Fancy a squeeze? Leaf it out, will ya?

It's the time of year when grocers where I live start selling citrus fruit with leaves on. Odd

Normally, the tangerines, clementine, orange and lemon ranks are just piled as they are.  Perfectly acceptable in appearance, but just as they are.  But I've noticed more of this creeping in here.  Outbreaks of leaf action in the Christmas run up.  I'm sure that's quite commonplace in uber trendy urban areas where people buy sausages wrapped in brown paper,  and say things like 'Ya it's all very villagey here, don't  you think...?' but not here it isn't.   And another thing.  They're sold in boxes.  Those shallow, flimsy, wooden boxes with printed adverts that I suppose name the grower or distributor or whatever, I can't say I've stopped to read one.  But they do, I confess, look really nice and you always want to use them for something else later, put them in the shed and end up using said box to light the barbecue with seven months later.

So what's this all about?  Why must my clementine or lemon have leaves now and not all year?  I can't pluck up the courage to ask one of the grocers in town, I mean it wouldn't be right, I can just imagine the look on his face.

'Eh?'
'Leaves on lemons.  Why now?
'Not with you mate...'
'Why do you sell lemons with leaves on now and not in June..?'
'Can't say I ever thought about it...'
'It's just that it makes no sense, so I wa.....'
'Neither do you mate.'

And off he goes to rearrange his roast chestnut display, which you also only get right now, before alerting the authorities about some bloke who clearly needs professional support and is there any specific help available for lemon obsessives.

Waxed, unwaxed?  Don't ask me I've no idea.

Market forces

It's infiltrated the three-times-a-week market in town too.  They've caught on.  I had a quick look today.

'Yer Granny Smiths a paarrnd.   Yer tomarrtas a paarrrnd.  Yer mushrooms a paarrnd.  Yer lemons and clemetines with leaves on a paaarnd a paarrnd....'

Or whatever.  Last year I fell for it and bought a box.  More clementines than I knew what to do with.

They 're probably sold like that in certain supermarkets too, just not the ones I go to.  There is a particular brand of supermarket that's 25 miles away from here, that doesn't normally cater for my sort.  I needed polenta a few months back in its grain form and could only buy blocks here.  As I happened to be (sort  of) passing that supermarket at the time, I popped in because it was inevitable it would be sold there.  Can't remember when I felt less comfortable.  The mummies in there all had sunglasses perched on top of their heads and had children called Magnolia, Apple White or something, and there was certain sort of more mature lady who bypassed metal shopping trolleys and held firmly to her wicker basket.

Takes no prisoners.  The PChef citrus press.
Juice to the max.

The staff looked sideways at me and seriously considered whether I ought to have a DNA swab to see if I was a suitable customer.  As it happens I found the polenta by the hand knitted pasta and left before there was an incident.

Maximum squeeze from a citrus press

Anyway, the sort-of point to all this is that I seem to get through an awful lot of lemons, for one reason or another, so I suppose that's why I notice these foliage situations.

I won't drone on about zesting anymore.  Done that, been there.  But I've a new friend in town.  The citrus press.  You see, after watching endless TV food programmes, I'm used to the idea of squeezing a lemon with one hand into the other, catching the pips.  We have got a plastic roundish, spiky thing that sits over a container which you twist your lemon into.  Useless.

But I've just taken delivery of a PChef citrus press as in the pic above.  Basically a half lemon shaped
cup, as you can see, in metal. Good Lord.  This boy takes no prisoners.  This is the Marines of citrus presses, the undercover Seals Unit.  Punch its solar plexus and you'd be the one with a sore fist.

Half fruits are turned inside out before your eyes.  Inside out.  The end result rind, skin, whatever, is drier than a wash at full spin.  There's nothing left. I've never seen such viscous juicing in a domestic setting.

I have a cooking show booked in December with a host who is also into her lemons.  She squeezes and turns the fruit - get this - inside out with her thumbs.  Now that's serious.  A woman with thumbs that can inflict that sort of injury isn't to be trifled with. I'll have to behave myself.

