Possibly the Best Packed Lunch, Ever

Are you a packed lunch kind of person? Or are you more of a devil-may-care, see-how-the-mood-takes you lunch person, having sushi one day and soup the next? Oh, how I envy your carefree ways.  Because I have to confess I'm firmly in the former category, since the tin mine is located in an area of London where your lunchtime options are strictly limited to a small branch of Nisa.  Also, I like knowing what I'm going to be eating that day; if I don't take lunch with me, I always have an I-don't-know-what-I-feel-like, what-on-earth-am-I-going-to-eat panicky feeling as soon as midday approaches.

Anyway, that was just a long and roundabout way of saying that I like a good packed lunch. And, I hate to boast, but I made an AMAZING packed lunch the other day. A packed lunch to end all packed lunches. A packed lunch that, by rights, should have come with a throne, a crown, and a little sign saying KING OF EVERYTHING.  Behold:

There was a little pot of edamame (prepared this way, and then left to cool - just as yummy when cold. There was another little pot of hummus (are you impressed, as well, by my wide range of Tupperware?  I have plastic containers for any occasion.  I AM A MIDDLE-AGED SUBURBAN WOMAN).  There were crudites of raw carrot, red pepper, and celery. And, just to top things off, there was a freshly-baked, homemade granary roll.

You hate me, don't you.  I don't blame you. 

Leek & Bacon Risotto

Yes, I know, another flipping risotto recipe.  I know I've inundated you with them, so much so that you probably think I've got shares in arborio rice, but the truth of it is that I just really like risotto.  Sorry about that.  If it's any consolation, I promise that this is the simplest risotto recipe you will ever encounter, using just a couple of core ingredients, and it's awesome.  I promise.  (The recipe is via Nigel, although I can't remember which book.  You might know by now that I have a lot of Nigel in my life). 

Here's how it goes.  Sweat two large, finely chopped leeks in some butter until soft.  Add the rice, and ladlefuls of stock and vermouth (or white wine, whichever), stirring and adding more liquid as needed.  Meanwhile, grill six slices of smoked streaky bacon until crisp.  Chop (or snip with scissors) and add to the now-cooked risotto.  Stir through a smidge of grated Parmesan, some black pepper, and serve.

Somehow, this method of cooking keeps the leeks the most beautiful shade of green, so that the finished risotto looks perky and glowing with general health-giving properties.  They also taste sweet and soft, which works gorgeously against the smoky bacon and the creamy rice.   Delicious, and even if you're not a risotto fanatic (why not?), you'll think so too. 

Hot (Cross) Buns

It's Lent!  Hooray!  What have you given up this year?  I never manage to last out until Easter without chocolate/alcohol/coffee, so this year I have accepted my lack of willpower and have given up nothing at all.  I did observe this time of year, however, by making one of those incredibly Easter-y foods:  the hot cross bun.

I love a good hot cross bun.  Don't you think it embodies the perfect combination of carbs and sweetness - that delicious bread-like dough perked up with spice and currants?  It makes them ideal for any time of day, plus they're so quick to prepare - slice in half, two minutes in the toaster, a good slathering of butter and presto!  The perfect Lent breakfast. 

You can buy lovely hot cross buns in the supermarket, so there's no real point in making them from scratch unless: -

1.)  You have time on your hands;
2.)  You have in your cupboard all manner of dried fruits and spices, which, frankly, you've no idea why you bought in the first place, you aren't sure how old they are, and really they could do with being used up. 

Both the above points happen to be true for me, so I gave it a go.  

It turns out that you make hot cross buns pretty much the same way as you'd make bread.  We followed the Nigella recipe, and substituted water for milk and added an egg before beating the dough.  There's no sugar involved, so we upped the amount of spice and added some crystallised ginger to make sure they didn't taste bland.

