room redolent with lunchtime chatter, as if carried on an invisible current. Gliding alongside the handsome Maître d’ I was escorted to my seat, where the man was already waiting. Through ribbons of pale cigarette smoke* his eyes flashed azure and a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth as he rose to greet me:

“The name’s Bond, James…”

Ok, so I didn’t really have a date with 007. I was lunching at Scott’s with my friend Simon, who certainly shares Bond’s predilections for the finer things in life, sartorial and other, but without the licence-to-kill.

So he says.

The restaurant has moved from its original site frequented by Bond creator Ian Fleming and where, according to the author, Bond would sit at a table by the window ‘to watch the pretty girls go by’ (another thing he and my lunch companion have in common.) The 21^st century version is still patronised by the beautiful, here they were, tanned and fragrant and mingling with the chinoed regulars on this Saturday lunchtime; we were joined by one of them: Lucy, our Miss Moneypenny – she stopped the room as she entered, smoky eyes seemingly feet ahead of the rest of her. We were all dressed up to the nines (perhaps even the tens) for a wedding that afternoon. Sadly, the BSG was on a mission elsewhere so couldn’t make it a foursome, but you know how he is with shellfish.

Champagne seemed the most appropriate way to commence proceedings. I looked on covetously as my companions slurped down (with panache bien sûr) half a dozen oysters, glistening on their shells. So much of the glamour in bi-valve consumption is about the ceremony and Scott’s really does it the best, from the Tabasco to the platters to the muslin-wrapped lemon halves: this is tabletop theatre at its silver-plated best. Pair this with discreet and expert service and you really start to feel like a VIP…

To chase these we shared starters of monkfish cheeks braised with broad beans and bacon and devilled mackerel with parsley salad. The heat and apparent frugality of the latter dish provided the perfect arch-rival to the rich savouriness of the first. Chop-slappingly good, all of it – though watch the dress!

For our main course, I was immediately seduced by the poached River Tweed sea trout with garden vegetable broth, which both looked and tasted as beautiful as it read, the rosy flesh dancing over a light soup of perfectly cooked vegetables, as green as weed waving in a clear chalk stream. Accompanied by a wobbly yellow hollandaise and new potatoes bathed in butter and mint the fish was almost as elegant as the day’s bride would prove to be and an ode to simplicity.

Typically, Simon went for a dish which, bar the caviar I think, was the most expensive dish on the menu: the Lobster Thermidor. I didn’t mind, he was paying. I had always been doubtful about the thermidor thing, supposing that the best thing you can do with lobster is very little. Once I had tasted it I understood: it was a lesson in rich decadence – completely delicious and comforting in its silkiness. I left it at one bite so that my day would continue usefully. I’ll slip into something more comfortable before I order one of those (think elasticated waist).

Moneypenny had the dressed crab - or rather undressed, not a shell in sight. But very stylish nonetheless - rather like a Bond girl waiting between the sheets.

Hum, perhaps it’s a bit much? I’ll leave the 007isms for now.

We left Scott’s a bit fuller than we’d arrived, certainly happier, and one of us considerably poorer (thank you!). But for a one-off special occasion with close friends this was absolutely sparkling and it set us up nicely for what was to be a very stylish wedding indeed.

*No, nobody was flouting the ban - cigarette smoke just makes it all a bit more spy-like…

Disclaimer: You may observe a rather hurried quality to this week’s pics (the pic of the sea trout you see above does a great disservice to the gorgeous bride – it really did look lovely, promise!) I was undercover.