All lemon-ed up. Ciao for now

So now I'm fully equipped with my ever-present zester that never leaves my side and my Jackie Chan of a juicer, I'm urged to move into the big league of home-made mincemeat and - wait for this, a bright idea from my wife last night - home-made lemoncello.

'Let's get some vodka at the weekend....it's dead easy, apparently...'  Says she with enough home-made sloe gin and sloe vodka fermenting for Christmas to kill several armies.

Lemoncello.  Really?  Me?  Mind you, if word got out that I was into that kind of thing, maybe I could go to whatever supermarket I chose.  Even pop into a cafe there, if they have such things, I have no idea, and buy a skinny something or other and bird seed drizzle muffin.

Ciao bella.  Oh Dear.

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You did what? Put mashed potato - in cakes?

'For mash get - cakes and tarts and stuff...'

Is it just me or is instant mash suddenly cool again?  Or at least OK?

I vividly remember eating it as a kid.  My mum was a keen advocate of new-fad labour-saving cunning-plans culinary-wise. We had both the instant mash dust and the granulated versions.  Facinating to watch the dust transform into a potato tribute act.  And with a blob of butter added as it gathered pace it was perfectly fine to eat, I seem to recall.  Not sure if I'd say the same now because I haven't eaten it for years.

Look, I've got a craving now.  It's always the same.  When I write about stuff like this, I want a slab/portion/slice/blob of right now.

Vesta instant meals: 'exotic chinese curry in minutes'. Fab. I'll have you know it was the height of sophistication. Seriously. This was in the days when a glass of fresh orange was a starter on a restaurant menu, when Leonard Rossiter and Joan Collins where banging on about Cinzano on TV ads and the lady still loved Milk Tray. Convenience foods were sexy and this was long before the fleet of takeaways we have now down our high streets.

Why chop onions and carrots when you could boil a kettle and watch the veg reappear before your very eyes? Something in the back of my mind is telling me that the noodles in a Vesta Chow Mein had to be fried to crisp up?  Apparently, you can still get the meals. Anyway...I digress.

Angel Delight.  I could murder a bowl of that now, washed down with a lime pop from the Soda Stream.  Now look what you've made me do.  I'll be wanting a Babycham next. Or a Dubonnet. (Too young..?  Ok.  It was a sweet wine-based thing, ridiculously popular in the 60s and 70s among the smart set; bitter because it had a good dose of quinine in it.  It was first sold in 1846 and the story goes the French Foreign Legion were encouraged to give it a good swallow because of the quinine and its protective qualities against malaria)

Instant mash 

 

I was watching the Food Network the other day, which I do when no-one else is around because they're fed up with me watching all the food tele shows. Some bloke in the States was making restaurant quantities of a meatloaf, burger kind of concoction - I wasn't paying much attention.  But I did when I heard him say 'instant potato' which he chucked into the vast metal bowl as a binding agent.

I have a feeling there will be several people now shouting, 'yeah...and...?'  but it honestly hadn't occurred to me.  Breadcrumbs, yes, egg, yes.  But not instant spuds.  Maybe because instant potato - in fact instant food in general - has such a poor reputation in some quarters of my generation.

Gluten free lemon drizzle - with spuds.

But it is two thirds starch by dry weight, it would thicken and grab hold of what's around it so it does sort of make sense, I suppose.

Slice of gluten free lemon and potato cake? 

 

I think I'm suddenly aware of potatoes taking on a more unusual role because my wife cooked a lemon drizzle cake this week, made with potato. Carrot cake, we're used to.  I quite like it.  But potato?

You see, my brother and sister in law paid a visit and she has to steer well away from gluten.  Basically, 250g of cold mash takes the place of the flour and do you know what?  You'd never know. It was fantastic. I had more than one slice which is the norm.  We've never had to search for this kind of thing because this is a recent diagnosis  and again, I wouldn't be surprised if this isn't all really obvious to those who have battled through lists of ingredients before.  It must be exhausting to keep needing to check and check again.  The rest of us have no idea how lucky we are.

