The Delectable Diary of Hayley Harland

Our woman in Havana - 3 bean chili & sweet potato

2012-02-28T17:00:00.005Z

Havana is never what you expect it to be. No amount of high-colour glossy photographs of vintage American bangers or wrinkly ladies with vibrantly painted, crumbling backdrops will prepare you for its reality. The culture-shock doesn't come in the form of dirt, disease or language barriers, it is more that everything you are used to no longer exists because this is a country that runs a little differently than the rest.

Last November, I quit my job so that I could follow my heart and most importantly, my gut. I would get to the end of each day feeling like my brain had been shoved in a blender and after a few years of perseverance I concluded that it just wasn't the life for me. So I stayed up all night making preserves for a month and hawking them to randomers at Christmas fairs. Then I got on a plane to Cuba. I thought, Christmas in Cuba, why not? There will be dancing in the street and jolly men jangling on guitars like in Graham Greene's Our Man in Havana, and even though there won't be snow, a nice tan and plenty of vitamin D will more than make up for that. But as I said, Havana is never what you expect it to be.

I took my boyfriend, Sebastian along for the ride and we arrived in the warm night air at our casa particular (a private Cuban home). It was a stylish and modern apartment, where beautiful, smiling Lilly greeted us. We saw nothing but the streetlamps of Havana, the beyond draped in inky darkness. We knew nothing of the view that would embrace us the following morning.

We spent two weeks, waking up with the sunrise, deep apricot smudged across the horizon through an early morning smog. We took breakfast on the balcony, drinking in that spectacular view of the sun-drenched city under a rich blue sky. We walked along the Malecón to the centre of town with a salty breeze speckling our faces. It has recently been made legal for foreigners to take the communal taxis and some days we would catch a ride along with seven or so other people, crammed into these colourful banged-up metal containers, horns a'blaring, choking with petrol fumes. But it was worth it for only a few National Pesos, peanuts in comparison to Cuba's other currency, CUC. We would walk through Habana Vieja, the old town trying to avoid the most intelligent and persistent of hustlers, admiring the art, the architecture and, "Beautiful laydeee, come in my dress shop, it free to try," coming from the back door of somebody's living room, the differences to home.

Some days we would just meander around our neighbourhood, Vedado past colonial mansions once opulent, decaying into disrepair with still as much of an impact on the eye as the day were built. Imagine the resplendant parties they must have hosted in the 50s. Everyday, 2 or 3 homes in this city disappear, the people who live there becoming part of the rubble, so you wouldn't expect there to be much to party for. But even though there wasn't dancing on the street, there was music in the air and we had a party anyway. There were jazz clubs, concerts, a bit of salsa and gallons of mojitos, we had friends and it became our home for a short while.

It was difficult to leave Havana but we were ready to continue our adventure in Cuba. On Christmas Eve, we hired a car to drive to the town of Remedios where a huge fiesta takes place all night long. Two neighbourhoods battle it out to see who has the best parade and fireworks. The pyrotechnics are homemade of course, the streets are packed, people hop over exposed electric cables but the rum galore flows freely. Huge barrels of boiling oil roast street food, which if they were to topple over, would result in hundreds of civilians being deep fat fried as well. This is one night where the police don’t really get involved, if a building burns down, it’s just considered part of the kindling. If the health and safety weirdos were to visit this place, they would have a breakdown. Or so I’ve heard...

With the scent of freedom in the air, we were excited to hit the open road. But in a country where little funding goes towards road signs, we had to stop several times to look at the map. We had barely escaped the Big City before 3 bandits sporting fake police uniforms, trained in the art of distraction, got into the car and pinched our wallets. It all happened so quickly, by the time we noticed, they had diffused into the scenery. They may as well have been ninjas.

So we limped our way back to Havana with a debilitating slow puncture in our shit-heap of a hire-car with only ten cents to our name. We expected to be greeted at the British Embassy with a cup of earl grey and a mince pie but when we arrived, a security guard with broken English told us that it was closed. Everybody was on their jolly holidays until 2nd January. In peak tourist season. How nice for them.

The most important thing was to get a roof over our heads for the evening. But even the ritziest hotel in town wouldn’t accept a parent's card over the phone from England. The sight of a lavishly decorated Christmas tree in the grand lobby of the Saratoga hotel was enough to reduce me to tears and I practically begged the clerk for a room. It could have been my empty stomach thinking for me, but I could've sworn the Christmas angel began speaking from behind me:

‘I overheard your story. I’ll give you some cash so you can get by for the next few days. I don’t know you, but you seem like good people.’

I turned around to meet James, not the Christmas angel but a friendly New-Yorker with sleek silver hair and clean-cut glasses. This was the last night of his illegal visit to Cuba* and he offered to lend us 500 bucks and take us out to dinner. By this point our British stiff-upper-lips had shriveled to the size of raisins and naturally, we accepted his kind invitation.

We agreed to meet James after finding a place to stay and headed back to Casa Lilly to see if she had found us a place to stay. We felt terrible for interrupting their family christmas celebration, the children were opening their presents and supper was bubbling on the stove, but we had nowhere else to turn. Lilly and her sister Sandra had rung around the whole neighbourhood to ask for a room and one place had said "yes".

Iznaga and Alicia welcomed us into their home that stood right on the Malecón. It must be one of the safest houses in Havana because they are situated in between both of the heavily guarded US Interest Sections. It was a modest, comfortable and homey apartment and it was just what we needed.

We met James back at his hotel and the concierge gave us crappy directions to a restaurant called La Casa. After an hour of searching and a terrifying trip over a rickety bridge into the dodgy end of town, we admitted defeat and paid a taxi to guide us to our paladar, a privately owned restaurant. We were greeted with open arms by the exuberant host into shades of neon and the glittery drip of extravagant water features. It was like stepping back in time... to 70s kitsch Miami. The food was brilliant, playful and oh so 70s too. Prawn cocktail, turkey slices and then came the dessert. Coconut icecream in no less than a coconut and pineapple sorbet frozen into a hollowed out pineapple. My mojito, infused with a leprechaun green mint syrup, was beginning to make me feel a bit strange. If the day had bean a nightmare so far, it was now turning into a surreal dream.

James was great company that evening, he lifted our spirits and after dropping him back, we indicated sleepily into our driveway. Suddenly, there was a screetch of brakes and the long, loud blare of a car horn. A car swerved around us and alarmingly came to a halt. Out popped the skinny boy who had been queuing behind us at the rental office that morning - what seemed like an age ago. Only, it wasn't him, it was his evil twin. He strutted towards us agressively, shouting insults in Japanese and I screamed at Seb to turn the car around and drive. I thought we were going to die and Japanese Hulk was going to do the deed. My surreal dream had turned into a game of Grand Theft Auto. Speeding off, we thought we were clear of him but then the police pulled us over to find out what the commotion was about. We weren't sure of the drink driving laws and we knew that we were at least 1 mojito down. We said nothing to each-other but we were both thinking, "That's it, we're going to prison, this has been officially the unluckiest day of my life."

Seb managed to talk us out of a dangerous driving arrest but the following morning, Christmas day, I ended up in the back of a police car anyway. We were escorted to the station to make our report in a rather dramatic fashion. Unfortunately, that was the most exciting thing that happened all day. There was a lot of confusion due to the language barrier and a lengthy wait, a 10 hour one, with a lunch break to punctuate the boredom: prison slop that nobody dared eat. The chicken slop smelled old and rotten, and the potato slop was anemic grey, don't even get me started on the dog mince slop. The chief of police had developed a rather adorable crush on the chief dinnerlady and they were both eyeing us closely. We didn't want to offend our hosts so we invented different ways to make our plates appear empty. I knew that if I was home in England at that moment, I would be stuffed silly on a delicious feast cooked by my dad, not shaking with low blood sugar and pretending to eat.

Seb & I © Yo Yim

Over the next few days, the Foreign office in London concluded that there was no way to get money to us other than via the embassy because of the US embargo. We had wired money with Western Union but it was stuck in Guantanamo Bay. The Western Union clerk just looked at our despairing faces, clearly not understanding the gravity of our situation, "Fly to Puerto Rico," she grunted. Well, that wasn't possible since we had nothing with which we could pay for tickets!!!

Like Blanche DuBois, we "relied on the kindness of strangers" and strangers came out of the ether to save us. 6 people in total leant us survival money until the end of our trip, more offered us a roof over our heads, we saw Trinidad and Cienfuegos, we went snorkeling, Alicia cooked us the most heartwarming stews with fresh herbs and deep fried malanga fritters and most importantly, friends offered us solace. In the end, we didn't need a stupid embassy.

On our last morning in Havana, more than a month after our arrival we gathered at a small cafe on Linea for breakfast with all of the beautiful people who had helped us. We filled the place. We couldn't have been luckier. We said goodbye to our friends and as I walked to our final destination down the Malecon in the bright blue early light, past the baseball field and the sound of joyful cheers, I sobbed my heart out.

Thanks to Jacques, Eric, Kinane, Lilly, Ramone, Sandra, Michael, Liz, Camillo, Orlando, Aria, James, Alicia, Iznaga, Jo, Pierre, Yo and our nerve-wracked parents. Life would be very different without you all.

Accommodation in Havana

If you ever need a place to stay in Cuba, look these people up. They both run professional and friendly B&Bs and the quality of your stay and the standard of food will be far better than most of the hotels.

Casa Lily
A modern and bright 50s high rise apartment that looks out over the city. The family speaks perfect English and Ramone used to be a tour guide so he knows exactly where to visit in Cuba.
Calle G, No 301 entre 13 y 15, apart. 13, Vedado, Havana
(537) 8324021

Sra. Alicia & Sr. Iznaga
A comfortable home with kitchen access and beautiful views in prime position on the Malecón. Kind host, Alicia is a delicious cook and Iznaga offers a private taxi service.
Malecón No. 209, apto. 3B, e/ J y K, Vedado, Havana
(537) 8367350

3 Bean chili & sweet potato

I came up with this dish before I left for Havana, it is my interpretation of what I thought Cuban cuisine was going to be like. I was warned there is a lot of beans, rice and sweet potato and I scoffed at a friend who upon his return, confided in me that he couldn't look at a single kidney bean, ever again. I thought, when food tastes this good, how bad can it be having to eat it every night? But as I said, Cuba is never what you expect it to be.

Apart from a few fantastic paladars and casas, which I will talk about in future, the food was generally herbless and lacking in any variety. Rice, beans and pork/chicken. For every meal. The problem is, some ingredients are hard to find because they are in short supply and sold at different times of the day. Everything has to be grown close by in the organoponicos which is wonderful but has its limitations. But do you come to Cuba for the food? Not particularly. You come for the music, the beauty, the people, the difference.

3 Cans of different kinds of beans
1 Large onion, diced
2 Cloves of garlic, minced
1 Red pepper, chopped
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 Can chopped tomatoes
2 Tbsp tomato puree
1 Whole star anise
1 Tsp sweet smoked paprika
1 Glass of red wine
A ladle of beef or vegetable stock
Roughly 1 tsp chipotle chili, depending on how hot you want it
Four big sweet potatoes

Preheat the oven to 180ºC and bake the sweet potatoes for 50 minutes.

On a low heat, soften the onions and peppers in the oil then add the garlic and fry for a further 2 minutes. Pour in your wine, boil for a minute then add the tomatoes, tomato puree and stock. Bring to the boil, add the star anise, chilies and paprika, then reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.

Add the beans and simmer for 5 minutes, until they are warmed through. Serve on the sweet potato with some rocket.

It is rich, healthy, unquestionably delicious and rehabilitated my relationship with beans after returning from Havana.

* Americans pay a massive fine and risk imprisonment by the US government if they spend US dollars in Cuba so American tourists have to fly via South America or Canada and conceal where they have been.

What makes a good cookery show? Recipe from Sicily Unpacked

2012-02-08T12:55:00.004Z

If we are friends, mild acquaintances or we've met once on twitter, you will know it is no secret that I ♥ SICILY. I fell head over heels on my first visit and have never looked back. It has stunning natural beauty, rich art history and if you like eating, what's not to love? This country's ruling has been passed around more times than the village bicycle in the last two millennia and it's food-culture reflects this in a melange of flavours. It's got all the best bits of Italian, Arab, Spanish and Greek cuisine that when combined in a modest, home-cooked dish become so much more than the sum of its parts. There's fish, glorious fish, fresh Med veg or fruit in the markets and dolce so sweet, I haven't plucked up the balls to even write about them yet. I go on about it so much that even my very close friends assume I'm Sicilian. Hi friends! I'm not by the way, in fact I haven't got a drop of Latino in me but like the food, I am a melange, a cosmopolitan, a mongrel some would say.

So when I discovered that I could watch my favourite place in an factual cookery/history/travel show on the telly every Friday, all prior social engagements flew out the window. I would sit in front of a warm fire with a big bowl of caponata and for an hour, I could forget the bone-chilling world beyond the four walls of my cosy flat. Many of my contemporaries did the same, I know they did. The food world loved it. They thought that Giorgio Locatelli and Alan Partridge's clever brother were charming, their subjects complementary, the perfect combination of informative and cute. What really came across was their passion for the place, this wonderful thing that no-one can quite put their finger on. When 2000 years of history is wrapped up in a vineleaf, of course that meaty slab of tuna is going to be emotional! When an ancient bronze statue is dredged up from the bottom of the ocean and its movement is still so liberated, beautiful and flowing, how could it not make you feel from your heart! Even when you discover that the owner of Antica Focacceria di San Francisco in Palermo (that place where everybody goes at lunchtime to get their spleen and cheese sandwiches, an acquired taste, not for everyone, including myself) has gone into hiding for being the first business not to pay protection money to the Mafia, this is still food that you want to try! That famous line from the Godfather, "Leave the gun, take the cannoli," encompasses it all, Sicilians know they have a dark, bloody history and they have suffered but they are always putting that behind them and looking to what is good, what is sweet because la vita e bella.