Bouillabaisse, Bermondsey, BSG in the back seat…

Alarmed by the ‘chaos without the skill’ segment in my last post, having identified it as a plummet in my kitchen confidence the ever-supportive BSG has suggested that I be the skipper in the galley for the next week and he be the pot-washer. He has vowed not to do the back-seat cooking that lends him his name - nay, not even to set a toe over the threshold to interfere. I feel rather like the stunned co-pilot who has just been given the cockpit controls after many voyages comfortably assisting the captain. I am pretty sure I remember being a competent hand in this realm before the BSG days. We’ll see I guess…

These past few weeks I have been haunted by Bouillabaisse. Well…perhaps haunted is the wrong word – implying a ghoul of a dish long-dead with our forebears, lost and buried with the ages. Au contraire - I think I mean to say courted; this sun-kissed, vibrant, fishy flirt is still very much alive, making eyes at me from almost every menu I’ve deliberated over. It all started when one threw a proverbial wink at me from its copper pan at Arbutus, beguiling me with its aromas as it wafted seductively past us to the next table. Thus far I have not succumbed to its advances, but this is not through a lack of desire; what can I say, Bouillabaisse, it’s not you with your sunny connotations and your promise of rich flavours, it’s me. Everywhere you appear, you seem to be adorned with some variety of shell-dwelling creature, a food family which has recently lost my trust…was it that bug that’s going round, or those Moules Marinières? Either way, I am not sure I can risk another bout with a bi-valve until I get an allergy test, and I wouldn’t want that kind of last dance with a dish I revere quite so much as this seaside soup…

The shadow of the crustaceal threat hasn’t stopped me ogling it at other tables or furtively thumbing though culinary volumes to get my fix via the other senses, dreaming up Sliding Doors-style alternative scenarios where I am happily chomping my way through a rouille-topped crouton, spoon in hand, a steaming bowl of coral-hued broth before me. Having never set foot in the town, I think it is fair to say that I have not tasted un vrai Bouillabaisse in the Marsellais sense, but I have had many dishes of the same name and based around the same elements (fish, stock, olive oil, saffron) which have led me to believe that I’d be a fan. In his 1967 book The French at Table, Raymond Oliver, a chef and French gastronome devotes an entire chapter to the seafood stew – a whopping 20 pages – and still concludes with eight variations on the recipe; an attempt, it seems, to please everyone he’d interviewed during his research. According to the author, the people of Marseilles are fiercely proud of their dish and despite the main ingredients universally agreed upon, the recipe varies from household to household – everyone he meets purports to cooking it in their fishing hut, even though he is sure that many have never chopped an onion, and most don’t have a fishing hut, let alone fish. This is however, relatively unimportant – the dish is simply part of their cultural identity, reflecting their geography and sociology.

There it was again, flashing a bit of leg at me the other night, throwing me headlong me into yet another Mediterranean reverie (perhaps I am going mad due to the unusually long winter). I was meeting a friend in the Garrison on Bermondsey Street, a part of London hitherto unfamiliar to me. The legend above the door reads: The Garrison Public House, but if you’re thinking of going there for a pint, a packet of pork-scratchings and the football I’d think again. Though I suppose it would fall into the category of gastropub this is very much a restaurant in a pub’s shell. And very pleasant it is too, for we were two girls having a good supper and a chat and we were delighted with our surroundings. Candlelight flickers against pale sage and duck-egg blue clapboard, mismatched wallpaper and bounces off brass ship’s lanterns, enamelled jugs and bric-a-brac – the Swiss Family Robinson must have sent the owners their design brief in a bottle (with a bit of Farrow & Ball thrown in for good measure). We sat at the open mouth of the kitchen, on a sort of communal table which, as I was early and had a few minutes to wait, was a rather exciting place to be (amazingly, we didn’t smell too much like our food at the end of the night). We had crusty hunks of homemade bread and unsalted French butter, following up with hearty dishes of slow-cooked beef brisket stew and guinea fowl and mushrooms – just right to keep the edge off the chill outside. Apparently they also do rather a good breakfast too (I’ll have to return for this to confirm or deny, but the presence of a few jars of marmite on the condiment shelf is a good start in my book). Tomatoey-rich, savoury stew on buttery mash: it provided the perfect foil to these bitter early-March nights. I’ll be bounding back to Bermondsey one of these days I should think.

PS:

As bouillabaisse is not so much a dish but a political manifesto I’m not sure I want to offend anyone by even displaying a recipe here. After all my confusing and contradictory findings on this fishy favourite, it seems right to share Elizabeth David’s (largely humorous) take on even attempting it:

1) It is useless attempting to make a bouillabaisse away from the shores of the Mediterranean. All sorts of variations can be and are devised in other parts of the world, but it would be foolish to pretend that these have more than a remote relationship to the true bouillabaisse.

