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.

Pampered Chef salads could be good for your ears.

Pampered Chef Mix Measure and Pour, on salads, obviously

Whatever happened to lettuce?

When I was a kid it was just lettuce. Just lettuce. That's what it was called.  And with the lettuce went cucumber, half a tomato or two and half a boiled egg.  When visitors came around the egg might be sliced. On top of that for me went a significant amount of Heinz Salad Cream.  I don't ever remember being a fan of salad, but I was - and still am - a fan of salad cream.  Unfortunately as I keep finding, there's a time and a place to admit to these things, if you read my bit about fish and brown sauce.

Not that I turn up my nose at more adventurous dressings these days.  There's a great piece of Pampered Chef kit that I suspect is somewhat overlooked.  It's a salad dressing mixer that looks like an individual caffettiera.  It goes by the name of  Measure Mix and Pour which pretty much covers what it does and what you do, for that matter.

Around the sides of the cylinder are recipes for  a range of different dressings.  We've tried a couple at home and they're very good.  So, you put in fresh ginger, top up to that line with rice vinegar, add garlic then this amount to this line of olive oil and so on. When you've added everything, up and down goes the plunger with a bout of vigorous plunging, pour it out onto your salad, in the fridge goes the remainder.  I like it because I don't have to faff about looking for a recipe, it's a one-stop shop.

Olive oil, ideal for ears

Olive Oil for Pampered Cheffers

It's a strange one isn't it, olive oil?  Again, when I was a kid, olive oil was in the medicine cabinet and used to loosen your ear wax. One of those Sunday night rituals. Bath, Sunday Night at the London Palladium on the tele, and ears brimming with salad dressing. Odd.

Speaking of the tele, I see there's a new impetus in the salad dressing ads, new ranges of tarted up sauces.  One leading brand of mayonnaise now has a hint of caramelised onion, a 'twist' of pepper, a 'spark' of chilli, a 'hint' of wasabi.  Wasabi?  Now maybe that's quite clever, that could be a winner with a particular set.

'Salad cream?  Eeeeeaaawwooooo!  Mayo with wasabi you say? Oh yar, def. Squirt away, darling'


It's a bit like a few years back when 'hint of a tint...' was suddenly huge in DIY paint situations.

'Love the magnolia walls, so retro...'
'Errr, I think you'll find that's hint of a peach, thank you (sniff)'


But then everything has to be tweaked this days  to be what it isn't and never was.  My bathroom has to smell like an alpine forest or the Chelsea Flower Show, or else.

Lettuce leaves, a fashion statement

My lettuce must comprise of a baby leaf or two. No seems to complain that such leaves have been ripped from the hearts of their loving mother lettuce.  No, they're sweet and tender, so that's OK. It's now romaine, butter lettuce, endive, lambs, escarole, rocket, so on and so forth.  There's even beetroot leaves and sliced red cabbage in there. The thought of my mum putting cabbage in a salad beggers imagination.  Cabbage in our house was only consumed when it was given a damned good boiling and taught a lesson.  Then it was boiled some more until all the green colour had come out and was down the sink where it belonged. See-through cabbage was never a favourite of mine.

Salad eating weather

Lettuce, as in lettuce, is now the unloved Cinderella.  And to be fair, I've had to put some desperately limp lettuce out of its misery today and into the kitchen bin.  I didn't like doing it, I hate throwing any food away.  But it really was at death's door, mainly because - and this won't surprise you - it's been raining of late and is right now as I type.  Again. Not salad eating weather.  I'm sure what salad eating weather is but I just don't think it's now.

So I'm going to have to keep my Measure Mix and Pour in the cupboard a while longer. If you have any dressings left over, just waiting for the sun to shine, you could always put a drop or two in your ears to see if it shifts anything stubborn.

Probably best leave it until you need to liven up a leaf.

• PS, If you'd like one of those excellant dressing mixers, just leave a comment or send me an email.  Also remember, please repost or facebook or twitter this blog and please join the site on the right hand side.  You can also find me at mikegetscooking on facebook.

Silly menus and Family Bathrooms

Pan fried Pampered style.

Pan fried. 

Pan fried?  What else should I use apart from a pan?  I could try the kettle but it wouldn't go down well with my wife, would be my best guess.

Sloshing a pint or so of vegetable oil in there to heat up and fry a few nuggets wouldn't be a preferred plan.

I've been a little quiet on here of late - real life taking over for a while plus I've been away.  Catching up on various things, I've read numerous postings, emails etc.  I've been reading about overblown menu writing and the way it's all put down these days.  Once upon a time, not too long ago, it was all French if the restaurant thought it was important enough.  Few could understand a damned thing, but at least it sounded important. Even hairdressers my mum went to when I was a kid were 'Salon of Madame Jean' or something or other.

Frankly, it's not much better now, and it's in English of a sort.

There was ( I say was, it's no longer there) a restaurant not far from where I live that boasted: hand battered haddock, nestling on a bed of crushed peas served with hand cut chips. (Small mist of semi rage appearing).  That'll be fish, chips and mushy peas then? Crushed is OK, mushy is not.  It's just a word.  Why is one cool and the other chavvy?  And you just know all the half dozen same size chips will be stacked like a game of Jenga.  Not for me, thanks. I'll go to the chippy.  I get a free fork there too. And scraps.