You should let the dough prove overnight, so this isn't a quick recipe.  It does mean, however, that you could make them one evening, leave them to rise, then convince your husband to get up early and bake them the next day so that you can enjoy them fresh and piping-hot for breakfast.  Just a suggestion.

They smell delicious - all cinnamon-y and currant-y, like a lighter version of Christmas cake.  And they go beautifully with inordinate amounts of butter.  Happy Lent!

PS - putting crosses on them seemed like too much effort.  So, really these are just hot buns.  Hee hee.

Miso-Marinated Salmon With Soy & Ginger Broccoli

We've become slightly obsessed with miso paste.  We bought a big tub of ready-mixed stuff from the Japan Centre (first used here), and it's our new favourite thing.  It's surprisingly versatile - it makes a deliciously salty soup, a punchy salad dressing ingredient, and, as it turns out, it's also a super-easy, super-quick marinade for fish.  Hooray for multi-purpose ingredients!  Miso paste, we love you.

Miso-Marinated Salmon (serves 2)

You need:

2 salmon fillets

2 cloves garlic, smashed

4 tbsp miso paste

2 tbsp soy sauce

In a bowl, mix the smashed garlic, miso paste and soy sauce into a thick paste.  Add in the salmon fillets, covering as much as them as possible with the marinade, and leave in the fridge for half an hour.

When you're ready for dinner, take the fish out of the marinade and griddle for 3-4 minutes per side, until the skin is crispy but the inside is prettily pink.

Broccoli With Soy & Ginger (serves 2)

You need:

1 small head broccoli, chopped into florettes

1 thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, peeled and grated

1 small fresh chili, chopped

2 tbsp soy sauce

Steam the broccoli over a pan of boiling water until the pieces are bright green and not too soft.  While they are cooking, mix the other ingredients together thoroughly.  Serve the broccoli onto plates, and drizzle over the dressing.

I'll admit that the picture above doesn't look totally appetising, so you'll have to take my word for it - this was light, bright, and full of punchy flavours.

Pancaken!

Hi!  Happy Wednesday!  How have your weeks been so far?  We're still living in the House of Germs.  We've developed a worrying addiction to Kleenex Balm tissues, and in fact our zealous use of them may well be resulting in severe deforestation around the world. 

The Cat would like it noted that he is also unwell.  He has lost all the whiskers off the right-hand side of his face, and he doesn't feel that this terrible affliction is getting the attention it deserves

When you're not well, it is the law that you're allowed to eat anything you feel like.  Getting Better requires many calories, as everyone knows. 

Which is why we honoured tradition and treated ourselves to all-pancake dinner yesterday.  Cheese and ham pancakes to start, sugar and lemon pancakes to finish.

Scrumbles.  You'll be pleased to hear that we felt marginally better afterwards. 

Valentine's Day Dinner

Firstly, let me start this post by coming out of the closet:  I dislike Valentine's Day.  I don't like the idea of being romantic only on one random day a year.  I think you should buy your wife/girlfriend/partner flowers whenever you feel like it, and not when a calendar tells you to.  I don't like the wave of tacky red/pink rubbish that invades the shops from New Year onwards, and I particularly don't like the idea that people actually buy that stuff.  (Who in their right mind would want to express their love through a gift of a cuddly red devil with a satin cape embroidered with the words Be Mine?  I genuinely saw that on sale in a supermarket this year.) 

I'm also not a fan of going out to eat on Valentine's Day.  I love going out for dinner, and nothing ranks higher on my date-o-meter than an intimate meal for two in a cute, cosy restaurant, but I'd rather go on another day when there's less chance of being surrounded solely by other couples also feeling the pressure of Being Romantic. 

This is why, every 14th February, you'll find B and I at home in our pyjamas, cooking up something special.  While I don't like Valentine's Day providing a reason to be romantic, I do very much like it providing a reason to eat ice-cream.

On the menu this year.....

...an avocado and pink grapefruit salad, with a chili and coriander dressing.  (Via Hugh.) 