Instant mash in a Pampered Chef style

 

Deluxe min muffin pan

Now this is coincidence, honestly, but I picked up an old copy of the Pampered Chef recipe book, Season's Best, and there, on page 8, a recipe for potato bites.  Instant mash mixed with cheese butter and egg becomes a golden brown case in the deluxe mini muffin pan as would pastry.  I've never tried that and now I want to.  Whether that's the power of TV, recipe books, a yearning for nostalgia or just my curiosity taking over, I don't know. There is a continued recipe for the case filling but really, I guess that could be just about anything you fancy, chopped up small enough.  

I suppose the yearning to go shopping will take over now.  I'll probably have to wear dark glasses if I pick up some instant mash until I've come to terms with my silly behaviour, I don't want the neighbours waving net curtains, but I also want to see if there's any Fray Bentos pies handy.  Or Angel Delight. Gravy Browning. Bottle of  Emva Cream or Stones Ginger Wine..

I could certainly do something to a Pop Tart right now. And no I don't mean Cheryl Cole, I meant one of those things you put in a toaster, thank you. Really. Pffft.

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By the way...please feel free to comment, in fact I'd like it if you did, about the bloggy stuff in general or this bit, whatever takes your fancy.  I'd quite like to know where I am with your train of thought and if you've got suggetions. then get it off your chest. Your ideas are just as valid as mine. And why not join the page on the right hand side. That would be nice and appreciated at this end.  But if you'd prefer to keep it quiet then contact me at mikegetscooking@gmail.com, also that mikegetscooking thing on facebook and twitter.  You have a nice day now.

 

Sweaty? I'm throwing in the towel, Juan.

 

‘I’m sweating like a fat lass in a club…’

Now, I’m not sure where I heard that, I think it might be a Peter Kay line, but I’ll stand corrected. We do like to make jokes to cover up emissions of a personal nature be they from armpits or twixt buttocks.  It’s the former that is taxing me at the moment.

 I’ve been quiet on here for a while mainly because I’m several thousand miles away in Northern Cyprus – the Turkish side.  I also had to miss the PChef annual conference which happens every year in Birmingham for various reasons, so I have no insider gossip on that front to reveal.

This isn’t to say that I am in a non PChef zone right now, because I’m not, as I shall jabber about in a minute.

The temperature here bounces around 40 degrees, give or take. We are staying at a friend’s house equipped with all the usuals – fridge, freezer, blah etc. And this is kit that really has to put its back into it to keep anything from rotting within hours of purchase.  And you want to buy.  As with some many other countries the markets are amazing.  I’ve shifted more fruit and veg in the last few days than within six months at home – water melons the size of unfurnished flats; and water, gallons of the stuff.  But we’ve been coming here for a few years now so we knew – or at least I knew – that bodily functions would be put to the test.

I’ve been cooking. Apparently that’s my job on holiday.  In 40 degree heat.  So here’s one example.  I’m (loosely) cooking a PChef recipe of chicken, chick peas, chorizo (Turkish sausage) pepper, chicken stock , tomatoes etc, all bunged into one pot and served with rice.

Dear Lord.  There are cooler blast furnaces.  The sweat after five mins or so of chopping reached crisis levels and I’d not cooked a damn thing yet. That snake-hipped lad and his kitchen towels – Juan Sheet – or whatever he’s called would  need a pack of rolls never mind one flaming sheet.  In fact I wish he’d been here because I wouldn’t mind slapping his smug little face.  Anyone who can wear trousers like that needs to be treated with caution. As the pathetic kitchen towels available to me dissolved on impact with my forehead I had to engage some serious support.

With the start of cooking in progress, fighting for oxygen and with a T shirt that now looked as though it had been taken out before a fast spin, I went to the bathroom and got a hand towel which I plonked on my head and wrapped around me ala Lawrence of Arabia. To cut a long story short, I managed the meal but needed two such towels to cope with the onslaught of moisty bits. 