Us foodies have been feeling a bit starved of decent telly recently so Sicily Unpacked was respite in the repetitive world of X-Factor and the like. Alas, the series came to an end and then everybody exploded with the news of →THIS←. Have you read it? Of course you have. Reading the Daily Mail is worse for your blood pressure than cannoli shells deep-fried in pig fat. Not only does Zilli bitch off goddess Nigella, the queen of putting gorgeousness and food together, and sweet Sophie Dahl who ain't never done a thing to her, but she pitches her new cookery show on the basis that she once showed her mate how to make tomato sauce. It's like she woke up one day and said to herself, "Singing career ground to a halt, I wonder how else can I get myself famous - Ooh, what about Daddy?" It's passionless and not born from a love of food but from a love of Laura Zilli. Also, doesn't she know that cooking in Laboutins will give you terrible bunions?!

Producers have clearly seen the success of these reality programs and decided to apply the formula to cookery shows as well. Don't get me wrong, I love a bit of Masterchef as much as the next Joe Bloggs, that ridiculously sexy husk of Mrs narrator's voice, the extensive repertoir of John and Gregg's theatrical stern/worried faces and undoubtedly, the buttery biscuit bass. But would it be so bad as to ask for a bit more programs like naughty Keith Floyd's or Rick Stein trundling through sunny Spain or young, bouncy, adventurous Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall in the old days, back when he ate placenta? There are plenty of shows just waiting to be made and producers are all saying "No" to them. So to help you out broadcasters, I have drawn a fitting pie chart to show you what the producers think will make money and the ingredients that foodies actually want. Take a slice of that and eat it.

Sarde a Beccafico - Palermitan sardines stuffed with breadcrumbs

And now for the food, because that's what we're all bickering over, isn't it? You will find this dish in almost every eatery in Palermo, it's popular and rightly so. Beccafico means songbird because that's what they're meant to resemble in their pretty pinned curves but more of the singing is done in my fluttering heart when one of these passes my lips. They are hundreds of miles more delicious than the average tinned pilchard. I think there's stigma attached to sardines because of the fishy canned kind but prepared in this simple manner you won't ever doubt them again. There are plenty of variations to this recipe but it's best to just keep it simple like Giorgio did. For a perfect roll, get the fishmonger to fillet the sardines "open faced" by descaling, gutting and removing the backbone without separating the fillets or cutting off the tale.

Serves 4

Roughly 500g sardines
1 Cup breadcrumbs
1 Orange
2 Tbsp Raisins
2 Tbsp Pinenuts
2 teaspoons olive oil
Fresh bay leaves
Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 200ºC.

Break up the slices of bread into crumbs with your fingers. If it is particularly fresh and gooey you will need to use a blender.

In a mixing bowl, toss the raisins, pinenuts into the breadcrumbs, you can add more if you prefer.

Add the oil and then gradually squeeze in the orange juice, mixing it in every few seconds. You don't want it to get too watery, more like a moist dough. Season to taste.

With the sardines open faced up, spoon 1 - 2 teaspoons of the mixture at the end opposite to the tail. Roll the fish up and pin it from the tail, either individually with a toothpick or several on a skewer.

On a baking tray, put bay leaves in between each rolled sardine and then bake them for 20 minutes.

If you would like to put me on the telly, please do drop me a line. Also, check out my mates on the I ♥ page, they would make great entertainment too. Have you got any suggestions for the broadcaster man? Let them know what you want to see more of in the comments below.

The Pork Pie Press - A Food Fiction Blog

2012-01-12T11:16:00.005Z

Have you been telling "Porkies" again?

Calling all food bloggers, writers, illustrators, filmmakers, fruitcakes. Have you got a wacky idea that's not quite appropriate for the average food blog or publication? Do you tell fibs a lot? Is your imagination often running wild with hunger?

The Pork Pie Press began for the above reasons. It's the first ever blog for food fiction, with short stories gathered from gastronomers brains around the globe. A place where you can put your feet up at the end of the day and read about your favourite subject, eating. This is a chance to cut loose with your pen and even if you aren't a seasoned fiction writer, still give this a try, get crazy creative without the confines of a regular blog. See our Submission Guidelines and send all entries to theporkpiepress [at] gmail.com

Here is an excerpt from our first foodie tale:

Granny's Doggy Bag

Resting upon an antiqued chair in a ground floor flat in a chocolate box village, lives the smelliest bag in the world. The suede is golden, Christian Dior don’t you know, what can these fine aromas be? Surely, dipping your hand into it should resemble thumbing through the pages of Vogue or Vanity Fair, revealing a posh perfumery donned by Kate Moss and the like. I wish this were the case. Among hearing aides and hairbrush, under wallet and keys, wrapped up in a napkin is the source of this sleaze... READ MORE AT THE PORK PIE PRESS

Raw chocolate truffle tart

2011-12-22T16:37:00.010Z

Like ravenous sharks onto the scent of blood, it’s our instinct that leads us down a narrow garden path towards a rich, balmy aroma. Pulses race as the door opens to release a wave of the exotic smell we all hold dear. We’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks: a workshop in Raw Chocolate Alchemy led by Sarmado Sibley. Sarmado has worked all over the world with the likes of A-List celebs and bigshots in the food industry but today, he cooks for me and some girl friends as we learn how to tame what the Aztecs so accurately named, “Food of the Gods”. We are not in a place like Barcelona, famous for its chocolate, nor Belgium, in fact, these workshops are happening in our backyards up and down the country. Sarmado, a fountain of knowledge on the raw food phenomenon, is quite possibly the most (gastronomically) thrilling thing that has ever happened to the leafy town of Forest Row.

They call it “alchemy” because getting the formula correct is key, a heavy hand on the cacao nibs or a tight-fisted drop of honey could create a cake far too bitter for consumption. This leads many to dismiss it as just another tasteless new-age healthfood. But healthy for you it is! With the highest known antioxidants to man, raw chocolate comes free of the guilt, headache and nausea that you usually get from eating too much high-fat, sugar-laden Cadbury’s and the like. I’ve recently been smothering raw chocolate over my face instead of conventional beauty products for permaculture magazine with some dramatic results. There are new things being discovered about it in the lab all the time making it one of the most exciting ingredients to work with and the beauty industry hasn’t cottoned on yet. I did rather enjoy the pampering side of things but naturally, I would much rather be putting it in my mouth.

To have all of the ingredients laid out before us, show us how to make them and then not allow us to eat the results would just be too cruel so today, we will be sampling (gorging on) every recipe. Sarmado starts us off with a milkshake of almond milk, raw chocolate, banana and honey and we suck it up through straws while watching him make the basic formula for a bar of chocolate. There is no dairy used in any of these recipes, yet it still manages to hold the same melting, creamy consistency. This is because antioxidant-rich cacao butter is used rather than replaced with names that no-one understand on the back of ingredients labels. Coconut cream also softens the chocolate, the more you add, the gooier it becomes. Sarmado tells us that coconuts and mother’s milk are the only two foods in the world that contain the hugely beneficial nutrient, lauric acid. I’m beginning to feel a bit super-human, Belinda is giggling uncontrollably, Sylvy has gone bright red and everybody in the room, including our sceptical male participants have now got huge smiles on their faces. Our milkshake glasses are empty.

Five hours pass by very quickly, probably because there wasn’t a moment where we weren’t being fed pure deliciousness like royalty. None of us feel heavy or groggy, in fact, quite the opposite, completely invigorated and ecstatic. We learned how to make fudge with nut butter, flavour and colour the chocolates with other raw ingredients like raspberry and spirulina and we tapped into what seemed like endless wisdom from Sarmado on the subject of raw food. Was any of it too bitter? Absolutely not, and although not a gram of sugar had been measured out, there was a gentle sweet honey high in every mouthful without the epic low that usually comes after a sugar binge. Half way through, he gave us slices of raw chocolate “cheese cake” to take home, but perhaps not wanting to share it with anyone else, or simply not being able to control ourselves, no one has managed to leave it intact. The cake melts the moment it feels skin temperature, a dark creamy mixture dissolves across tongues like a river that flows straight to your heart. Moods are lifted into a soft lilt and it’s almost possible to taste the aroma of ancient magic. This is alchemy at its finest.

The cacao bean, "Food of the Gods"

If you haven’t got your wife/lover/sister/mother a Christmas present yet (what on earth are you playing at?) or you want to do something really special, call Sarmado and promise to take them to one of these workshops. If they are a girl, they will be beside themselves with joy, hell, even if you are a boy, you’ll be in heaven.

For the tart crust...

3/4 Cup Cacao Powder
3/4 Cup Almond Flour
1/2 A cup Maple Syrup
1/4 Cup Coconut butter
Pinch of Himalayan Sea Salt

Mix the almond flour and cacao powder together in a bowl.

We want the coconut butter to stay a low temperature so it will still be "raw" so melt it in a bain-marie that has been taken off the heat.

Stir the coconut butter into the rest of the mixture along with the maple syrup.

Press the mixture into an eight inch lined cake tin and then leave to set in the freezer for the next 10 minutes while you make the other half of the tart.

For the filling..

2 and 1/4 Cups Cacao Powder
1 and 1/4 Cups Maple Syrup
1 Cup Coconut Butter

In a food processor, blend all these ingredients together until you have a smooth truffle consistency.

Pour onto the base and allow to set in the freezer for 1-2 hours.

Just before slicing, dip your knife in boiling water, it will then glide through the tart effortlessly.

Optional: Add a couple of scoops of Sarmado's melting raw gelato. Remember, this is all very good for you.

Where to eat in Ballarò, Palermo: Mare Pronto

2011-12-10T01:41:00.004Z

Fish and chips usually give me a headache. They’re not particularly complicated but I’ll bet there’s something in the batter that makes my brain swell. Don’t get me wrong, on some occasions, this quintessential seaside dish can be delicious but more often than not, the batter is soggy, cooked in ancient fat and the chips are as floppy as a… well, a bunny’s ears.

Of course, the Sicilians have an equivalent to fish and chip shops. Except, instead of chips you’ll generally find pasta, couscous and caponata.

After a morning in the market of Ballarò, the locals come to this pescheria to buy lunch because there’s no time to cook after all that haggling. You walk past the odour of copper and salt emanating from stall upon stall of fish so fresh, the clams are still clapping. There is zucchini, as long as your arm or as small as a 50 pence piece, ripe fichi d’India and mammoth persimmon in vivid pinks and oranges, olives up to your eyeballs. But down a little street, where fish-heads and entrails rest, unwanted in the gutter, is Mare Pronto.

The one issue you will have in here is what to choose. Behind a glass counter like a quaint patisseria, are platters full of fish in all shapes, sizes and colours. Juicy swordfish steaks peek out from under freshly chopped tomatoes. There are prawns so enormous and sweet, any prawn you’ve ever eaten before would get size envy. Not a cod in sight today, but perhaps gurnard would appetise?

There is a whole section set aside for fritto misto, deep fried fish. In a round bowl sit octopus, their suckers fixed in a friendly wave. Golden rings of calamari would rather be eaten than worn as jewels on giant fingers. Prawns, crab, kebab, more prawns. The prettiest red mullet is blushing from underneath a minutely thin layer of batter, like fine lace over flesh. Bitesized sepiolini, baby cuttlefish, a crisp salty bite turns gooey then chewy. If any larger, they would look like they’d swum out of a terrifying Alien vs Predator film. If you’re really lucky, a snorkeler might have braved the waters of the gulf for sea urchins and you could have delicious ricci, which hangs then slips from spaghetti ropes, falling apart, perhaps before it even reaches your mouth, as if it has known its destiny all along.

Apart from the abundance of fresh fish, this looks like your average chippy. It’s no frills dining, you can either eat on the street off a paper plate or take a big bass and piles of squid home to feed the family. The owners are friendly and welcoming and the prices are fantastic. The best bit is, the batter is thin and unobtrusive so you can enjoy the full flavour of each fish. It has the same degree of crunch as any old cod in England but thankfully, without the headache.

Mare Pronto,
Via cesare battisti 35, Palermo
0919763053

Find Mare Pronto on Facebook

Recipes for Recovery - Fricassee of squid, potatoes and artichoke

2011-12-05T15:55:00.001Z

A friend of mine once said, "There is perhaps only one thing more powerful for the North European imagination than actually being in the Mediterranean and that is - the yearning to be in the Mediterranean." Aye me!

That technique can prove even more effective when given a dose of sunshine cuisine. So when you take a bite of this, I want you to forget the damp smell of grey outside, the frostiness of your feet, the sniffle in your nose and squash those winter blues. Close your eyes to imagine the warmth these cherry tomatoes once felt on their skin, step into the same azure sea the squid glides so effortlessly through and squeeze every last ray of sun from Amalfi out of that bitter lemon.

This recipe will serve 2 but you could make step 1 and keep half in the fridge for a quick sizzle later. If you cant find fresh artichokes, then tinned in water will do and if you're feeling particularly glum, remedy with a splash of white wine at step 3. You will need:

2 - 3 Tubes of trimmed squid (about 300g)
A handful of baby new potatoes
2 Small artichokes, cooked and peeled
1/2 An onion, finely chopped
A handful of cherry tomatoes
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Garlic cloves, peeled but whole
1 Lemon and its zest
A sprig of rosemary

Chop the potatoes into cubes and leave the skins on for their nutritious goodness. In a non-stick pan, heat the oil with the onion and fry for a couple of minutes until soft. Set the onion aside. Add the potatoes and garlic to the hot oil, then turn the temperature right down and cook for 15-20 minutes, until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork. Cover but stir regularly, because you don't want them to burn.
Halve the tomatoes, quarter the artichokes, then snip the squid tubes into 1cm strips with a pair of scissors.
Increase the hob to a very high heat and add the squid, tomatoes, artichokes, cooked onion, rosemary and lemon zest to the pan. Squeeze over half the lemon and season, then stir together for 3-4 minutes.
Take off the heat, plate up and squeeze over the remaining lemon.