This was a lovely, fresh way to start the meal - the grapefruit's zinginess is balanced out by the creaminess of the avocado, and the dressing counteracts the sweetness of the fruit.  And doesn't it look beautiful on the plate?  Like a little bit of summer.  Oh summer!  We miss you!

To follow, we had Dover sole grilled with vermouth and parsley butter:

And broccoli, and chips.  In fairness, we really didn't need the chips at all - the fish turned out to be surprisingly substantial and filling.  But we ate them anyway (we're troopers that way). 

To finish, we had peach melba, which neither of us have ever made before.  It was easier than we'd thought.  Although we didn't skin the peaches, and we really should have, because trying to wrestle a peach with its skin on when only armed with a spoon is somewhat messy.

To make a peach melba, you poach the peaches in water, sugar, and vanilla.  Then you serve them with masses of vanilla ice-cream, and a raspberry sauce which you make by blitzing a punnet of fruit in your food mixer.   Can you think of a more perfect dessert?  Sugar, fruit, and ice-cream.  Sublime.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.  May your boyfriend/girlfriend/lover/spouse surprise you with flowers for no reason, whisk you out for a romantic dinner just because you've had a long week at work, and never, ever give you a cuddly devil in a satin cape.  Cheers!

Eating Our Way Back to Health

B and I both have colds.  We are living in a House of Germs, littered with tissues and Strepsils, and have watched more daytime television than could ever be good for us.  We're also trying to eat ourselves healthy.

Breakfast:

Lunch:

It's no fun at all being ill, but at least you can eat well while you're suffering.

In the meantime, I'll put up a long-overdue post about Valentine's Day next.  Yay! 

Quickest Ever Store Cupboard Soup

Do you ever have a day when you come home, tired and starving, from work?  And you open the fridge, and a solitary yogurt and half a cucumber stare back at you?  And you don't have any cash for a takeaway?  And your poor, tired, hungry brain wails WHAT AM I GOING TO EAT?!

I have those days all the time.  Sometimes the remedy is baked potatoes, or a quick pasta dish (I can usually rely on having carbs in the house).

Or sometimes I don't even have potatoes to hand, and I'm forced to be a bit more creative.

On this particular evening, I had the following unpromising-looking ingredients lolling about in the dark corners of the cupboard:

1 onion
1 carrot
A small, wrinkled nub of fresh ginger
A stub of cabbage (not really enough for even one portion)
Miso soup paste in a big tub
Dried noodles

What to do?  Why, make a delicious faux-Japanese soup, of course!

We sliced the onion, carrot, cabbage, and ginger thinly and stir-fried them in a glug of chilli oil until soft.  In a measuring jug, we made up the miso soup (the instructions are all in Japanese, so we went with a tablespoonful of paste to a litre of boiling water, which worked well).  Once made up, the miso soup got poured into the pan, and the dried noodles added in too.  Allow the noodles to soften, give everything a good stir, and serve. 

Admiring my lovely utensils?  Thank you! I love them too!  I think they make the meal feel more special and more thought out :) 

Making Marmalade

Oh yes, you read the title right.  In a fit of ridiculous domestication last weekend, B and I decided to make marmalade.  From scratch.  Riverford offer a "kit" (i.e., oranges in a brown bag that has "marmalade" written on it, I'm such a sucker for marketing ploys) and since they could deliver it right to our doorstep, we decided to give it a go.

Here are some observations on marmalade-making:

1.)  It is fiddly, and time-consuming.  Don't start the process if you're pushed for time; you'll only end up frustrated and annoyed.

2.)  It will fill your house with an incredibly strong smell of warm oranges.  This is delicious, but it doesn't mingle well with other yummy smells, for example that of a rabbit pie baking in the oven.  Just to let you know. 

3.)  It will be messy.  You will need newspaper. 

4.)  Holy moly, it uses a LOT of sugar.  You'll never look at marmalade in the same way again.