Jus versus gravy

How did I manage to get through the early years of my life without a jus?  Half a teaspoon of brightly coloured cack in a cresent blur on my plate. No damned use at all.  Or a veloute, that's a good one.  I like gravy myself, but apparently I shouldn't say that out loud.  I was staying in a hotel in Wales last week and ate mind-boggling good lamb.  It arrived doing the backstroke in a meaty gravy to die for and came with an additional gravy boat. Yum.  If I had a straw I would have supped the lot. Here's a couple of real ones: 'gateau of grilled vegetables' and a 'bouillabaisse of sardines'.  Good grief. 'A carpaccio of courgette'.  I'm not making this stuff up.
I ordered one of these hand battered haddock malarkeys at a restaurant in Wales last week.  When it arrived, the waitress - as they do - asked if I needed anything else.  I asked for brown sauce.  I don't like ketchup, I like brown sauce.  She blanched.  The blood drained from her face. The request took time to process.

'Sorry, I got confused for a second....you said brown sauce?  With hand battered fish?  It's just that you've already got our homemade sauce of tartar as it is '

'Brown sauce would be great, yes please'

'Right...well. I'll just err...'  And off she went, clearly to tell the head chef to alert the authorities. I had little intention of using the hand-carved lemon wedge either.

Baked beans and brown sauce, please

To get back to our friend the veloute for a second, it's a long established sauce. Nothing new; it was one of the five "mother sauces" designated by Auguste Escoffier in the 19th century. It's just that for some reason we've picked up these words and trot them out to make a perfectly sensible dish sound flash. What on earth for? I'm getting grumpy now.

Pot au feu d'agneau aux pommes de terre et aux oignons I think you'll find is Lancashire hotpot. Boule aux épices et aux fruits secs would be Spotted Dick.  As I said, I've spent a while away in Wales  and I loved the fact that the shop and road signs made no sense whatsover.  Well, they would if I was Welsh. 

I'll have to take it that 'Mae hyn yn ffordd i ganol y dref' means 'This way to the town centre'.  It could say 'All your camels have warts'  I have no idea.  But like I say, it makes me happy that even in this small island in which I live we can celebrate our national heritage of words and language. That bit, I love, I'm just  not comfortable when we mess about with words for no real reason.


But it's not just foodies that revel in this tangle of consonants.  I quite like watching property programmes when I just want to relax. Phil and Kirsty and Jasmine with the A Place In The Relocation, Location, Home or Away or whatever it's called. But.

'And up the stairs you can see the Family Bathroom.'  A what? The Family Bathroom!  Is there another sort?

'Can I use your loo..?'

'No...please don't go in there, you are a friend, you must be upgraded to...The  Family Bathroom.  We only use this one for Non-EU Residents, total strangers or the dog if no-one else needs it'.

Yes, I know I'm getting sarky, but I mean, really...

A pack of Birds Eye Lamb Grills destined for a BBQ at our house years ago came with the instructions 'Do not grill.'  And again just last week while away, we walked past a childrens play area.  The sign was vast.

'Large childrens play area.  Families welcome'  Really..? Not just for orphans then?

Tonight I shall feast on a root vegetable confection of chopped beef encased in a hand rolled all-butter crimped shell served with a thickened tomato-infused bean broth and pomme puree and a molasses-based drizzle.

Or, pasty, baked beans and mash with, you guessed it,  brown sauce on the side. (Small burp.)

• Please leave a comment, offer your opinion and if you like this or anything else on here, please re-post, link to facebook, whatever takes your fancy.  I'd be very grateful.  Thanks.

Don't light the BBQ Ray, the washing's out!

Time to burn stuff in the garden aka get the barbecue going. Now, stop me if I'm wrong, but I think I heard  the majority of the nation's females groan, just ever so slightly.

It's one of the few things that truly excites the male of the species. As I kind of hinted in the last post, chopping stuff and setting fire to stuff is deeply appealing to the male.  I used to do it to old Airfix models of Sopwith Camels as a kid but now I've moved onto meaty bits. There's no point in me telling you that the speciality of the male BBQ house is a blackened yet still raw sausage.  We know that, been there.

I can't offer any sensible explanation, there is just something seriously appealing about lighting charcoal, watching the flames die down-ish, losing patience so therefore putting the meat on too early and generally doing a sort of OK job.  And we do know of course that the girls are pushed to one side.

Except that we chaps do occasionally want to tweak the boundaries and dump the briquettes in favour of twigs, and wood bits  so we can do the real outdoor thing.

This is the point were my wife shouts from the patio doors: "Oi! Ray Mears! Calm down, the washing's out and we could do with keeping the hedge for a bit longer yet!" This usually coincides with me glancing casually at the pint or so of unleaded that was decanted into a container, which is now by the bins, from the lawnmower at the end of last season.

"Don't even think about it..!"  Her capacity for mind reading is disturbing, wholly accurate and deeply frustrating. BBQ lighting brick things it is, then.

I am about to invest in some new heavy duty tools for the job.  Rather better than the lame fork thing I currently use which means I am far closer to the flame than sensible as the hairs of my arm sizzle in sympathy with the bits of burger now falling between the bars of the grill. I duck occcasionally as an overheated sausage explodes, turning itself inside out and, in sympathy with the burger, disappears between the bars, preferring the flames to me relentlessly prodding it.

Which is perhaps why the BBQ grill tray caused ripples of excitement at a men-only cooking show I did recently.  " My God! That's pure genius! " claimed one enraptured guest with one eye on sausage preservation and the trick of veggie cooking.

These are treats I will have to wait for.  Meanwhile now the rains have passed and the garden is walk on-able again, I'm out there, as flames engulf the bottom of the garden like a stunt from Die Hard 2 and bits of cremated burger drift gracefully to the almost dry white duvet cover  on the line. All that's missing is Bruce Willis in a vest, saving us all  from certain death. Speaking of which...

" You did get the washing in first, didn't you...didn't you?"

All this at the precise moment my wife, now through the doors with menace in her eyes, considers plunging my head into the still warm pasta salad bowl.

Don't worry, she's done it before. Honest.

(Please 'join' the blog - to the right of your screen - most kind)