2) The fish must be spanking fresh from the sea, and of diverse kinds. The rascasse (a local rockfish) is essential, and the fish is always served with its head. If langouste is included, this is cut in half lengthways and served in its shell. Mussels, if part of the bouillabaisse, are likewise left in their shells.

3) Olive oil and saffron are equally essential.

4) Furious boiling, so that the olive oil and water (or the wine if you are a heretic) amalgamate, is another absolute essential of the success of the dish.

5) The Toulonnais sometimes add potatoes (a practice which appals a Marseillais). The potatoes are best cut (raw) into thin rounds and added at the same time as the soft fish.

6) A bouillabaisse is not intended to be a soup.

…!

Yikes – a culinary minefield – I think I’ll just leave it to the experts, whoever they are…

A cauliflower ‘ere.

They say don’t judge a book by its cover, but amidst all the column miles stretching around the dawn of the new decade, devoted to detox, retox, pretox, botox and all things raw and vegetal, what could I do but reach for Nigel Slater’s squeaky new book Tender in an effort to look interested. This book was a just-because present for the BSG late last year - well, more of a boomerang pressie actually - and he’s I’m enjoying it very much. Before the Christmas festivities really kicked in, I admit that I hadn’t been screaming out for roots and leaves, but now that flurries of January guilt are upon us, well, this ode to vegetables makes so much sense, albeit still freezing outside. Once you are inside and past the leafy cover, even the font employed evokes the tendrils and shoots of spring.

And so it is, and straight to the cauliflower chapter: a pale and beguiling creature that seemed an appropriate focus in an arctic week that promises yet more of the white stuff. On New Year’s Day after a hedonistic banquet, bonfire and bash on the Cornish coast in a house plucked from an Agatha Christie novel, a motley crew of revolutionaries staggered along the cliff path on what can loosely be termed as a walk.

The goal was a cosy pub.

                                            The cosy pub was shut.

    Desperation and hysteria ensued.

    Some tea.

                                         Not to mention the impromptu fireworks.

 

In the latter throes of the stagger we’d found ourselves blinking in the midst of a frosty cauliflower field – there they stood, proud and tall, like ceremonial maces. This experience was a first for me, though rather disappointing: they smelt like old cabbages. Apparently (thanks, Nige,) these cranial lobes of white don’t do well with any weather extremes: these had rotted helplessly in the cold and were now gilded brown. There was to be no cauliflower cheese for us that night, but the seed was sown and when I got back home to Tender I had to investigate.

Mr. Slater, my food-prose pin-up, does indeed have a few beautiful words to say about these veggie brains, his recipes stretching beyond their lauded affinity with cheese. That said, I might just venture to the back of the fridge where the last heel of the stilton is languishing. Perhaps a salsa verde and some mild spices, he suggests, and I am reminded how deliciously this vegetable marries with a fragrant anchoiade – very much in keeping with that piece I read on the merits of oily fish...anchovies must count, surely? We also have a pot of Ras-el-Hanout in the cupboard that has been a success with everything we’ve tried sprinkling it on so far. Could we? I am sure we could, with some yoghurt…

Inspired by our fun-packed days in Cornwall, last night’s supper had to be fish. Moreover, it being that fearful first Monday back, supper had to be easy and cosy; a reward for getting through the day. Mackerel fillets, no-fuss and straight from the tin stirred through warm Puy lentils with peppers, tomatoes, parsley, olive oil and lemon hit the spot, and for our raw effort, a chicory, gem lettuce and avocado salad.

Angelic - apart from that last Christmas truffle. Or two.

Also worthy of a mention was our delicious lunch at the weekend at the Gurnard’s Head near St Ives, after a four-mile yomp between the south and north coasts of Cornwall (rather a satisfying result, as walks go, not to mention the views from the top.) A starter of crab linguine - I must remember to add tomatoes to my version - followed by a yielding, sticky roast belly of pork filled all the gaps necessary. This place and its staff are deserving of the highest praise – they fed the forty of us extremely well. Well worth the hike.