Seville Orange Marmalade (made 7 jars of varying sizes)

(this recipe is via Riverford)

You need:

1 marmalade-making kit from Riverford, or 1.5kg Seville oranges and 2 unwaxed lemons

2.5 litres cold water

2kg bag granulated sugar (although we used caster, because I forgot to take the recipe to the supermarket, and it worked fine.  You don't need that fancy 'jam-making' sugar.  That's one marketing ploy I didn't fall for.  Ha!)

Kit:

Large bowl

Huge pan (we used our tall pasta pan to minimise sugary splashes all over the kitchen)
Muslin

Large measuring jug

Screw-top jars and lids, sterilised (put them through a hot wash in the dishwasher, then don't touch them again until you need them)

Wax discs, if you like (ours came from Lakeland, which is my latest shopping obsession.  I bought a whole reel of labels from there as well.  I could spend hours, and several fortunes, on their gorgeous kitchen knick-knackery.  TANGENT.)

You do:

Firstly, drape the muslin over the bowl, and set aside.  Next, take your oranges and lemons.

Peel with a sharp grater (or knife, if you're handy).  You want thin strips of rind, ideally without any pith.  As each orange is denuded, slice it in half and throw both halves into the muslin-lined bowl, squeezing out the juice as you go.

 

Slice the strips of pith into thinnish slices (depending on how chunky you like your marmalade to be).   These slices can be put directly into your tall pan. 

Once all your fruit has been sliced and diced, gather up the sides of the muslin to form a big bundle and squish it hard to release any remaining juice.  Tie the ends together so that the fruit stays together.

Pour the juice from the bowl into the pan with your sliced peel.  Add 2.5 litres cold water.

Now put the muslin bag, full of fruit, into the pan.  Hang the ends of the muslin over the edges of the pan, so that the bag is easily accessible.  Heat the pan until the water comes to the boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer and leave to bubble away for two hours.  (I wasn't lying when I said this was time-consuming.)

After two hours, when the peel is beautifully soft, remove the muslin bag from the pan.  Put it into a colander over the pan and use a wooden spoon to mush out all of the juice from the bag.  Carefully pour the contents of the pan into a measuring jug, and get ready for some mental arithmetic - you need 450g sugar for every 500ml liquid. Return the liquid to the pan, then add the right amount of sugar and stir.  Gently heat for around ten minutes, until the sugar crystals have dissolved and there's no lumpiness at the bottom of the pan. Turn up the heat and bring the pan contents up to a fast boil.  Keep your eyes on the pan at all times, being ready to turn the heat down slightly if it threatens to boil over.

Riverford will tell you that you need to boil the marmalade rapidly for 15 minutes before its ready.  This, my dear readers, is a lie.  I recommend about an hour.  What?  Don't give me that look.  I warned you not to start this if you were short on time/patience.

Put a saucer to chill in the fridge.  After about an hour of boiling, test the marmalade by dropping a teaspoonsful onto the saucer.  If it looks thick and viscous, push the surface gently backwards with your spoon.  If the liquid wrinkles, it's ready.  If not, stick the saucer back in the fridge and try again in ten minutes.  You might find you do this several (many) times before the all-important wrinkling occurs. 

As soon as you have wrinkly marmalade, turn off the heat and let the pan sit for fifteen minutes.  Take your jars and lids out of the dishwasher and pop them in a low oven to warm through. 

After fifteen minutes, skim the scum off the surface off the marmalade.  Take out your jars, and line them up.  Spoon the marmalade into the jars - this will be messy, but go with it.  Put the wax discs on top of each jar, then screw on the lids while the marmalade is still warm. 

 

Ta da!

You should feel very proud, you marmalade-making, domestic god/dess you.  That's about a year's worth of breakfasts sorted.

Rabbit Pie

Even with our gargantuan appetites, the rabbit casserole had us defeated.   There was quite a bit left in the pot, and we were considering leftover ideas.  Pasta?  Some kind of paella-y rice dish?  Then B turned to me and with great seriousness pronounced that the only acceptable dish would be a rabbit pie.  So that was what we made.