Frescobaldino review - Frescobaldi's wine bar, Florence

2011-11-19T17:25:00.013Z

Returning to a restaurant in which you had this one amazing time at, can be a bit like bumping into a one night stand in Tesco: awkward, disappointing, mostly embarrassing. You’re going about your weekly shop in a relaxed fashion and the trolley scoots round the corner of the cereal aisle. As you’re selecting what to have for breakfast, a familiar face comes into your peripheral vision, causing your stomach to backflip. You hide behind a box of sugar puffs, perhaps they haven’t seen, but there is no such luck… An uncomfortable and clunky conversation ensues, typically consisting of, “So what are you up to at the moment?” - “Oh, you know, the same.” - “Remind me what that is?”

Without the beer goggles, this person doesn’t seem quite as dreamy, in fact you can see a bogey hanging from their nostril and the overpowering smell of aftershave has made you do a mini vomit in your mouth. After an awkward silence, you say your goodbyes, perhaps make a feeble suggestion of going for “a drink some time” and take the walk of shame to the vegetable section, praying you don’t decide to use the same till later on.

I came to Frescobaldino three years ago and it pretty much sparked a longwinded and almost carnal love affair with Italian food. It was the first place I ever tried steak. I remember being shocked that it could be red and fleshy in the middle and still be warm and voluptuous, all the while tasting a thousand cows better than a Big Mac. The truffles covering it (probably the first time I’d had those too), lifted me into a dizzy trance, I forgot to think and just did life. It’s arguable that perhaps this was down to the wine that the Frescobaldi family is so famous for. It flowed as freely as the conversation; our glasses always full to a happy medium. Before this experience, I was such a prude fusspot, I became a new woman, you could say I lost my gastronomic virginity there. After eating vast quantities, I had to rest for a whole day.

And so, I return a few years down the line with caution, hoping my high expectations that were formed on that day won’t be dismally crushed. I come in through the main entrance and I am seated in the restaurant. I notice the menu is a bit pricier than last time. My primo piatto is fine but the staff are far more formal and a lot less personal and I feel rushed. My food reflects this because the steak is luke warm, as if it was cooked in a hurry and left to cool while I was eating the previous course. My face is burning, are these the prickling tears of disappointment? I’m so hot in fact, I ask if I can take my drink to the quiet courtyard and finish it there. They oblige. Once I am there, I am told by a waiter called Primo that this is the wine bar, Frescobaldino, I had been sitting in the restaurant, Frescobaldi by accident, and the menu is slightly different…

It all comes rushing back, I remember Primo, how friendly he was, how knowledgeable he was about every wine he poured and how he served each dish in front of us while explaining how they were made. That evening, I decide to return again with friends to give it all a second chance.

They call them "bar snacks", but the bar snacks are more like works of art. Out comes insalata caprese, sitting on bails of finely shredded lettuce. It is marinated with an earthy juice from the artichokes resting on top. Even though it tastes incredible, truffle mortadella often comes under predjudice because of its ugly appearance. This time though, it is sculpted into pink ruffles and looks so dainty, even the sceptics give it a try. It is accompanied by fennel salami arranged in a similar fashion, which smells of a balmy summer night in the Tuscan countryside. Frescobaldi’s signature pate is spread thick on crostini and vivid green olive oil for dipping envelops the salty bread.

The huge antipasti would have been enough but we committed to zucchini and scallop risotto as well. The rice is warming, sticky and made yellow by saffron. The enormous scallops are so juicy and the biggest I’ve ever eaten. The coral has been left in and flavours it with the kind of sweetness you get when prawns are cooked shell on. We try pasta too, with meat. A thick type of spaghetti loop the loops round our fork, occasionally slipping off so we have to slurp it up.

A different bottle has been carefully chosen for every course and we learn about each one accordingly. Starting with Prosecco of course, followed with a light fruity red, then graduating to a more sophisticated garnet. By the time the meal is over, we’ve received a masters in Vin Santo from the cheeseboard and a pHD in grappa… Although we’re not feeling too clever at this point.

To top off that brilliant meal, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much when eating out. Primo was generous with our poor Italian, hospitable and good humoured. He held back to give us “girl time” but joined in on the jokes. There was nothing awkward or forced about this meal, just old friends, catching up.

So if you’re planning on having a one-lunch-stand at Frescobaldino, I’m afraid it’s not going to work out because you’ll have to keep going back for more.

Frescobaldino
Tel: +39055 284724
Via de' Magazzini 2-4/R
Firenze
www.deifrescobaldi.it

Fichi d'India - the prickly pear and Palermo

2011-11-15T10:15:00.006Z

Monte Pellegrino, Prickly pear, Palermo

Every time I cross the road, I am nearly killed.

Zebra crossings are just for show here. The green man stands, legs akimbo in suspended animation, simply to lure you into a false sense of security and subsequently to your untimely death. Angry horns blare: how dare you set foot on their turf! As you reach the pavement on the other side and you are narrowly missed by the swoosh of a Vespa at your heels, you thank Santa Rosalia and your lucky stars for keeping you on this earth. Afterall, there is still so much to see, so much to taste.

Forget meow meow, cocaine, bungee jumping, when we travel (even in places where motorists respect the rules) our senses are forced to heighten so we can brave the unfamiliar. I think it can become a drug, "Bitten by the travel bug," or so they say... but perhaps they were talking about those big red itchy lumps.

OK, so sometimes the side effects of traveling can be uncomfortable, put you on edge and make you jumpy but once you let go and accept a complete lack of control, things will become vivid and taste more intense.

Around every corner in Palermo is a hidden treat. It could be the sweet smell of cannoli shells spitting in boiling pig fat, drifting out the back door of a caffé, an ancient Greek necropolis waiting, unloved in the corner of an Arabic park, or an elegant statue of 'the Genius', carved into the side of a crumbling building. You only have to cross the street to come across a cheerful vendor hawking round, bright, luscious fruit from the boot of his micro-truck. And you made it to the other side of the road, take a bite.

I've been wanting to try Fichi d'India for a long time. The prickly pear caught my imagination the last time I was in Sicily but it was out of season and I could only gaze wishfully at the intimidating spines of unripe cacti or sip suspiciously on its sickly liqueur. Today, however, I make it to the other side...

Peeling Fichi d'India is a bit of a palaver because they are dangerous to touch with bare skin. Once I am beneath the hairy exterior, I find sweet flesh in pink, coral and mango hues. I am warned about the annoying pips, they are too hard for chewing, teeth-crackingly perilous in fact. Unfortunately, they are weaved into the fabric of the fruit and there is no avoiding them so I just have to swallow, like round black pills. But all is forgiven when the pulp dissolves in my mouth like sorbet with a fruity flavour that you could perhaps determine as one third apple, one third melon and one third magic.

Like Fichi d'India, Palermo is not without its faults. There is dirt, piles of it, dog shit, broken glass scrunches beneath your feet, poverty, there is no respect for the once grand buildings, now decaying into graffitied rubble. You ask any Palermitan and the thing that really gets their goat is, 'The busses don't run on time'. Yet if you question what their favourite city is, of course they will always say, 'Palermo'. As will I. Somehow, all this grime is part of its wonder. If everything were pristine, wouldn't it just be another arrogant cosmopolitan city? If every human were perfect, wouldn't they be dull and lacking balls like Ken and Barbie?

Gulf of Palermo from Mt Pellegrino

At home in England, every aspect of my life has to remain in control. My daily struggles exist in front of a computer. The safeness of it all shuts off any sense of vulnerability. 'How nice to be cozy and wrapped up in cotton wool,' you might say, but I've found that you can't numb one emotion, without numbing all of them and so somewhere along the line, bits of happiness are lost. Perhaps this is a coping mechanism I've created to deal with sickness, but whatever it is, it's not working anymore... Ultimately, we can't control what happens to us. No matter what, we will all have trials, è la vita.

In Palermo, you are vulnerable, there's no avoiding it. Like a naughty teenager, you can't control this city, you just have to sit back and do what it tells you or risk tantrum.

So when I visit Palermo, it's like a slap on the cheek, a wake-up call. Every time I eat humble impanata, it's like I'm crunching through thick, coppered, oily breadcrumbs into gooey smoked mozzarella for the very first time. I wake up in the morning to the awe-inspiring sight of Monte Pellegrino, with a sense that the statue of Santa Rosalia is overlooking the whole gulf from her post, this amazing woman, who is believed to have healed thousands. There is beauty too, if you choose to see it, in the streets, in the crumbling cornices of the seafront where the night air is filled with the warm woody smell of roasting chestnuts, being turned on a makeshift stove by aged men with no teeth. In listening, as a child, swings their legs back and forth from a balcony, chanting a melodic lullaby while the world passes by.

If the prickly pear didn't have obstacle spines and pips that punctuate the flesh, it would probably be a taste too fleeting, lost in the mouth. La dolce vita, whatever that may be, doesn't exist in languid afternoons, lounging upon a yacht. It is within the pulp of the fruit here, within the fabric of the faded buildings and in the passion of the kitchens. And so we accept this pear as we accept Palermo, with all of its prickles.

Plate to Page Tuscany & Jam tart recipe

2011-11-07T18:10:00.007Z

Photo by Denise

The yellowing hills are silent and still apart from the occasional twitter from a bird that decided to brave the winter. Then, 16 ravenous food bloggers scrunch down the gravel track to Il Salicone, a remote and historic winery, to quaff Chianti and gorge themselves on Tuscan cuisine.

It’s November and the sun is so baking, it’s lit up a rosy blush in everyone’s cheeks. Food is brought out and there is a gentle lull in conversation as half of the participants for this unusual workshop fill their mouths and the other half snap away on their cameras. Upon the table are platters of antipasti. Cured meats curl over one another: peppered salami with glistening white dots and salty prosciutto crudo with marbled fat that melts like olive oil the moment it feels the warmth of lips. A circle of cheese has been so evenly sliced, to take a piece would be like messing with the sacred geometry of Florence’s Duomo. Though, this doesn’t hold anyone back for long. It is mixed with the sweetness of honey, creating a whole new kind of symmetry.

Photo by Denise

After a filling second course and plenty of jam tart, we finish the meal with cantuccini. Typically a hard crunch against the teeth, this almond cookie is softened today by red wine, from grapes picked in the surrounding vineyards. As the thirsty biscotto sucks up any remaining liquid, it leaves dirty pink sediment in the bottom of the glass. This is a custom usually observed with Vin Santo, but today, acidic Sangiovese seems more appropriate as the conversation flows from chocolate tart to gluttony and the seven deadly sins.

As we meander back to the villa, we discuss gratitude and appreciating the little things that make life beautiful. There was nothing particularly fancy about the meal, leek frittata and a decent Tuscan bottle, but even though we’re here because of the food, that’s not what Plate to Page is entirely about. For a group of people who can gaily chat away over lunch like old friends, it’s odd to think we only met yesterday. Surely, time has been stolen from elsewhere? Perhaps it lingers in the stillness of the air, or in the ancient walls of Il Salicone, suspended during our hours together.

Photo by Judith

Jam tart, simple but beautiful

When the warming smell of sweet pastry wafts from the oven, anyone with a nose could forgive that your tart was only knocked up within a matter of minutes and with such ease. Jam tart is so effortless and simple, some purist bakers may frown upon it as cheating but after they take a bite of the gooey snug middle, they'll eat their words, as well as the rest of the tart.

Photo by Denise

The ones we tasted at Plate to Page were almost overflowing with artisanal jams from Sunchowder's Emporia in a psychedelic mix of flavours. Apricot and wildflower, tangerine and ginger, peach and lavender, such choice! Each fairly normal fruit jam had an interesting twist and that made the ordinary special. It got me thinking about what I could add to my easy-peasy jam tart to make it more memorable.

Experiment with flavours! If you’re making it with raspberry jam, why not try sprinkling over a pinch of chilli pepper, with a pear jam you could add saffron or stir lavender into lemon curd. It will make your tart the talking point, guests will exclaim, “Wow, what did you put in this?” and no one will question the origin of your pastry.

A generous spread of homemade jam

A secret ingredient of your choice

250g pack of ready-made shortcrust pastry (or homemade gluten-free)

1 egg yolk

A knob of butter for greasing

Icing sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 190ºC and grease your loose bottomed tart tin with butter.
Roll out enough pastry to cover your tin. Blind bake for 15 minutes.
Remove the baking beans from the tart, brush with a thin layer of egg yolk and bake uncovered for another 5 minutes.
Pour the jam into the pastry, add your secret ingredient. You can make pastry strings to crosshatch over the jam if you wish. Bake for 10 – 15 minutes until golden.
Remove from the oven and dust with a sieve of icing sugar. It is delicious when still warm but check that the jam isn’t molten hot before take a bite!

You could also try this recipe with puff pastry or make miniature tarts using the same method.

A big thank you to my photography partner Denise @TLTLittlethings who took these beautiful photographs and to the organizers for coming up with this brilliant idea in the first place! I am so grateful to have met and have learnt so much from all of you wonderful people:

Festival food - Chorizo Express review

2011-10-12T12:23:00.002+01:00

If you were a student, wouldn't your ideal summer be spent knee deep in mud soup at Glastonbury, dressed to the nines in sparkly gladrags at Bestival or rocking out where Hendrix once blew peoples minds at the Isle of Wight Festival?

Let's face it, that's only going to happen if you've got piles of dolla burning a hole in your pocket or you're a pop/rock super star or Kate Moss or all three of the above... But what if attending festivals could be your summer job? I'm not talking about the kind where you litter-pick beer cans/used condoms/ miscellaneous detritus infected with Hep A at crazy hours of the day for a free ticket. I'm talking about the kind that has a pretty tasty reward tied to it... and I don't mean Kate Moss.