Pampered Chef note:  I have been using a selection of knives, pink and green versions, stoneware etc all resident in the island.

‘A bit hot…?’ says my wife after a gruelling shower plus sit down for half an hour with a white wine and soda, as her meal is presented.

I think I mentioned something about never feeling dry at any stage and knowing now what a slug feels like.

‘You need to wipe your face,’ said wife or friend Bridget, I can’t remember, I was hallucinating I think; I’d got locked in the Lawrence zone by this stage  and I think I saw camels in the garden. Either way I plonked down in a chair looking I’d just finished the 100 meters backstroke.

‘I have been wiping my face…I’ve been using the hand towels…done it before’

‘You did WHAT!’

‘I used the hand towels to…’

‘I’VE BEEN DRYING MY HAIR ON THOSE..!’

I won’t go on, you can guess the rest.

Tensions were a little raised before because we’d not long finished a chat on Skype via this very laptop with the middle son who was about to head off to Italy for a couple of days of work.

My wife is very big on sun.  Loves the stuff.  A tan – whilst not an obsession - is a summer must-have in her book.

‘Do I look brown then Tom…?’ she asked eager for confirmation.

‘Yeah, you look like Lennox Lewis’

Now, whether it was son suggesting that his mother closely resembled a boxer or my comment about Fatima Whitbread, or my snort of laughter, I don’t know, but it set a tone for the evening that climaxed in the towel incident.

There are other tales to tell from here, but while I’m on this theme, we went to a market which sold just about anything you’d like from clothes and accessories to dodgy rip-offs.  Tucked away was a small booth-come stall that housed two young girls plus an older woman who was turning out what at first glance appeared to be pancakes or crepes – except they can’t have been. That’s because I watched the older lady roll out a ball of - I have no idea what – with what looked like an inch thick piece of dowel rod.  These now ‘pancake’ sized discs were lightly filled with potato or cheese or meat or aubergine or any combo.  They were folded and lightly rolled again with the filling inside, placed on a hot plate which the girls cooked.  Naturally these, whatever they were, were blisteringly hot and tasted fantastic.

However…on the board behind the girls, written in white chalk, that listed the options of meat, cheese etc., there was a ‘Sweat’ version.  Even in this heat it didn’t take much working out that the poor girls meant ‘Sweet’ and not the more unconventional ‘Sweat’.  Look, I’ll try most things – I like faggots and gravy and I’ve eaten snails, but sweat flavoured ‘pancakes’ are a whole new departure for me and not one I’m keen to explore.

Bridget pointed this out and had to visually explain the error by pointing at her armpits.  An urgent search for chalk and the ‘A’ became’ an ’E’.

Anyway…must dash, more later.  There are some towels to wash, apparently.  Some people are so picky. 

Mamma Mia! That's my idea of a cooking show, Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and Anni-Frid.



Picture credit: agnethannifrid.blogspot.co.uk



Gimme, gimme, gimme a plan after midnight

"That's an hour and a half of my life I can't get back," I said, under my breath, after watching Mamma Mia.

I didn't like it.  I watched the DVD faithfully a year or so ago - whenever it was - after we given it as a Christmas present.  My comments were not well recieved by the females we discussed it with later. It was made very clear to me that I was a typical bloke, an all round idiot, with no taste or idea what a good film is.

Harsh, I thought at the time, particularly as all the men I spoke to agreed with me wholeheartedly, except they seemed to avoid the backlash. Clearly, Mr Scapegoat again. Can't argue though, that it was the highest grossing film in the UK in 2008.

I've seen the signs before obviously: this male, female thing, Venus and Mars, the canyon that is the difference between the sexes, etc etc.