Behold.

Doesn't the sight of that just make your heart feel happy?  And do you notice my artistic efforts with the pastry rabbit?  Because I really have too much time on my hands?

We picked all the meat from the rabbit bones (which are small and fiddly, and not welcome in a pie) and strifried it with a chopped carrot, a couple of mushrooms and some shallots.  A slug of milk at the end helped it all come together.

This mixture then got spooned into a Jus-Rol jacket.  (There was some nonsense from B about making the pastry from scratch.  He insisted that it was worth the time and effort, until we got to the supermarket and saw that the ingredients together would cost more than the ready-done Jus-Rol.  And then he changed his mind. Ahaha.)   The pie got brushed with milk, and popped into the oven at 180 degrees for half an hour.

Just gorgeous.

There was just enough pastry left over to make us each a little jam tart.

Any meal that features pastry in both the main meal and the dessert is sure to be a winner.

Rabbit Braised in Cider

Woohoo! It's Thursday, which means it's downhill from here to the weekend. It can't come quickly enough for me - does anyone else feel like it's got colder and darker recently? Boo to winter. Anyway, it's hard staying on the healthy wagon when all you like doing is burying yourself head-first into a mountain of mashed potatoes, but I've been doing my best.

We spotted rabbit on sale in The Ginger Pig over the weekend, which was good for several reasons:

1.) It's yummy. Not a lot of people seem to know this. Is the cuteness of Peter Rabbit to blame? (And obviously Peppa Pig is not proving to be a similar deterrent to bacon.)

2.) It's inexpensive. It was waaay less spendy than any of the beef or lamb cuts also on sale that day. 

3.) It's the kind of meat that tastes its best when whacked into a casserole and forgotten about - in other words, my kind of meat.

Rabbit Braised In Cider With Bacon & Onions (serves 4)

You need:

1 rabbit, jointed and chopped into pieces (ask the butcher to do this for you)

2 large onions, chopped

6 cloves garlic, chopped

100g smoked bacon, chopped, or bacon lardons

330ml cider, as dry as you can find (we used Aspalls, because I like to support my Suffolk homeland)

Olive oil

2 tbsps plain flour

Salt and pepper

2 bay leaves

You do:

On the hob, heat 2 tbsps olive oil in an ovenproof casserole dish.  Dust a large plate with the plain flour, and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper.  Roll each rabbit piece in the flour until coated, then lower into the casserole dish.  Let the pieces colour until golden brown, and then turn each piece over with a pair of tongs.  Let them colour on the other side too, then remove from the oil and lay on a clean plate.  Now add in the chopped onions and garlic, and let them soften in the remaining oil.  Once they are translucent and smelling yummy, add in the bacon.  Next, pop the rabbit pieces back into the dish and pour in the cider.  It should smell absolutely divine by now.  Add the bay leaves, more salt and pepper, and turn up the heat under the dish.  Warm until the cider is bubbling, then turn off the heat, put the lid on the dish, and put the whole thing in the oven at 180 degrees. 

Go away for an hour and fifteen minutes, and do something interesting that will distract you from the deliciousness wafting from your kitchen.  After this amount of time, your casserole should look something like this:

The green you see is half a bag of spinach, which we added on top of the casserole and let wilt for about five minutes.

We also made some baked potatoes to have alongside, which were lovely, although if you are less lazy than us I bet mash would be awesome too. 

As you can see, the cider cooks down to a thick, not-too-rich sauce that tastes absolutely amazing with the smoky bacon and mild gamey rabbit.  OM. 

You know what's even better?  This dish would serve four, but B and I are only two.  You know what that means?  Leftovers, oh yeah.