Jack Blakiston Houston, an English student, figured out the answer to this little conundrum last summer and THANK GOD I spotted him and his handsome sausages at Boomtown Fair, the mad place that teeters on the brink of a playfully horrifying reality. Along with his cousins, Richard and Tom, he's come up with a genius plan to help you through your festival hangover and has probably saved the lives of hundreds of malnourished festival goers. Where Bob's burger van once stood with its gristle & salmonella baps, half-cooked bacon butties and chips fried in fat so old, Aristotle might have dated it, in its place resides this pretty little van.

Let me fill your ciabatta-bread-heads in here. Piled high with peppers, rocket, halloumi and juicy chorizo, with an honorable glug of olive oil, these ciabattas are a dream if you come across them in the bedlam of fast food at a festival. Ok, chorizo sausages aren't all that innocent but their fattiness is offset by salady goodness and you're hungry, not Kate Moss and most likely, wet, do you really care?

The real sustenance comes from their red wine stews. Warming fluffy potatoes and an energy-rich mix of borlotis and butter beans all bobbing about in nourishing tomato sauce. White chunks of feta are crumbled over, milkily melting like stirring a lighter shade of cream into a red paint can. Did I forget to mention the chorizo? I never used to like it as a kid but now I couldn't imagine my life without it, I'm a complete convert. Wrapped up in a spicy kind of love, this stew has me bewitched.

The chorizo is top quality gourmet meat from Spain, made with happy free-range piggies, the bread is from Rinkoff Bakery, one of the oldest in Whitechapel don't you know. Apart from the pimiento peppers, the vegetables are sourced as locally to the festival as possible. When you're used to grotty festival food (and it's prices), could you really ask for better? At £5 a bap, this is a flippin' bargain! I've had tonnes of decent meals all over Europe and one of the best came out the back of this 6ft wide van. Get them in for your weddings, birthdays, christenings and if you run a big festival, what are you doing? Call them right now, 07717167183 and book before they get snapped up by another one.

When I confronted foodtrepeneur, Jack about the brilliance of his master plan, he rather modestly said, "There is no secret to cooking fresh chorizo, it is already full of flavour, we just let the sausage speak for itself."

I'm inclined to agree, yet here I am speaking for the sausage. Whatever kind of wooden spoon wand they've been using, it works.

The Chorizo Kids - the Goonies of the millennium, so HOT,
you might just burn your tongue.

The Chorizo Kids hang out in The Scolt Head in Hackney. Jack told me, "The pub's chefs, Max and Lucas are brilliant. In return for a bit of rocket, chorizo and advice about girls, I get to pick their brains on new dishes and ideas." Pop by some time and see if you can catch the kids. If not, you'll just have to purchase your ticket to a festival the good old-fashioned way.

Do you have a festival food stand that's worth a taste? Get in touch via the comments form below.

Pssssst! Like Chorizo Express' on their facebook page as they are often looking for people to help out on the stall.

Food Poems - Packing Procrastination

2011-08-30T22:49:00.001+01:00

I'm packing an empty suitcase,

To fill with cheese and wine,

Sacrificing clothing for Reblochon.

"Here I come France, in the buff!"

They're European, they won't mind,

They're used to titties in Vogue and stuff.

Escape to East Dorset - Top 5 things to do then eat on the Isle of Purbeck

2011-08-23T12:55:00.005+01:00

You might be gasping for a mini getaway this coming bank holiday. Londoners will want to escape the chaotic bedlam of the Notting Hill Carnival and most of us will be trying to catch those final few rays of summer before yet more rain sets in. But where to go? France is too far; Blackpool Pleasure Beach is too close for comfort. There's no guarantee the sun will have it's hat on but it's a safe bet that with just a short boat ride away you will feel like you've stepped into another world.

Strolling along the prom prom prom in Swanage has been popular with
tourists since the 1800's. You can still catch a daily show of
Punch and Judy, which has been playing there for more than a century.

The chain ferry* is an absolute must. Aside from beautiful views, it creates the wonderful illusion of sailing to faraway lands. As you cross over, leaving the Ferraris and Lamborghinis of Sandbanks, the land changes to a place of wilderness and uninterrupted coastal paths. You find yourself in a place where red squirrels may once again, roam the land freely, in a time before the mobile phone signal. "Take that Work, you can't reach me here!" But what's this? Your network operator is texting you foreign roaming charges. Don't worry, you haven't got on the wrong ferry to France, this isn't even really an island. Sandwiched between Pool and Weymouth is the pretty peninsula called Purbeck.

1 Children and adults alike will be spellbound by The Blue Pool's tranquil beauty and you can watch as brilliant blue and red dragon flies dart across the surface of the water. You won't feel like you're in England anymore but you might feel like you're in the movie Avatar, minus the blue people. Its colour can vary from turquoise to emerald green day to day, due to minute particles of clay refracting light in the water. It is like a tiny portion of the Plitvice Lakes National Park in Croatia (one of the world's favourites). There are many other animals like the rare Sika deer or the green sand lizard to spot on the nature trail as this is a site of special scientific interest.
eat Rest your feet in the estate's tea rooms with a Purbeck ice cream in hand. It comes in a rainbow of different flavours, including the slightly more mad beetroot and horseradish but a delicious creamy favourite is stem ginger.

2 The saltwater lido at Dancing Ledge was carved into the rock for school children in the early 20th century. This is a natural infinity pool, refreshed only by the tides and you can safely swim in its warmer waters with a view of the open sea beyond. From the rocky platform (the size of a ballroom dancefloor), the daring can easily access the deeper sea. Not so easy to access is the actual location, it is a steep clamber down the cliffs, which the faint hearted best avoid. You will find it on the costal path from Langton to Worth Matravers. Keep an eye out for the local puffin colony.
eat at the 'best pub in the world' according to many who hath visited. Grab homemade pasty or pie resting atop a paper plate at The Square and Compass in Worth Matravers. The hot, sturdy fillings are folded in the finest thick, flakey, lardy pastry, perfect for recovering after a chilly dip in the sea or a long ramble across the cliffs. Sup upon some sweet pressed local cider, this is where true Dorset is at.

3 at Corfe Castle, you step back to a time of chivalry and walk among ancient ruin where ghosts of murdered princes and a headless woman are rumoured to still roam the castle walls.
eat Or if that's a little bit too freaky... you could gorge yourself on scones, cakes and clotted cream whilst admiring its imposing magical splendour from a table at the Corfe Castle tea-rooms. Perhaps take a wonder up to the castle after your cream tea, if you're brave enough. It can get quite busy, so when full, try the Model Village Courtyard Cafe which uses fresh local ingredients for a delicious high tea.

OK, it doesn't look this splendid all the time.

4 Being a UNESCO world heritage site, we've got to visit some of the places that made the Jurassic coast famous. The walk from Lulworth Cove to Durdle Door is arguably the most beautiful. The sheltered waters at this perfectly circular cove are lovely to swim in, if a little crowded at times.
eat Take home some freshly caught lobster and scallops for the barbie from the crab shack at the entrance to the cove.

5 Watch the sunset whilst collecting fossils at Kimmeridge bay. The road leading there has a sneaky toll charge, so go after 6pm.
eat Clavells Cafe & Farm Shop morphs into a fine restaurant in the evening, serving truly the best cooked mackerel anywhere. Wrapped in crisp oaten breadcrumbs, you will forget this ever was an oily fish, unpopular and disregarded to tins, and see it as a thing of beauty, so soft and juicy on the inside. The fresh fish, lobster and scallops are caught directly from Kimmeridge bay. All of the meat they serve is their own and you can eat on the terrace that overlooks a field of happy free-range cows. No air miles and barely any road miles, this is Slow food at its best.

* Arrive early to avoid the long queues

A Review of Still and West in Portsmouth - A compliment sandwich

2011-08-02T17:14:00.004+01:00

Some food writers believe it is their duty to tell the world about a place if it is awful, but the moment I begin to call rubbish rubbish, a whirling match of mental tennis bats about vigorously between my ears... what if the restaurant is to close because of my review? What if the landlord hunts me down with a carving knife? What if the chef gets fired, his wife leaves him and he has to sleep on the streets? What about - err - karma?!

Match point.

Therefore, I don't do bad reviews. I'd rather not revisit that terrible meal and give a place energy if it's no good. Yep, I'm yellow-bellied, white-livered, a poltroon some may say. But somebody's got to pipe up eventually and if not me then who? You would hope the restaurant could only improve after such criticism and I can't go through life just being a one-trick-foodwriter, clapping my hands gaily with the pleasures of eating. No. I've got to be serious and all that jazz. So here's how I'm going to pursue the following piece:

com•pli•ment sand•wich

noun |ˈkämpləmənt||ˈsanˌ(d)wi ch |

a technique used in the corporate world to masque an insult in order to make it pallatable for an audience.

USAGE begin the criticism with a compliment, follow up with a criticism/insult and then end with a compliment or something favorable about the receiver.

The Still and West lies at the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour on the old Spice Island, a land of smugglers taverns where restless spirits of swabs and their strumpets roam the streets. You can sit for dinner by the wall of windows and watch the ferries tootle by every ten, ploughing waves to the harbour wall below you as the sun passes behind Gosport and onto the West. The restaurant itself harks back to a grand old time with a refined fish menu and old fashioned nautical decor. It's so close to the waters edge, if you spun around several times and got hit on the head, you might believe you were aboard the QE1 in its heyday. I come from a navy family and we've been patrons here for generations. It's the old salty dog's greasy spoon of choice and as a little girl I would visit here with my grandmother. I loved the fine seafood, the sense of occasion, the feeling of being on an open sea voyage into unexplored culinary territory. Now we return, years on, she's 90 and the pub, I later find out, has been bought by that brewery chain, Fullers. Back in the day it was difficult to get a table, but tonight, there is a ghostly hush; we have the only one laid.

a crew of bad prawns

I order the pint of shell-on prawns aioli to start but there is no garlic to speak of. In fact, the prawns arrive as if scooped straight off the ice at the fishmongers, half defrosted, swimming around in mirky water at the bottom of a glass with the faintest tinge of lager. The accompanying bread is a French baguette, stale, resoaked and warmed up in the oven. One side is still soggy from the half-hearted attempt at de-antiquing it. To share, we are presented with cockles, mussels and crabsticks so vinegary fresh from a tin, John West would be proud. Forget the QE2 Lizzy, this is authentic pirate food! The mains aren't much better, every vegetable seems to have the same consistency as that ol' seaside favourite, mushy peas. Fish is apparently their speciality and the menu is priced accordingly, but the mackerel is sad, the turbot defiled, the cod and chips at nearly £10, somehow, burnt. We didn't stay for pudding.

It's a different story downstairs, the fish and chips are decent and it's hard to get a seat on a warm night because the terrace is full of punters slurping ales in the Spice Island air. It certainly is a popular public house in a special location and the alcohol sales appear to be the thing keeping it afloat. But wouldn't it be amazing if there was still a reason to be that busy in the restaurant upstairs?

Still & West, Bath Square, Portsmouth, Hampshire (023 9282 1567)

Recipes for recovery: Eggy rye bread with fruits of the forest, honey and banana

2011-07-26T17:14:00.005+01:00

I hated rye bread, tasteless, cardboardy and nowhere near as edible as a trusty French baguette. Smug colleagues on diets looked out at me over their sardine topped slices at lunch, chomping through that and nothing else. I knew they were pained on the inside. The stuff out of a packet that keeps for months is even worse, possibly made by aliens. So why on earth would I encourage you to make this dish?

When you drench it in egg and warm it through, rye bread transmogrifies into something magical. It becomes soft and comforting and as the seeds pop and crunch in the mouth like miniature fireworks bonbons from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, your spirits are suddenly wingardium leviosa-ed higher... But enough of this Harry Potter lark! Rye bread, as we all know, is also incredibly healthy and coupled with egg, makes for an energy rich breakfast.

It took just a few minutes to pick breakfast from the sun-filled garden this morning. Take advantage of the fresh, local fruit available at this time of year, chuck in a cheeky banana why don't you - that's plenty of your five a day. This dish is for a sweet tooth that loves vitamins but if you're after something more savory you could add chives, ham, smoked salmon, watercress and well, just about anything that would go in an omelette.

2 slices of seeded or plain fresh rye bread
A handful of mixed berries
1 fair trade banana
1 large egg
Rapeseed oil
Honey

In a frying pan on a high heat, warm up the rapeseed oil. Break up the egg with a fork in a flat bottomed bowl and soak both sides of the rye bread in it. Add salt and pepper (optional). Fry both sides for a couple of minutes until golden brown. Cover with berries and sliced banana, then a dribble of honey.

Museu de la Xocolata (the chocolate museum), Barcelona

2011-07-21T22:11:00.009+01:00

Forget tapas for a sec, this is a must see/smell/taste culinary experience in Barcelona.

transfixed

It's a fair walk from the underground, but as you draw near, something sweet and balmy tickles your nostril hairs and a serotonin switch pings in your brain. Let your nose lead the way as the building is in an awkward place and the map isn't really making sense... or does it? Perhaps the burning hunger that's suddenly hit you is sending your internal compass into mania.

Or perhaps you're a bloke, I hear it doesn't affect you in the same way as us. But I know that when I arrived at the doors of this museum, ain't nothin' was going to come between me and my chocolaty destiny.

Huge and tempting, much bigger than they look here

This place is the haute couture of chocolate, even the logo is chic. The artistry and time it must have taken to create such wonders is unfathomable. Since the museum opened in 2000, they have probably realized the importance of restricting visitors. Thank God for the glass cases each carefully crafted sculpture resides in, it was the only thing keeping me from biting a chunk out of chocolate Tintin and licking Louis Armstrong.

lickable Louis

Of course, we learnt plenty about the history and traditions of xocolata. After all that studying, we plonked our bags down in the cafe and ordered a well earned drink. It was ONLY the best hot chocolate I've ever tasted. With just the right amount of bitterness, it was so thick, you would think it was molten lava. I could taste the origins of the cacao in its richness and I felt like a Maya. Risk burning your tongue for this, it truly is 'food of the gods'.

and Bambi

We had intended on keeping the entrance ticket as a souvenir but as it turned out to be a bar of chocolate...