I mention all this because I'm a home-alone tonight; my wife is out overnight at an Abba tribute show, which in the case of her group, happens to be a hen night.  I'm assured the combination of hens and Abbas makes this just about a damn near perfect combo.  There's a small fleet of cars going with watches syncronised for 4.30pm. There'll be a last-minute search under the bed/back of the wardrobe for feather boas, urgent shopping for plastic glasses and cursing because they didn't put the Cava in the fridge for long enough. And the fact that they only seem to have a measly one case of fizz.  Per car.

"We're having a three course meal first," she said.  Which I thought sounded a bit odd.  That's a long time taken up and a fair quantity of meat and three veg to digest if the required dancing is to take place. 

"DANCING QUEEEEEN, FEEL THE YEAAAH OF THE TANGERINE, OH YEAHHHH!"

I can see it now. Quiet, restrained, it won't be.

I daren't over-quote the lyrics by the way.  I bet there's packs of Swedish lawyers poised to deal with wanton copyright malarkey.

Chicken Tikka, la, la, la, laaaa.



Chicken Tikka, Chiquitita



So I did a bit of Google action to see what is normally consumed at such events.  There was either no food or the ever-present 'finger buffet'.  Greasy chicken legs flopping onto posh frocked laps wouldn't be a preferred option either, I suspect. Lilac feathers accidently dipped into mayonnaise might not be a good look  by the time they're redecorated the favourite top only bought last week from Next.

So I asked my Facebook, PChef chums for thoughts and theories.  I tried to expand the notion and suggest what food you might serve at an Abba cooking show party.  There were the Swedish suggestions of Dime Bars and meatballs.  I like meatballs.  I cooked some for tea last night, but I prefer tomato sauce and not the fruit jam thing as per Ikea. Wierd.  Then there was smorgasbord, which after all is just a posher finger buffet isn't it? I like a few roll mop herrings myself, but there's a time and a place. Then came the suggestions that made me smile.  Chicken Tikka (as in 'Chiquitita' - heard that before but it still made me snort a bit) Doughing Me, Doughing You (for the bread rolls) and Voulez Vonts (vol au vent, obviously).  There were several that suggested an Abba cooking show home party was a real go-er.

I think we're getting somewhere.

Cava, vodka.  Bound to be messy.

The response to my request was - I think - entirely female at time of writing. It's odd how Abba connects in such a way with female audiences.  They've sold over 370 million records and still sell millions every year even though they haven't collectively produced new music since 1982. Each member has continued to work with each other or individually since that time although, unusually, Abba never did officially spilt: they just stopped recording and touring.  I very much doubt that the instigators, Benny and Bjorn realised the impact they would have when the started their musical careers aged 18 in the Hep Cats and The Hootenanny Singers, respectively.

Roll mops.  Swedish enough for you?

However, this is where I may differ from a significant number of the males species.  I like Abba songs.  There.  I've said it now, no going back. They produced some technically fantastic pop songs.  Much has been written about the extraordinary vocal range of the girls in particular which drifts across octaves alarmingly and which makes it very difficult for tribute bands to accurately reproduce the true sound. Sorry, but I like it.

I have been to an Abba tribute show in the grounds of Lincoln Castle one summer and it was great.  People brought picnics and sang rather a lot.  That I can do but I wonder how many blokes will be at this hotel tonight as packs of over 30s women wade through the Cava starters and move onto the main course of Vodka and coke? Messy. Advice:  When you hear gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight, check the Exits.

Thankfully I'll be at home.  Chicken Tikka sounds like a good plan, with a few herrings perhaps? Maybe I'll rethink that. I certainly wouldn't fancy doing an Abba cooking show though. No way.

At least now I can watch my DVD of National Lampoon's Animal House without my wife saying," Well that's an hour and a half of my life I can't get back."

Venus and Mars. Ahh , haaaa!

•  Remember, I'm always interested in any comments and feel free to repost on facebook or twitter, and please join the page - it's on the right side of this page. If you do repost, please drop me a line at mikegetscooking@gmail.com.  It would be great to hear from you. - Mike.