Stirfry With PSB & Peanuts

Can we have a word about purple sprouting broccoli?  Thank you.  Firstly, it's called PURPLE sprouting broccoli.  Purple!  Purple isn't a colour you would readily associate with vegetables.  Or really, any foodstuff.  Can you name any other foods that are purple?  (Apart from these, yum).  Secondly, there's also the word SPROUTING in the name.  Sprouting!  With its connotations of Brussels sprouts, that most hated vegetable.   So, I really think we ought to rename PSB for its own sake. (Also, it isn't really that purple).  Let's call it something like Smaller Yummier Broccoli, or SYB for short.  Because it is both smaller, and yummier, than your common-or-garden broccoli.  Thank you for your time.

PSB/SYB is a rare find in our veg box, so I don't like to play around with it much when we do get it.  This time, we stirfried it for a couple of minutes, and served it on top of some soy-sauce-drenched noodles and some crushed peanuts.  Yom. 

Back on the wagon, you'll notice.  Sigh.

Off The Wagon....

....SAUSAGES.

Oh - um - yes, now that you mention it, those are my festive pyjamas that you can see in the photo above.  There is nothing wrong with eating sausages and mash in front of the telly whilst wearing your Christmas pyjamas.  Nothing at all.

Roasted Squash Salad & Homemade Houmous

Hi! Happy Wednesday! How were your weekends? We had B's parents staying for a couple of days. We made this, followed by this.  A bit unadventurous, I know, but both winter-warming, crowd-pleasing dishes.  We used an enormous Crown Prince squash from our veg box for the risotto, and even serving four of us we had more than half left over. 

So I put my thinking cap on and wondered what a person could possibly do with half of a roasted squash.  And I came up with this.  It's pretty beautiful, I think you'll agree.

Roasted Squash Salad (serves 4)

Half of a huge squash, chopped into chunks and roasted until soft - or use a whole small butternut squash

1 small white onion, chopped

1/2 dried chorizo sausage, chopped

Olive oil

A couple of sprigs fresh sage, chopped 

150g cous-cous

Salt and pepper

Make up the cous-cous in the normal way in a large bowl and set aside.  Soften the onion in olive oil, then add in the chorizo.  After about 5 minutes, tip in the chunks of squash and stir so that everything is coated with golden, paprika-y goodness.   Add to the cous-cous, season well, and add the fresh sage.  Drizzle over the dressing from this coleslaw (thanks, Nigel) and mix, mix, mix until all the ingredients are thoroughly combined. 

 

Serve with homemade houmous (I'm a convert to the Vefa way of making houmous - chickpeas, lemon juice, oil, tahini paste and a garlic clove, blitzed until smooth) and pitta breads.   They can even be wholemeal pittas if you're on some silly health kick like us. 

Parcel-Baked Trout With Three Root Boulangere

A strange by-product of this healthy eating malarkey is that it seems to be generating longer, fancier post titles by the day. Look at this one! Boulangere, if you will! Soon I'll be dishing up flambees and jus (hopefully not together, although you never know) like nobody's business.

This meal came about because we had some leftover celeriac after we'd made winter coleslaw, and I wanted to do something other than just mash it with obscene amounts of butter. I turned to Hugh, and Hugh kindly told me to turn it into a baked dish of boulangere-y goodness. So I did. This isn't as time-consuming as you might think, and it's satisfying in a way that only oven-baked carbs can be.

Three Root Boulangere

(Serves four, or two people on the first day and then, reheated, one greedy person (me) on the second day)

You need:

A little butter, or olive oil

2 small white onions, peeled and chopped

2 clove garlic, peeled and chopped

About half a decent-sized celeriac, or one small one, washed and peeled

2 large potatoes

2 large parsnips

2 tsps dried herbes de provence, or anything similar you have to hand

1 litre vegetable stock (if you happen to have fresh vegetable stock, by all means use it; I never do, so I use bouillon, and it is perfectly fine)

Salt and pepper

You do:

Soften the onions and garlic over a low heat in a little butter or olive oil.  They will only need a couple of minutes as you don't need them to cook completely.  Take off the heat and set aside.