The belly rules the mind. ~ Spanish proverb

Quails eggs and runner beans in truffle oil

2011-07-19T22:02:00.010+01:00

The following dish was one of the more gourmet taken from my trip to Lolita Taperia in Barcelona (see review). It was originally made with little broad beans, bitter sweet, popping out of their mushroomy soft jackets in the mouth. As that season has now passed and we are well and truly laden with a glut of gorgeous hairy runner types, I woke up late this fine (rainy) Sunday and decided to give it a go for brunch.

A handful of freshly picked runner beans
4 quails eggs
A small slice of lemon
1-2 fresh mint leaves, finely chopped
Truffle oil
Salt, Pepper

Peel away the sides of the runner beans and chop into slices. Steam them for roughly 8 minutes. While these cook, boil your quails eggs for 2 minutes (soft boiled). Allow to cool, then peel. Toss the beans with the mint, truffle oil, and a squeeze from your lemon slice. Season, then rest the quails eggs on top. Serve with fried ciabatta.

Review of Lolita Tapería in Barcelona - Gormet Tapas

2011-07-17T13:55:00.009+01:00

It poured with raindrops the size of turkey eggs and thunder boomed and reverberated around the tall buildings of Poble Sec (the dry village) so loud the vibrations only made my tummy rumble further. We legged it down the street and took shelter in the gourmet tapas bar called Lolita Tapería f/k/a Inopia.

The food had tongue-in-cheek attitude and I was shocked when presented with a pinky-sized pigs cheek, truffle and mozzarella baguette. Out came the miniature burgers which were shortly swallowed whole. The wonderful thing about food from a dolls house is that you can try many different things and there's no debate over what to have, you just order everything.

The chicken goujons, a typically plain dish were coated in crisp bread crumbs arranged in architectural geometry, with a yellow pond of creamy spanish mustard to dip. A roulade of warm cheese draped in truffle honey rendered our brains useless, filling them with fuzzy delight over the next five minutes. A friend ordered "vintage ice cream" for desert but a Dracula cartoon lolly from the 80s was delivered.

Ok, the written menu needed a bit of work as we were never quite sure what would arrive and the food was a little more kooky than gourmet, it ain't no El Bulli. But the taste was somehow magnified in every miniature mouthful and I don't think any of us had ever eaten food that was quite so much innocent fun.

This is hot spot and a seemingly 'cool' place to hang out after work, so if you do go, book in advance or brave a terrifying storm in the queues.

Click here for a recipe inspired by our meal at Lolita Tapería

Lolita Tapería
Tamarit, 104 · local 2-4
08015 · Barcelona
(St. Antoni)
Tel.: 93 424 52 31

Glasto Gastro - Straight from the heart of the Mud Pie - Festival Survival Kit

2011-06-25T12:16:00.003+01:00

If you've looked out the window lately, you will know it's raining cats and ELEPHANTS. The mud pie was eaten a few days ago and the leftovers have been made into mud soup. The thought of spending time, sploshing about in this glop may be terrifying to some, but as a festival veteran, I do know a thing or two about survival in "the wild". There's the obvious, a decent pair of wellies and a place to kip but here are my top tips...

DON'T
Walk around for miles in ridiculously tight trousers, tire out your legs to the point of falling over on a pile of somebody else's sick. Then rush frantically to the nearest water trough and cry as your boyfriend holds you over, washing your bum.

DO
Get one of these shooting sticks and look like a cool parrot perched in the crowd.

DON'T

Drink ten pints of beer/cider to forget the pain of sitting in sick, the following morning you will be well acquainted with the toilets some call, the pits of Babylon. I saw a man fall in once, no body knows if he lived to tell the tale.

Keep hydrated but avoid too much liquid to spend as little time as possible in Babylon.

DON'T

Hungover, stumble to the nearest greasy bap, chomp on uncooked bacon, hang out the next day in the medical tent being pumped full of immodium.

Stock up on some organic British Beef Jerky for such emergencies. High in protein, chewy and delicious, this will keep you going until the next meal. If this isn't your thing, get a nutty assortment.

DON'T

MSG - Same reasons as above.

Head for the Permaculture area for a delicious, salmonella free, natural meal

DON'T

Queue for the showers in the cold

Get naked in the rain with some soap. No rain? Head to the nearest fire prevention point and jump in the bucket.

Lovingtons Somerset Icecream, Beaulieu Blackberry flavour - The best ice-cream this side of the Alps.

Festival Survival Shake

You're going to think I'm effing mad for wanting to have this as a breakfast replacement, but we aren't going for gourmet, our aim is endurance and this will provide you with the nourishment and energy you need for squelching about in the mud all day and bouncing to Beyoncé until midnight.

1 Sachet protein powder
A Scoop quinoa puffs
Almond milk
1 Flask

Method - Shake it all up in flask and drink with nostrils pinned.

Slow Food and Slow Travel: A Relaxing Holiday in the Pyrenées

2011-06-20T15:54:00.002+01:00

This is the first article Seb and I have ever written together. It is for Permaculture magazine so it has an eco twist. We took another mini road trip recently down to Barcelona and here's what we got up to on the way back... CLICK HERE to be redirected to the Permaculture website.

Le Café Anglais Review: A lunch that knows no bounds

2011-05-16T00:35:00.005+01:00

How terrifying it must be for the head chef right now. Fifteen hungry wannabe food writers plus some highly acclaimed ones ascend the stairs at Le Café Anglais, poising their forks for action. Several will inevitably pick at the seams of their dishes until they unravel, complaining that the raw strawberries weren’t the right temperature or that the food didn’t astound, but right now, I am not in the mood for that sort of tosh. I am here for joy alone, feeling like one of the luckiest girls alive, for a lunch that knows no bounds and an unending string of tastes and conversation.

Let’s be honest here, most food excites me. You walk into the grand art deco hall-cum-Parisian brassiere as if stepping off a plane at the equator, immediately being hit by the smells and warmth of an Anglo fusion with faraway lands. Your heart begins to race as you take a first glance at the menu, which thankfully is only there to inform as the dilemma of what to eat has already been decided.

I feel glad about positioning myself with a perfect view of the stage like pass, distracted every moment a piece of Mortadella is happily drooped upon a plate, waiting to be tasted. There is a selection of Hors d’Oeuvres to share coming our way and to avoid wasting time on awkwardness and clashing cutlery I explain to these relative strangers that my morals do not lie with the polite ‘Family hold back’ method and I am more from the school of ‘Dig in’. Elated and ravenous from this morning’s teachings, they agree and we do.

Smart soldiers of anchovy toast swim to my lips with an affectionate dribble of Parmesan custard. Kipper paté and a soft-boiled egg slip through my mouth as I hark back to my dad's English boarding school inspired breakfasts. Jolted by the crunch of crostini, the peppery watercress beneath quenches my salty thirst like droplets of hope in a sand blasted desert. The Aubergine ‘Imam Bayildi’ is relatively non-exciting but I suppose, that is its purpose. I am brought back to this world and gain comfort from its fleshy structure and earthen flavour.

Mortadella does not look or sound particularly inviting, however this slice has Ago Dolce Onions perched like little ladies waiting for the bus. As you plunge your fork into them they burst out of their jackets, undressing layer upon layer of sweet film, enveloping raisins and pinenuts, which are then punctuated by peppercorns and crisp almond slices. A lonely radish stares at me from below. If it’s going to waste, I might as well...

We swill back some silky Corbièrs, the perfect antidote to these meaty wonders. Just as our stomachs start to rumble once more, the second course arrives, served like an Elizabethan volta in flawless patterned unison. The steamed hake is so soft and speckled with juicy well-fed shrimps from the nitrogen-rich waters of the North Sea. I sluggishly accept just one more mouthful, then another, even though I know it will be to my detriment.

I seem to have created quite a crumb around me and the waiter shamefully clears my place. Hogs we are, no one is fazed by the appearance of pudding. Buttermilk Panna Cotta with Strawberries. Shouldn’t this feel heavy? It doesn’t, it is uplifting and tastes of Vanilla, Lemons and May.

Perhaps my judgement was clouded by urgent hunger, apparently the food was not up to par. Yes it had faults, but it also had immense flavour and balance and I still enjoyed every moment. Most of us are dying for a post lunch nap and as the conversation drifts from food blogging to fashion blogging, I thank god I decided not to wear a belt today.

Le Cafe Anglais, 8 Porchester Gardens, London, W2 4DB

... Taken from my "homework" at the hugely inspiring Guardian masterclass, Eating Your Words with Matthew Fort

Vegan and Gluten Free Banana Loaf scattered with Sweet Violets

2011-03-28T12:29:00.005+01:00

This common English flower is often thought of as an uninvited guest on pristine lawns, but I love it. It is medicinally used in India to cure sore throats or tonsillitis and the French use it to make syrup to put in scones, marshmallows and macaroons but why mash this up to flavour something when it is beautiful and tasty as a decoration freshly picked? For the full blog post and recipe on the Permaculture magazine website CLICK HERE.

Recipes for Recovery - 8 minute Prawn and Courgette Pasta

2011-03-27T17:47:00.011+01:00

"Pasta?!" - I hear you gasp - "But that's wheat!"

Now hold on a tick, this dish isn't completely against the rules.

Pasta was my best friend before I got sick as it was so easy to knock up a decent platter in a matter of minutes and this was primarily how I fed myself. So when I was told that wheat was off the menu, I became a lost soul, forever roaming the supermarket aisles for a solution.

Even though I mourned greatly, it was without doubt a good call to give up wheat as I feel a lot better without it. Over the last couple of years I have carried out a substantial amount of investigative work into the world of gluten free pasta and here is what I have concluded. Rice only pastas are healthy but they pretty much suck, they stick together and have a strange gloopy texture. Spelt and corn pastas are not disgusting but they just don't have the same allure as wheat, they are too different and that's no good as a replacement, you will only relapse.

You can also say goodbye to ready-made fresh tortellini and tagliatelle for good. If you do want these, you will have to make them yourself. You can find some decent fresh pasta and pizza recipes from The Gluten Free Girl that may be a little bit hard core for a novice M.E. dieter.

Quinoa mix pastas have the perfect texture and a neutral taste but when you compare the price to normal pasta, they are so goddam EXPENSIVE. The best to go for are the ones with a little bit of everything and after hours spent scouring the health food shop, trying out every single type of GF pasta, my favourite ended up being in most supermarkets up and down the country (UK). Its success is testament to how good a substitute it is and not only is it gluten free, it is dairy free too, yay! It is called Salute and it has revolutionalised my life.

This dish, I kid you not, takes a whole 8 minutes to prepare and cook whilst the pasta is boiling. It is perfect for those fatigued days where you find it tasking to lift up your arm, let alone pick up a knife and get chopping. It is frikkin delicious too and has full approval from the M.E. diet non-believers.

Top tip: If you want to make chopping quicker, get a mandolin... no not the musical instrument, the utensil.

Serves 2

200g Spaghetti
1 Courgette
200g Cooked and pealed cold-water prawns (the little ones)
Half a tablespoon of butter (replace with olive oil if particularly sensitive to dairy)
Half a tablespoon of olive oil
A Handfull of fresh flat-leaf parsley
2 garlic cloves

Get your pasta on the boil and set a timer for 8 minutes (or refer to packaging if using a different type).

Heat the oil and butter in a pan and crush the garlic cloves into it. Slice your courgettes thinly and add that, along with the prawns to your pan. Set a timer for 6 minutes and stir regularly. Chop your parsley while the prawns cook and stir in at the end.

Recipes for Recovery - Cheer Me Up Salad

2011-02-10T16:12:00.005Z

If you think that salad is boring, think again.

The full name for this dish is actually tender pea top, pecan and orange salad with truffle roasted pepper and feta cheese. But I just opted for 'Cheer me up' and you'll see why.

This is the most lipsmacking, luscious and sumptuous salad you will ever try.

So at the end of a really bad week, when the wave of melancholy takes over and all you want to do is eat a big fat muffin, 10 biscuits and a bar of chocolate, toss all of these ingredients together in a bowl and it is guaranteed to put a smile back on your face.

Serves One

1 Romano pepper
Truffle infused olive oil
Olive oil
1 Orange
40g Baby pea tops
100g Feta (half a pack)
A handful of halved pecans
Black pepper

Chop the Romano pepper into large slices and rub a small amount of truffle oil into them with your hands. Put under the grill for 5 minutes. Turn over and add the feta, hold under the grill for another 5 minutes until golden brown. Mix half of the orange chunks in with the pea tops and season. Add the peppers, feta and sprinkle with pecans. Dress with equal parts of olive oil to truffle oil as it can get quite strong and squeeze over the other half of your orange.

Recipes for Recovery - Smoked Haddock Brown Rice Risotto with a Poached Egg

2011-02-05T10:03:00.013Z

I know that not a lot of people like brown rice (I was included) so a great one to start out with is brown basmati and I have grown to love it. Brown rice retains most of its nutritional value with plenty of B vitamins, magnesium, dietary fibre and essential fatty acids. Milling the rice to make it white, removes almost all of this goodness and less than half the vitamins and minerals are synthetically added after the process. Brown rice also contains a trace mineral called manganese which helps produce energy from protein and carbohydrates and is also involved in the production of an antioxidant (superoxide dismutase) that provides protection inside our cells' mitochondria against the damage free radicals cause during energy production. Really, I could go on about the benefits of brown rice all day, but if you want to learn more, a great website to check out is The World's Healthiest Foods.

I sourced my haddock from a sustainable fishmongers who naturally smoke their fish and unlike most supermarkets, leave it undyed. Replacing cream with soft goats cheese not only avoids cow dairy but actually gives it a much smokier flavour. If yours isn't quite melty enough, add a pudding spoon of natural greek yoghurt.

85g Brown rice
100g Soft organic goats cheese cut into small pieces
Half an onion finely chopped
1tbsp Olive oil
Fillet of smoked haddock
A handful of baby spinach leaves
1 Organic vegetable stock cube

Boil your brown rice for slightly longer than recommended on the packet as this will make it stickier for the risotto. Crumble in a stock cube.

Poach your haddock in boiling water for roughly 6 minutes. You can tell it's ready when it flakes away easily from the skin with a fork. Remove the skin and separate into bitesize chunks.

In the same pan (to save washing up!) fry your onion in the oil until soft and set to one side.

When the rice is ready, take off the heat and stir in the goats cheese until it melts. Mix with the haddock and onion and season with pepper. Plate up with a boiled or poached egg and garnish with fresh baby spinach leaves.

Dig in, the risotto will be creamy and smoky, the egg yolk runny and the spinach crisp.

A Review of The Wagamama Cookbook by Hugo Arnold

2011-01-29T13:19:00.025Z

This is the cookbook that many of my peers got for Christmas, even the ones who have never set foot in a kitchen. Why? Because it's irresistible, we want to know the secrets of the wagamama, we want to take the restaurant home with us and play with it… but is this just a far-fetched fantasy?

Flicking through page after page, I am confronted by a grumbling tummy. The pictures are so real, you can almost taste them and they leave you rushing to the kitchen, limbs flailing, knocking over pots and pans, poising yourself to make these beautiful dishes. The only problem is, we are not in Japan, we are in England. I don’t usually make this type of food and therefore I do not own these ingredients with names I don’t understand. Afflicted by a kind of madness, I jump into the car and drive to the nearest Wagamama, foot to the floor.

I’m beginning to think that this book is a successful marketing campaign.

I slowly collect the ingredients. This takes some time as stocking one’s food cupboard with a whole other culture is an expensive task and these ingredients have to be sourced from a number of different places, not just the supermarket - fine by me. After a few weeks I am ready.

I first have a go with Sake Amiyaki Gohan, grilled salmon with pak choi, ginger and oyster sauce. I replace the shaoshing wine with sherry as advised in the useful unfamiliar ingredients section and I swear, it turns out to be one of the best pieces of salmon I have ever eaten. The juicy segments delicately flake away one by one as if they were book pages thumbed over by a breeze. Having said this, I am really quite surprised with the amount of sugar that goes into these dishes, it is no wonder we like it so much. If I keep the Wagamama diet up, these pearly whites would surely rot.

A few days later, I knock up a quick Ginger Chicken Salad and it proves to be a refreshing, zesty and deep fried "healthy meal". Then I bring my adventurous Green Tea Drizzle Cake to Sunday lunch and everyone tucks in, forgetting it's would normally be dribbling lemon juice.

After trying a few more dishes, I notice something is missing. Generally, in the restaurant, many people randomly place a finger on the menu, ordering whichever dish it lands on. This is usually around the middle area where the Chicken Katzu Curry lives. It isn’t in the book, even though this confused act leads to it being a favourite of many. Hugo Arnold, where is the Chicken Katzu curry?

The instructions are easy to understand and most of the time, I get it right. There are also cute tips and facts on every page, which make for fun reading. Some of these are quite helpful in terms of buying fresh ingredients like fish. Their motto is, ‘To combine fresh and nutritious food in an elegant yet simple setting with helpful, friendly service and value for money,’ Yet one of the facts defends why they don’t always use organic, apparently because they search for only ‘what is best.’ Interestingly, we are also told that the definition of the word wagamama is ‘willfulness or selfishness’.

Some of the ingredients are sauces, which you have to make yourself beforehand and this can become time consuming. It would be easy to make all of the sauces in a restaurant without much surplus ever going to waste, as they use them in a variety of dishes over the day but at home, it's a different story. There is a reason we don’t have Wagamama every night and it isn’t because we can’t really afford it; this book will at times shatter your view of how low fat and heathy their recipes are. Hiding under all of those soba noodles, could wagamama be just another fast food chain?

My green tea drizzle cake with white chocolate & ginger cream

This being said, the book does hold its side of the bargain, divulging many of wagamama’s secrets, techniques and recipes that aren’t even on the usual menu. And I can tell you one thing, it beats sitting in the restaurant for hours on end, consumed by the helpless task of trying to work out what goes into your noodly goodness.

2CV Capers on Salina - Pane Cunzato and a Traditional Ricotta Dessert

2011-01-08T14:06:00.006Z

This is part of the trip that inspired me to start writing the Delectable Diary. I wrote these posts quite a while ago and it was mainly so that family and friends could see where we were going and what we were doing. It makes me happy to think how far the blog has come since then. We did 10,000km in 2 months (phenomenal for the car we took!) and there was plenty of ferries, food and wine. I'd do it all again, and probably will.

After an erratic nights sleep on our rickety ferry from Naples, we drove into the beaming sun of Palermo with our sleepy eyes. The problem was, we had no plan. We didn’t yet know which way around Sicily we were going to travel and where we were going to start. I was getting dizzy going round and round the roundabout and so I made a snap decision - beaches, snorkelling, squid and volcanos, the Aeolian Islands.

We drove along the Tyrrhenian coast to our next ferry port in Milazzo listening to Counting Crows This Desert Life for the first time in years. Back when this was my favourite album, my teenage diet consisted of ASDA 9p noodles, Tropicana and Ricicles. Abruptly, the music cut out, then came back on again. We thought nothing of it until the engine did the same thing as the music cut out again. “MRS POTTER” – silence – “HEY MRS” – silence – “TALK TO ME”. The car began to jerk, we were pleading with her, “Come on Beatrice!” But it was to no avail. After a minute, the engine completely gave up. We tried to start her up again but as we switched the ignition on, there was not a whisper from the starter motor, nor a peep from any dashboard lights. Thankful that nobody was on the road at this beautifully cool hour, Sebby got out to check the engine as I stayed in the car hoping for answers.

“Why wont you work?!” I fumed, shaking the steering wheel. Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a little blue wire hanging down behind the key barrel and I moved a few inches lower to investigate. The sun was bright and not yet hot but the stress of the looming raise in temperature and my traumatic memories from Chianti reduced me to speaking with this inanimate object… “It would seem that your purple and yellow friends are plugged in little one, are you meant to be out here all alone?” I felt for a slot. “What will happen if I push you in this hole?” It fits! I shouted out the window, “Sebby, get away from the engine, I am going to try and start it!” With my available fingers and toes crossed, I turned the key. SUCCESS! I had not only diagnosed the problem but I had fixed Beatrice this time! I was becoming this trips star mechanic. With the wind in our hair and the sun shining upon us through the open roof, we were on our way.

Once in Milazzo, it took us a while to find the ticket office. The plan was to get the car ferry to Lipari, stay there for a few days, maybe visit Vulcano on a day trip, then get another ferry to Salina. I told the secretary my requirements, two people, one car and where I wanted to go and she typed it into her system. She told me it would cost €97. “Per ritorno?” I asked calmly

“Non. Solo andata” (One way. Beat that price Wightlink)

“WHAAAAAT?” I nearly feinted. Our guidebook could not have been more wrong. We had definitely not budgeted for this.
The next half hour was spent running between the two ticket offices trying to find the most economical combination of ferry tickets or working out whether it would be cheaper to go by foot and leave the car on the mainland. As the boot didn’t lock and the passenger door could be unlocked with any old key, I thought that not the best idea. Our life for the next three months was in that vehicle. Meanwhile, Seb was driving round and round the one-way system because there was nowhere to park. Inevitably, Beatrice, bless her, overheated right outside the offices. I came out as Seb was motioning frantically with his arms to the traffic warden, “AUTO CALDO!” He eventually understood and let us off. We had a 20 minute wait for Beatrice to get back on her feet so Seb and I talked through our dilemma.

The UNESCO World Heritage site, Aeolian Islands were number 1 on our list of places to see, if it weren’t for them we would have come to Sicily on a separate trip, as it was a rather large detour from the original plan. We decided we definitely had to go. The next compromise was agreeing upon which one to stay, as we couldn’t afford to Island hop. Salina, Isola Verde (the green island) seemed like the perfect one for us. It gets its nickname because it has numerous freshwater springs making it appear from a distance, almost entirely emerald green. They grow superior quality olive oil, prickly pears, delicious Malvasia wine (tick) and capers, I LOVE capers, not to mention it has a nature reserve and fantastical fish foods. We forked out the dough and decided to get the early morning ferry the following day rather than pitch our tent at midnight, again.

After a failed attempt to buy supper at a closed down, dilapidated fishmongers, the tourist office pointed us away from the bustling, industrial town with its billowing oil refineries, toward the pretty Spanish Quarter where there were a couple of sinister bullet holes in its grand buildings. From there we drove to our campsite along the peaceful Strada Panoramica. It was only a minute ago that we had been around hundreds of people and fumes and now we had a perfect view of the sea and nothing but shrubbery around us. We had a choice of two campsites and we went with the one that had a view of the ocean and the least tents. Unfortunately, there was a reason for this lack of popularity, as a nightclub disguised as a pretty café in the day time was on the terrace below us. We were kept up the entire night by cheesy music and a man speaking very loudly into a microphone, playing some sort of game with the audience who appeared to have come from all over the city.

We awoke at 5am to pack up the tent. We paid the receptionist the money we owed her for our sleepless night and made our way back to the ferry port. We desperately needed petrol but the only stations we could find were closed. I don’t know if it was because of the early hour or the amount of money we had spent on our ticket but I was on the verge of having a full-blown panic attack, I didn’t care how but we had to get this car onto that boat!

Once we were on the boat, I half relaxed (because I knew we had to get off again) and enjoyed the stunning scenery. Azure blue for miles around and scraps of land in the distance covered by a haze in the heat.

We sat on the deck and watched as cars drove off onto the barren, yellow and black, combed earth of Vulcano. The next port of call was Lipari with its ancient harbour and faded ivory antiqued buildings up against harsh, unfamiliar rock. The centuries-old pumice and obsidian industry have chipped away at the island's craggy cliffs.

As Salina edged closer, the green became more vivid. The captain plopped the ungraceful ferry right next to a rather large yacht, shiny and white with three giant masts. We drove off the tiny dock and asked a policeman where the nearest petrol station was, luckily it was close. We filled up and drove to Lingua, the next village, on roads more treacherous than the Amalfi coast. I got out the car and saw something yellow on the roof, “Seb is that your wallet with your passport?” He had left it there after filling up.

“Oops! That’s lucky!” He grimaced. Then we smiled at eachother, happy to be here and too happy to care that something so obscenely stupid had just occurred. A couple stopped us,

“Has THAT come all the way from England?” The man asked in a homey accent, gesturing towards Beatrice. “How long has it taken you?” His wife had flown out and it had taken him three days to drive. It had taken us nearly three weeks. We felt grateful for our slow car and the amount of time we had, he had speeded through potential memories.

Alongside children playing in a manmade lagoon with a view of Lipari we stopped for lunch at what looked like the cheapest place, a busy panneria called Da Alfredo. This place has buckets of atmosphere, it is like something out of a movie. Old Alfredo sits on a table overseeing all the goings on while his charismatic sons run the show with their menagerie of busy waitresses. On gloomy winter evenings I often fantasize about running away to live on a warm Mediterranean island, I think this would be where I would start off my new life. The young girls live for Da Alfredo. They are on their feet from midday to probably midnight, constantly on the move in the boiling heat and they must be seriously fit. It is the social hub of the community and definitely not the place for a quiet lunch. They have a restaurant in the evening out the back called Da Alfredo in Cucina but the real magic happens out the front in the panneria where they are utter masters of their trade. Alfredo KNOWS how to make a granita. There were rumours flying round that Sean Connery sends his staff off his yacht just to get one – they are that good. I swear he must put drugs in them, once you’ve had one, you keep going back. They are, what the English would call, a slush puppy, only slush puppies are repulsive unless you are five years old and they probably do have some sort of substance in them which should be made illegal. These are made from fresh fruit in a rainbow of different flavours and they quench your thirst like nothing else ever could. If they can’t get fresh oranges that day, they wont make it in that flavour, its as simple as that. After tasting the whole menu throughout the holiday, Seb and I concluded that anguria (watermelon) and limone were our favourites.

Da Alfredo is also famous for pane cunzato a dish made for, what can only be described as greedy bastards, god it’s good. Seb and I made the mistake on our first day of ordering one each, even half was hard to stomach (in a good way). A mountain of tomatoes, capers, grilled melanzane (aubergine), tuna, olives and ricotta, all on a round base of sweet toasted bread. That was the ‘Salina’. I preferred the ‘Eolie’, which was a mixture of red onions, cherry tomatoes, anchovies, capers and mozzarella, a molto refreshing, light lunch... you would think. The only problem we had, was agreeing on which one we were going to share.

After lunch we waddled our lard-arses back to the car and found the campsite. We could have swam there fairly easily and worked off the calories as it wasn’t so far away, geographically speaking, but Lingua (where we were) is where the road begins and Rinella (where the campsite was) is where it ends and in between them was a bit of a sleepy volcano. So we had a wee bit of a roundabout drive ahead of us, but we didn't care, the landscape was so beautiful and fertile, there were plants spewing out onto the roads grabbing onto every edge of rock possibly available. I can't imagine what it must be like in spring and I can't wait to go back. The GPS tried to kill us again by sending us down a one-way road with a gradient of 90º, knowing that our brakes were dodgy, but we got there alive.

We lugged everything from the car, down the hill toward an unspoiled view of the ocean.

Then Marco arrived. It could have been his pink cotton cropped trousers coupled with bare feet, his ponytail in his vespa helmet or his big down to earth smile, but there was something hugely compelling about Marco. On a trip to the bar to get our parched selves both a well deserved San Pellegrino I accidentally got distracted for an hour by Marco. I discarded my guidebook, which only had a few words on Salina and, as we had found out, completely incorrect ferry prices, and listened to Marco speak, enthused by the island where he had spent his childhood. Apparently, the rest of his family had told his granny that she was mad for buying a house on Salina and selling a perfectly good one in Rome, but Marco nor I could fault her decision.