Take a big ovenproof dish and drizzle the base with olive oil.  Next, make up your vegetable stock and set aside.

Now you can get slicing - you want all the vegetables in evenly-sized slices, about 3mm thick, if you can be that precise.  Layer the sliced celeriac into the dish, salt/pepper/herb it generously, then spread over half your cooked onions.  Layer the parsnips on next, followed by the remaining onions, and top with the potatoes.  Pour over the vegetable stock, put a lid on the dish, and put the whole thing in the oven at 180 degrees for about 45 minutes.  After that time, take the lid off the dish and return it to the oven for a further 15 minutes so that the potatoes on top have a chance to crisp up (yum.) 

In defiance of Hugh's all-veg ethos, we served this alongside some parcel-baked trout, which was simple to make (since the oven was on anyway) and made for a lovely, light accompaniment to the rich boulangere.  We simply tucked a couple of lemon slices, a couple of chorizo slices, and a ton of salt and pepper, into the fish, wrapped them in foil, and Bob's your uncle.  We put them into the oven for 15 minutes when we were taking the lid off the potatoes, and that was all they needed. 

The next day, I reheated the leftover boulangere with a dash more stock, and ate it from the dish with a spoon.  It's even nicer on the second day. 

Roasted Stuffed Peppers & Winter Coleslaw

OK! That's Christmas done with. Let's get back to some regular postings about, you know, actual meals, rather than just a festive yet waistline-damaging parade of cheese, cake and chocolate.

As always, one of my New Year's resolutions is to eat more vegetables and fewer oven chips.  I started this resolution in style by making stuffed peppers and a huge bowl of winter-y coleslaw to have alongside.  On the plus side, this meal contains ONE HUNDRED of your five-a-day.  On the minus side, it also requires ONE HUNDRED hours of chopping.  So don't attempt this on a night when there's anything good on telly.

Both of these recipes are based on ideas in this mouth-watering food bible, which my favourite husband gave me for my birthday. 

Roasted Stuffed Peppers (serves 2)

You need:
Two nicely-sized red peppers, sliced in half and stalk/seeds/strange white bits removed
Olive oil
Roughly eight tablespoonfuls of cous-cous
1 onion, chopped
50g pine nuts
Handful parsley, chopped
Handful coriander, chopped
Zest and juice of half a lemon
1 tsp smoked paprika

You do:

Firstly, prepare your cous-cous by following the packet instructions.  Next, toast the pine nuts in a dry pan until golden and smelling delicious.  Soften the chopped onion in a little olive oil until translucent.  Stir in the lemon zest, chopped herbs, and paprika, and then tip in the pine nuts.  Empty this mixture into your bowl of now-ready cous-cous, and add in the lemon juice and plenty of salt and pepper. Stir thoroughly. 

Drizzle a little olive oil over a baking tray, and set your pepper halves on it, cut side up.  Spoon in the cous-cous, filling up the peppers as much as you can.  (Any leftover cous-cous is delicious as a salad the next day.)  Drizzle over a little more olive oil, then loosely wrap the tray in tinfoil.  Slide into the oven at 180 degrees and leave to cook for 45 minutes.

While your peppers are cooking, you can make your accompaniments.  Warning - more chopping ahead! 

Yogurt Sauce for the Peppers

You need:

6 tablespoonfuls natural yogurt

A few sprigs chopped parsley

A few sprigs chopped mint

1 tsp smoked paprika

You do:

Stir all ingredients together until combined.

Winter Coleslaw

You need (coleslaw):

Quarter of a good-sized celeriac, washed and peeled

Two large carrots, scrubbed

Quarter head of green cabbage

2 tablespoonfuls sunflower/pumpkin seeds

(dressing)

1 tbsp red wine vinegar

2 tbsp olive oil

pinch sugar

1 heaped tsp Dijon mustard

Firstly, toast the sunflower or pumpkin seeds in a dry pan, just until they warm through.  Take off the heat and put aside.  Slice the celeriac and carrots into bite-sized batons, and slice the cabbage into ribbons.  Put all the vegetables and seeds in a bowl, and toss until combined.  Mix up the dressing ingredients, and pour over the salad.