Marco gave me all the local info, where to swim, watch the sunset, where to dine etc. Alfredos is fantastic, he told me, he should know, he holds the record for the most granites eaten in one go. When the Salinians go wild they do it in style, Stella Artois? Coke binge? No! Marco hit the hard-core stuff. He later told me that only a year ago, he had been given a triple bypass due to a heart condition he was born with, which was probably exacerbated by the fact that on top of every granite he drank to claim his title, was a big dollop of cream. Thankfully, as he told me all of this, he looked fit and back to normal health.

That evening we gave ourselves a prize for reaching our optimum destination and being good-tempered little travellers. We dined at what was rumoured to be a posh resturaunt, Porto Bella. To start I had Pesce Píccollo, literally translated as small fish. The tiny breaded fillets had the soft texture of sole but the size of sardines and my my they were delectable, there just wasn’t enough of them. For the secondo piatto, I chose my childhood favourite, pealy prawns.

The waitress advised us to get the pudding di casa, which was AMAZING, traditional and seriously simple to make. A film of sweet honey glazed over a bed of ricotta, freckled with raisins and crushed pistachios. We walked along the dock afterwards in a dreamlike state, watching the lights from boats and buoys dance on the surface of the water with nectar rich smells of caper flowers in the hot night air, delicious.

Pane cunzato

Serves 2

1 Loaf of Italian stone baked bread
6 Medium tomatoes, chopped
250g mozzarella (about 2 balls) cut into chunks
1 Red onion, thinly sliced
8 Anchovies
A Handful of mixed olives
Tsp capers in brine
Origano
Chopped chili
Olive oil

Cut your bread down the centre to form a round, 2cm base. Rub it in olive oil and put under the grill for 5 minutes, turn and leave under grill for 3 minutes. In a large bowl, put the chopped tomatoes, mozzarella, red onions and olives, sprinkle with some origano, chilli and season. Pour over a generous glug of olive oil and mix about with your hands, then place on top of the bread. Freckle with capers and settle the anchovies and Parma on top.

Ricotta with honey, baked pistachios and raisins

Serves 2

4 Tbsp of ricotta
Runny honey, preferably thyme
A handful of pistachio nuts
2 Tsp of raisins
2 pinches of cinnamon

Preheat the grill. Use a tea towel and rolling pin, or a hand blender on a coarse setting to bash up the pistachios. Then put them in a baking tray and under the grill for 1 minute, be careful, these burn easily. Scoop 2 tablespoons of ricotta into each bowl and dust with a pinch of cinnamon each. Dot them with raisins and coat with honey. Sprinkle over your warm nuts and it's ready to serve.

My top 10 cookbook Christmas presents

2010-12-08T16:50:00.016Z

Usually I am super organised and have everybody’s Christmas present by mid-November but this year I haven’t quite got it together. I am currently at home in bed, accompanied by my old friend the flu and this has given me some time to have a think about what to bestow upon my dear friends and family apart from edible gifts (see my edible gifts blog post)…

A Hedgerow Cookbook - This charming little book is not too big or too small but perfectly STOCKING SIZED! It takes us on a magical journey through the seasons, using wild plants to create mouthwatering recipes. Every page is gorgeously and intricately illustrated by artist and writer Glenny Kindred. This is a lovely little present for any explorative food fanatic.

My dog Mirabelle cannot read, however The Truffle Book by Gareth Renowden will be one of the presents I will be giving my little puppy on her first Christmas. My task for 2011 will be to train Mirabelle to SEEK! Its a bit pricey (like truffles) but this book covers all the truffles of the world and has a guide to finding truffles, training truffle dogs and some great recipes too.

Number 1 on my personal list to St. Nick is Noma - time and place in nordic cuisine by René Redzepi. You may recognise the title as that mental restaurant where the Masterchef finalists get all sweaty as they compete for the prize but I think this is one of the most exciting and fascinating restaurant books to come out since, well... possibly ever. The only present that could beat this is flights to Copenhagen and several courses at the two-michelin-starred restaurant.

I love food and I love travel, especially when the two are combined, therefore a perfect book for my list (HINT HINT!) would be the Lonely Planet A Moveable Feast. My only problem with this is, once the tales from around the globe have been read, it will add yet more places to my loooooonnng To Chew List.

Bring peace of mind to any control freak's kitchen by giving the calamity chef How to Repair Food when it's his turn to cook and reach for this alphabetically organised aid when a disaster dish needs rescuing.

Preserved is an excellent book for anyone wanting to make edible presents this year. With beautiful photos and great instructions, I first spotted this at work and just had to take one home... because it was damaged of course.

I read the blog of the Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef and it gives me hope in times when I miss pasta the most. I love cookbooks with a narrative and this one is intwined with a love story. They work some serious magic with food and this is a must-have for anyone trying to steer clear of wheat.

For all you foodies out there, I understand just how compelling The Flavour Thesaurus must be. I am a complete geek, last year I asked for Larousse Gastronomique and this year I accidentally found out I am getting this book. I am SO excited about exploring the science behind flavour matching, WOOHOO!

For anyone who is internet-illiterate then the BBC Good Food book series is a must. I'm sorry, but I love the website. If I'm ever tired and lacking inspiration, I just reach for my mouse. They are the kind of books that are easy to flick through with pictures on every page and there are good meal ideas for people who don't have lots of time to prepare it.

Right my little elves, I hope that has given you some inspiration!

Siena to Amalfi - Dolce delights and why I am not a secondo piatto

2010-09-07T23:00:00.009+01:00

100g caster sugar
65g plain white flour
4 eggs
½ vanilla pod
Extra limoncello for brushing

Preheat the oven to 150˚C. Separate the eggs. Beat the egg yolks, sugar and vanilla then sift in the flour gradually whilst continuing to stir. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites until fluffy then stir into the mixture. Pour into 6 little pudding moulds and bake for 40 minutes.

Creamy filling

25g sugar
12g flour
1 egg yolk180ml milk
1 ½ tbsp double cream
½ tsp lemon zest
1 shot of limoncello

Combine the egg yolk, milk, sugar, flour and lemon zest and whisk until smooth. Bring the mixture to the boil and then simmer for 1 minute. While the mixture cools, in a separate bowl, whip the double cream until peaks form. Add to the cooled mixture with the limoncello and stir.

Take the sponge out of the oven and leave to cool on a wire rack. Once cooled, cut off the bottom of the sponge and set aside. Scoop the middle out of the main sponge to create a hollow. Brush the inside of the sponge with limoncello, fill the cavity with the cream then recover with the base.

Cream topping

360g double cream
1tbsp icing sugar
1 shot of limoncello
Lemon zest for decoration

Whip the cream. Mix in the sugar then add the limoncello, spread all over your filled sponges and sprinkle them with lemon zest.

Greve[nces] in Chianti

2010-09-06T02:54:00.005+01:00

This is part of the trip that inspired me to start writing the Delectable Diary. I wrote these posts quite a while ago and it was mainly so that family and friends could see where we were going and what we were doing. It makes me happy to think how far the blog has come since then. We did 10,000km in 2 months (phenomenal for the car we took!) and there was plenty of ferries, food and wine. I'd do it all again, and probably will.

We crossed the endless vineyards of Chianti to reach Castello di Verrazzano, an estate where traditional Tuscan produce such as Chianti Classico, Vin Santo (holy wine), honey, balsamic vinegar and olive oil has been produced for centuries. We were met by a lively man, in his mid 60s with a genuine New York/Italian accent who was to be our tour guide. He bounced around the gardens, giving us a full history of the estates huge wine cellars and then we came to the best part – the tasting. We were given two different types of Chianti Classico and one glass of the more refined, Chianti Classico Riserva. As in all Italian wines, they had high acidity but they weren’t as mouthwateringly ‘Pah!’ as the likes of Valpollicella or Montepulciano. I closed my eyes and the bouquet of flavours hit my nose and then slid across my tongue like silk, cherry, vanilla, leather and particularly in the Reserva, chocolate, coffee and spice came one after the other, many but not overpowering and they blended so perfectly that I could have gone on drinking it as food. Even the first, the simple table wine, with a bit of bread and olive oil from the estate, tasted delicious. It seemed criminal when everyone began to spit the perfectly aged second wine out, I was having none of that! Chianti is typically good with tomato dishes or red meat but my favourite, is to have it with a creamy pudding like vanilla and berry panna cotta or chocolate cheesecake. Traditional pudding on a Sunday comes in the form of Vin Santo. It can be quite dry like a Fino sherry, which I am not a fan of, but the 20% wine we tasted had all the sweetness of elderflower and a light syrupy texture as I dipped my almond biscotti in. The lively guide gave us good tips on identifying the wine but made fun of the people who were embellishing descriptions, saying, “Wine is there to enjoy, it is about passion. You either love it or you don’t and if you don’t, I’ll have it.”

Driving towards Siena in the boiling midday heat Sebby started making noises like “hmmm,” “ah,” and “oh dear.” When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that the brakes felt funny and then he exclaimed, “Oh no, they’ve stopped working completely!”

Feeling indecisive, I shouted, “Well what do you want me to do about it?!” We pulled over, had a little squabble about what course of action to take, then called direct line, as luckily, we had breakdown cover.

I heard a disjointed telephone conversation as Seb gave them all of his details and then he exploded, “What do you mean, we are not covered?! I paid you £150 for a green card and now we are in the middle of nowhere in Chianti, what the hell are we supposed to do?” They hung up, “FUCKERS!” Seb doesn’t get angry often so if I hadn’t been so worried about the immediate situation, I would have found this quite funny. Fuming, he began to pace up and down the lay-by. After a minute he told me that they had sold us a green card, knowing what car we had and then told us that because it was over 16 years old, we were not covered. I told him to call back because they couldn’t possibly leave us here after making a mistake like that, but our phone refused to give us signal. Seb walked up the hill and after 10 minutes some angelic Spaniards came to help. They didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak Spanish. They mimed to me that they had no space in the car, opening their boot to show me. The man motioned for his girlfriend to go and wait by the side of the road so that the boy could take Seb up the hill to find signal. We sat on a towel in the lay-by that smelt like wee leaning to a very small patch of shade. All I had to offer the girl was a tomato, she refused and I tucked into my tiny lunch, eating it like an apple.

Seb returned, telling me that direct line would send out someone within the hour, we thanked the kind Spaniards and they went off on their way. After 3 hours, nobody had turned up so we drove up the road, very slowly, trying to find signal. The mechanic got lost, they told us. We gave clear instructions again, waited, hoped. Our very warm water was running low and a nice pair of farm boys stopped to give us a bottle as we were playing a gripping game of Spongebob Squarepants Top Trumps. I was also beginning to get very hungry and so I cracked into our emergency supply of beef jerky that I had bought in bulk for such moments as these. In the heat, the jerky had developed a cloudy goo in places, I wiped this off and proceeded to eat. My piece of advice for this chapter is, if your beef jerky starts mucusing a milky substance, DON’T EAT IT. I fell very ill the following morning.

Anyway, after 5 and a half hours we gave up and decided to drive to the nearest town extremely slowly. On our way down, we saw a restaurant and thought it would be better to wait and phone direct line from there rather than risk our lives as our brakes still felt a bit funny, as though they could give at any moment. We went in, ordered the best drink of our entire lives, a San Pellegrino lemonade with ice, heaven in a glass. I then had several very angry phone conversations with direct line, and we waited, again.

A woman walked in and started having a vibrant conversation with the bar man in Italian. She said something to us to include us in the conversation, we replied slowly, “Sono Inglese, auto kaput,” making silly hand gestures and sad facial expressions.

She said “Oh your English! My husbands English, we saw you earlier and thought the side of the road was a strange place to have a picknick because there are so many beautiful places around here.”

We got talking to Giulia and her daughter Maddalena and we told them our situation. They are the kind of people who have a smile so infectious that even in our exhausted, exasperated state we were able to laugh with them. After another hour and a half there was a commotion outside. Giulia ran out, jumping into her car, shouting, “I’ll be back!” She had gone with Maddalena to chase down the mechanic's truck which had apparently been to-ing and fro-ing for some time.

Ten minutes later they arrived back with the cheerful mechanic in tow, who didn't seem to mind that he had been on a wild goose chase all day. According to Giulia, he LOVED 2CVs. He took a look at Beatrice’s engine and explained that he would be towing us somewhere North of Florence (completely the wrong direction) and that the car probably wouldn’t get looked at until Monday because it was now Friday evening. We explained to him with the help of Giulia and a bit of mime that we had to catch a ferry from Naples on Monday and asked if there was anything he could do now to fix Beatrice up temporarily so we could go to a garage once we were in Sicily. With an emerging crazed look in his eyes and a grin from ear to ear, the man jumped in Beatrice and motioned something to a confused Seb.

“He wants you to go with him!” Maddalena giggled, realising he was in for trouble. Seb reluctantly got in, fearful with hands together as though in prayer. They drove off, Beatrice skidding and screeching, doing emergency stops every few meters while making noises we didn't know a 2cv could make. I am surprised they didn’t have a good case of whiplash afterwards.

They came back unharmed, with a diagnosis. Giulia said, “He is telling you to use the brakes as little as possible, use the gears to slow down instead. He says that they are fine now but in old cars, the brakes will overheat on a hot day if you use them too much.” I realised that before, we had parked it in the open sun at the Castello and we had driven down a very steep driveway to get onto the main road, now we know...

We waved to the man as he drove off, happy that he had got to play with our little toy. Giulia told us that if we had any more problems, that we could call her until we got to Sicily. We thanked her. We were so grateful, had it not been for her, the trip would have been massively delayed. She said, “Not at all! Chasing him in the car made my day. When we found him, he was doing a piss on the side of the road! We were so embarrassed we had to turn away, but it was the funniest part of my day!” Maddalena giggled.

We went back to Ristorante Santa Maria a Grignano weary, hungry but happy. We ate one of the most welcome meals of our entire lives. We ordered truffle pasta to share for the primo piatto and the waiter came out with two huge plates, god knows what a single portion on one plate would have looked like. Seb asked me, “Do you think we just enjoy truffle because it is a luxury? I mean, would we get bored of it if we had it every day?” I wasn’t even going to stop eating to answer this, I shook my head certainly and carried on. The paper thin flakes of truffle crunched delicately in my mouth alongside the creamy spaghetti and it amazed me that something so simple could taste SO good. This is probably the easiest thing to make: just truffle, cream, salt and pepper.

For the secondo piatto, I had tiger prawn ragu. The sweet acidity of the roasted vegetables were made even sweeter by the sticky shellfish. I was completely drunk off this food, my mood – elated. The grievances of the day had been forgotten and covered by a sheet of humour.

Tiger Prawn Ragu

Serves 4 people

1 courgette
1 small aubergine
500g Tomatoes
1 sweet yellow pepper
1 onion
250g mushrooms
A handful of fresh basil
3 Cloves of garlic
3tbsp olive oil
Tiger prawns (however many suits you, I had 6)
Salt and Pepper

Preheat the oven to 180˚C. Finely chop a garlic clove and the onions and put in a baking tray with 1tbsp olive oil and cook for a few minutes until the garlic is golden and the onions are soft. Add the tomatoes. Finely slice the melanzane, quarter the mushrooms, chop the courgette and pepper into chunks, and put in a different baking tray with 1 tbsp of olive oil and a crushed garlic clove. Cook the tomatoes until they have reduced to a lumpy sauce and the vegetables until they are slightly burnt around the edges. Add the sauce to the veg. Stir-fry the prawns with a minced clove of garlic and 1 tbsp olive oil for about 5 minutes. Add to sauce with some chopped fresh basil and serve with fresh bread.

Travels in a 2CV Part 1 - Barolo to Tuscany

2010-09-02T01:11:00.006+01:00

This is the trip that inspired me to start writing the Delectable Diary. I wrote these posts quite a while ago and it was mainly so that family and friends could see where we were going and what we were doing. It makes me happy to think how far the blog has come since then. We did 10,000km in 2 months (phenomenal for the car we took!) and there was plenty of ferries, food and wine. I'd do it all again, and probably will.

View Larger Map

We were very lucky to get a 2CV that wasn’t a complete rubbish heap: we had two inspected that were deemed too dangerous for the road, despite what the description on the advert said. Another one that we went to see, even though it was safe, it was just painted in a shade of plain ugly. Rust just seems to really like these cars. On the verge of giving up we found ‘Beatrice’, a cheerful little vehicle that had just been renovated by the owner and she even had a brand new paint job. He needed a quick sale because he had accidentally bought a house in France and was changing to a left hand drive. His romantic move supplied the vehicle for our adventure.

Where it all began in Hampshire

Our route was a tad more ambitious than map above when we first began. A lot of the time, we relied on tips from fellow travellers and locals as to where we should visit. After a couple of days travelling through France we realised we had been much too ambitious about how far and fast we thought Beatrice could go, especially in the heat, so when we got to the Alps a serious re-arrangement of the route took place, stopping off at least every 200 miles. Had we not done this or had a faster car we would have overlooked so many places that we truly enjoyed, so I am thankful for our tin snail.

Farmhouse fresco, Barolo

We only took the bare essentials, a kitchen consisting of 2 large boxes, a stove, a barbeque (this was our main extravagance) and a cool box (after a few days we realised that this was very broken and heated food up rather than doing its actual job) no laptop and no phone, just paper and pen. We decided to spend less money on accommodation so we could spend more on food and wine, camping all the way, even though I knew it would drive me mad after the first month of tolerance had worn out.

The hills of Barolo

First stop, Barolo, famous for its dark, velvety, vanilla and truffle-scented wine made from Nebbiolo grapes and aged in oak barrels for three to five years. Barolo has been my favourite wine for a while, sadly I have expensive taste as a decent bottle of this will set you back at least £30 in England. We drove through windy little roads, past vineyards, olive groves and orchards up to the hills. The view from our campsite was amazing, vineyard upon vineyard for miles on end, this was true Sebby Heaven. We turned the car off and got out to speak to the campsite owner. Once he had allocated us a space we got back in the car only to realise it would not start. We opened the bonnet. As Seb tried to get it started I saw that the big black thing on top of the engine (the air filter) was shaking franticly, perched precariously on top of the engine having been completely dislodged from its bearings. I thought there was a reason I had been feeling like shit, apparently this was due to the carbon monoxide. “Yep, I can see the problem,” I shouted to Seb sounding confidently professional, “It’s the thing, it’s wobbling.”

La Morra

We unpacked, and feeling quite poisoned by our little car, we left Beatrice to cool down whilst heading for the next hilltop village of La Morra for Dinner.

My tired tummy welcomed the Carpaccio of succulent razor clams, a shellfish that hides itself in the sand at low tide and prawns on garlic bread (not the kind you'd get in a British pub). That was followed by a sweet and sticky langoustine with juicy cherry tomatoes, which came with cuttlefish inked spaghetti. Feeling rather full, pesce spada (sword fish) baked in parsley and thyme pesto was presented in front of me, I began to think ‘I’m not built for this!’ and reminded myself not to order a four course meal next time. Having said that, I still managed the pudding of lemon sorbet with mint.

The following day we made an appointment in a Citroen garage the nearby city of Alba (famous for its bubbly). As we had time to kill before leaving for Tuscany and there was an abundance of vineyards we made our way to the nearest one to the campsite, completely forgetting about breakfast. We were greeted by the charming Fossati family and Seb spoke with them in great detail about their wines in French whilst I stood there, lemonlike, trying all of them for free, getting a bit too tiddly for that time of day. They gave us a tour of their organic vineyard, we met their truffle hunting dogs and then we went to buy our souvenirs. They did have the more economic option of Nebbiolo wine, aged in oak for only 12 months, but that didn’t distract me from buying 3 bottles of Barolo… well, they gave it to us for a better price than the Barolo you can buy in Waitrose, which tastes thoroughly unpleasant FYI.

Bearings tightened and duck tape over the holes, we arrived in Lucca. The tourist office pointed us towards a campsite in the middle of the city. It was somebody’s driveway. We didn’t fancy it. The nearest campsite that we knew of was in Volterra an hour away, so we hopped back in the car even though my tummy was saying ‘Suppertime’ as the sun was setting.

The roads on the way to Volterra had recently been redone so the road signs were not yet co-ordinated. This confused me and our GPS ‘The Bitch’ into a frenzy, so much so that she tried to kill us. The Bitch lead us to an old bridge, we waited, debating our options. I looked at the map, there was no other way, apparently. I thought it strange that there should be red and white tape hanging down by the side of it as if it had been there, once preventing people from crossing the bridge... but then why would it be hanging down unused? - MAYBE BECAUSE IT BROKE...

I heaved a sigh of relief as a Vespa crossed it from the other direction.

“Right, lets do it,” I said and we went over with a feeling of dread in our stomachs.

“STOP!!!!”

Dead End.

Waste Land.

Precarious U-turn.

We got the kind of feeling you would get if you realised you weren’t quite strapped in on a rollercoaster. We knew we had to go back across. We knew it was an unused derelict old bridge. We screamed like little girls.

The Vespa was a red herring, it had definitely made the same mistake as we had. As we crossed for the second time we saw the new bridge further down the river. I turned The Bitch off, we got back on track, then got lost a few more times and had a giant beetle fly in and terrorise us in the dark but eventually, with our withered nerves, we got to Volterra.

We practically had to beg the only restaurant still open to make us something. We got given lots of differently topped crostini and I thought about one of them, ‘How odd, crostini topped with tagliatelli.’ After a minute of chewing, I realised what it was. I hate fat! But these cuttings from the Parma ham were so melty and salty and garlicky and buttery that my hungersome stomach could not help but accept it. Next, we were given a platter of mozzarella and tomato and a platter of dried meats. It was a simple supper that ceased the rumbles and gave us the energy we needed to pitch our tent in the dark.

I tell you, nothing would make those pegs go in. We settled on half the pegs, half way in, it was a very windy night and no sleeping occurred.

The next morning we packed fast and drove through the beautiful Tuscan hills to a campsite in Chianti. In the midday sun, we stopped off at San Gimignano with its huge medieval towers providing the much needed shade for a gelato. I was growing quite partial to the ananas pineapple flavour. We got to the campsite and I cooked a simple, no mess, camping meal.

Pesce Spada with a herb sauce

2 swordfish steaks
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tsp ground pine nuts
1 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
2 tsp chopped thyme
1 minced clove of garlic
Zest of half a lemon
6 chopped green olives
Salt and pepper

Marinate the steaks with the mixture of herbs, garlic, pine nuts, lemon zest and oil. Season and put in a baking tray in the oven for 15 minutes at 180˚C until it flakes away easily. Sprinkle over the olives and remaining marinade and serve with a slice of lemon

Cool Camping Cookbook Review

2010-08-02T15:58:00.012+01:00

My eco tent, made from recycled plastic bottles.

Cooking while you are camping is usually such a chore, you either have a tiny gas stove or char things so that they are unrecognizable on the barbecue. I once had one cooked by an Aussie friend who claimed he was the barbie king and it was the worst thing I have ever attempted to eat. Whenever I've tried my hand at the tongs, no barbie has ever been as good as my mothers, the official queen and I was always left feeling unsatisfied… Until this little book came along. It makes cooking while you are camping actually FUN! It holds the secrets to the barbecue bible, campfire cuisine and pudding, a phenomenon that usually only exists in packaged form when camping. It is designed and written well with pictures that leave your stomach grumbling. It is also a pleasure to read, starting the book off with a cute ‘note on behalf of Mother Earth’. There is a page on foraging and a page on the different methods of camp cooking showing that it is entirely possible to cook a Sunday roast with a Cob oven. As we often forget little essentials when we go on holiday (like pants!) there is a handy checklist of equipment at the beginning, which I will now be using every time I go on holiday to prevent this.

A seriously awesome campervan

Chargrilled peaches with frozen yoghurt

Before this, my limits with the campfire were baked potatoes and marshmallows, so my favourite recipe is the baked berry apple, which is a hollowed out apple with berries inside wrapped in foil and chucked on the fire, so simple! Or you could try the orange-baked muffins, which are a similar affair. Their feel-better bruchetta is the perfect healthy lunch for a hot summers day and the calzone fire baked pizza is a deliciously naughty dinner. The best recipes are the ones for the catch of the day, so if you are by the sea, get to market now and try them out.

There are only a few options for vegetarians but if you are a veggie who eats fish then there are plenty of recipes in here to make the book worth buying.

I did have a little mishap though: Unfortunately, before an expedition even began, the bindings fell apart and I had to glue it all back together so I wouldn’t know for sure if it was sturdy enough for a hike in the outback. However my other coolcamping books are fine, so perhaps I just got a wrong’un.

DUST - Anybody?!!!! - Glastonbury 2009

2010-07-04T20:53:00.004+01:00

Dust? Anybody? – The staple diet for stick-thin socialites was there in abundance this year at Glastonbury. The sun shone down and baked the barbarian’s usual mud pie to a crisp and turned many slapdash festival-goers into a gorgeous shade of beetroot. Trying very hard not to become a lobster, my aim was to spend as little time as possible in the chemical pits of Babylon and I began my quest to find a safe and healthy food in the array of stalls in this makeshift city. The usual, burger, chips and noodles were out, so I headed for Greenfields and followed my nose to a delicious location named Henry’s Beard. If you have been to Glastonbury before, you will know that it is a mix of sights, sounds and well… smells, and Henry’s Beard stuck out above the rest and made my mouth water. This travelling café uses locally produced and organic ingredients and if you are going to a festival this year, look out for them because these guys are regulars.

We ate alongside our ancestors out of Banana leaf bowls at the Greenpeace party

Earth oven hidden away in the shade of
the leafy Permaculture Garden

With ambient music from a live acoustic band playing centimetres away from us, for or lunch (several times), I had Spanish tortilla. This was a beautiful mix of onions, potato, egg and coriander, with a side of refreshing tomatoes in olive oil, leaf salad and olives, perfect for the intense heat! They also had a cinnamony Moroccan curry served with cous-cous, and for those who weren’t full after the generous servings, strawberries with cream.

Luckily my grandparents live fairly close to the festival so if, at any time I felt a bit ill or stinky I could wimp out and get the bus back to theirs for a shower. Proudly, I didn’t have to take this option. For as long as I can remember, every time I have visited their house in Somerset, pudding has been Lovingtons Beaulieu Blackberry Ice cream because this is Grandpas favourite. Granny now has to make much room in the freezer when we come to stay. In the relentless scorching heat this was a welcome food but as it is a local company, I didn’t have to trek all the way back to the grandparents house as there was several stalls dotted around the festival. Their fruity ingredients are either local or fair trade.

A happy day for hundreds of couples in the Greenpeace Field

Throughout the festival, friends kept flaunting their tempting naughty crepes in front of me so on the last day, just after the mass wedding where I betrothed myself to my beloved in the Greenpeace field, we crossed the threshold into Greenfields for our wedding breakfast and found a stall that had organic buckwheat crepes, perfect for wheat intolerant folk.

The fillings they had were rather sophisticated for this traditional fast food and for the savoury I chose mushrooms and chives with a white wine sauce (optional cheese topping) and for the sweet, mango with cinnamon. I’m usually fairly boring when it comes to pancakes and choose lemon and sugar but I am glad I ventured from the norm as these were beyond yummy and hugely filling.

Happy Crepe man on a 14 hour shift

As the sun set over the Pyramid stage and Steevie began to work his magic, I was far too happy dancing away to realise that I hadn’t had a bite of junk food throughout my time at Glastonbury. This just isn’t possible at some other festivals and I think helped my energy levels last long into the night after miles of walking each day. It was an absolute bonus that the food was organic, local, fair trade and most importantly, delicious.