Here are the finished peppers, all warm from the oven and looking like health on a plate:

You can pour the yogurt sauce over the peppers, and the coolness of the yogurt against the warm peppers and the crunch of the pine nuts is really, really, good.  And so healthy!  New Year's resolution, day one, done!

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Twelve

Detox, detox, detox.

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Eleven

Does Santa have shares in Cadburys, do you think?  It could explain why he always seems to bring mountains of chocolate every year.  He was particularly generous to the Plum household:

If I have chocolate in the house, I will eat it.  It's a territorial thing - me and chocolate just can't share the same space.  So, I have to hide it from myself in hard-to-get-at cupboards, and try to trick my mind into forgetting it's there.

Oh, and I use the odd stern post-it to myself as well.

Anything to get my work clothes fitting again.

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Ten

Talking of Christmas presents, this was given to us by my lovely in-laws.

A bottle of pond scum?  No no, my friends!  It's samphire soup, all the way from the Baie de Somme.   When we opened it, the conversation went something like this:

Plum and B:              "...?!"

Father-in-law:           "Well, you two will try anything unusual."

Haha.  I'm so intrigued, and can't wait to try it.  According to the website above, samphire contains calcium, magnesium, iron, and zinc, amongst others.  Who knew?  I'm going to drink this soup and turn into superwoman. 

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Nine

Cheesemas, part deux. 

This was our present from my brother and sister-in-law.

I think they know us quite well.

They also gave us a guide to the different cheeses:

...as well as this adorable utensil set to eat them with.

Best present ever?  It's going to take some beating.

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Eight

My mother-in-law makes her own Christmas puddings.  Isn't that impressive?  I'm pretty sure that until I met her, I didn't think that they could be made at home.  I thought you needed...I don't know actually, but possibly an industrial pudding vat?  And definitely acres of obscure ingredients, like candied peel and suet. 

I'd love to share my mother-in-law's recipe with you, but unfortunately I can't.  Not because it's secret or anything, but because I literally can't read it.  It's captured in biro on the back of a Christmas card, and has gone through so many alterations, crossings-out and re-writes that I can't make head nor tail of it.  So I'll just have to leave the pudding-making to her, and concentrate on the pudding-eating instead.  No problem.

Yom.  We're going to keep this bad boy well-wrapped in paper and string and eat it when our bodies have gone into Christmas withdrawal and we have the shakes for brandied fruit.   

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Seven

Ooof.  What a Christmas! We ate A Very Great Deal.  We had to walk it off on the beach.

Then we tried to be healthy...

...but we ended up here again.  Ahem.

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Six

Cheesemas.

The Twelve Yums of Christmas: Part Five

Merry Christmas!

Yo ho ho!  We've reached Christmas day, and here's our dinner table looking lovely and festive.

We had a simple starter (to ensure maximum space for the next three courses).  We wrapped wedges of a super-ripe Galia melon in some wafer-thin Parma ham, and served them alongside a sprinkling of lettuce and Parmesan.  One melon served all seven of us perfectly.

Cheers!

We don't ever have turkey at Christmas, because nobody really likes it.  (Do you?  Be honest.  I'm convinced turkey is the chicken's poor cousin, and people just tolerate it at Christmas.)   This year we had a rib of beef from the local butcher, plus a million and one Yorkshire puddings.  Yes please.

My mum roasts her potatoes in lard, which makes them taste unbelievable.  None of this new-fangled olive oil nonsense round our way.   

If you care to count (and why wouldn't you?), you'd discover there are nine different types of vegetable on that plate.  Because that's how we roll at Christmas time.