Feta Zesting. Looking for a pizza the action

Feta Zesting.  Try to say that quickly. Go on. Give it a go...  

Zeta Festing...?  What's that? I know...me being a silly again.
Oh Dear....where does the time go...?  Lapsed on the blogging front of late and my excuse is 'time issues'. Hmmm. Anyway...

I haven't stopped working, cooking and trying out new ways to get the best from the kit around me.  If I'm going to invest in high-quality kitchenware, then it had better damn well work for a living and be prepared to get out of it's comfort zone.

Low fat, not as much cheese as usual pizza action

The multiplane zester.  It's job description is: 

Sharp stainless blades quickly grate foods. Easy-grip handles adjust to easel and extended positions. Non-slip feet keep them steady. Includes storage covers. Makes quick work of zesting fresh citrus fruits — one swipe removes the zest and leaves behind the bitter pith.

Well, frankly, I'm more than happy with it's citrus action, which is well documented on here, but I expect more commitment.  Watch the short vid I made and you'll see and hear what I mean....

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By the way....just thought I'd say, remember to make a comment if it takes your fancy and join the page.  Follow mikegetscooking on Facebook and twitter, yes OK, I'll shut up now. 

KEEP CALM. It's only a school holiday.

Easier said than done. Keep Calm, it's only a school holiday, who's he think he's kidding..?

 

Drawing to a close; the dying embers. Now, my offspring sprung from school some time ago so it's not an issue for me.  But it most certainly has been with the three of them.

We tried to go to the seaside a fair bit as we live not far from the east coast.  Each boy was equipped with exactly the same swimming trunks in the brightest colour we could find, pretty much in keeping with the mikegetscooking philosophy - electric lime greens, vivid bright orange and so on.  It made it much easier to keep track of them just in case one small boy decided to leg it down the beach just as my back was turned as I tried to explain to another why a recently caught crab the size of a 50pence piece with two remaining legs, now in a bucket, was almost certainly dead and unlikely to take part in any beach races. And that particularly stiff star fish that they hid in the car last time stunk to high heaven after a couple of weeks.  And no, I didn't appreciate your mother blaming me for the smell with unfounded accusations of wanton farting, so I really would prefer it if this new exceedingly dead star fish was laid to rest where you found it.

The car for weeks was almost a permanent, mobile sandpit. No matter how much vigorous shaking of shoes, clothes and boys we did, sand dunes would slowly appear in the boot.  But the boys were more than happy to spend hour after hour, digging a hole and filling it in again.  Then digging another one. Repeat until time to go home, with a small break for a sand sandwich and a melted ice cream and the periodic argument at the application of sun creams.

"Dad can't do it, he's useless...you got sunburn last time because he missed a bit. Or most of you.  He doesn't rub it in..."

Have a brew and Keep Calm...it's nearly over.

So mid afternoon it was down to the icecream booth when their mother would tell them they could have anything from the bottom lines on the ice lolly posters - mini milks etc, not the Soleros.  They still talk about that now, particularly as it was a policy enthusiastically taken up and supported by all the other mummies in the 'group'.

We did, every now and again, go to a very well known holiday resort not far away and swim in the pool there and use the rest of the facilities.  I don't want to sound ungrateful hence my reluctance to say out loud which park it was, but the pool changing rooms were always something of an experiment in whether it was possible to leave without catching something that would probably make you itch for a while. The floors of said facilities bore an uncanny resemblance to those glass plate jobs you see under microscopes. Always a potentially awkward GP-type chat.

"And where did you take the children again, you did what with them..?"

Again, the (not-so now) boys recount that when the subject is raised.

Anyway...to cooking matters.  I saw on the Facebook malarkey only recently that a mum/PChef chum was organising a Pampered Chef cooking show with her offspring.  I'm liking this.  Cook with the children, demonstrate some of the kit and how easy it is to use (childsplay etc...).

One lump, or two..?

I was never a cook by any stretch but I started venturing into the kitchen because I wanted my boys to see me cooking.  I didn't want them growing up believing cooking was exclusively 'womans work.'  We bought them a toy kitchen, I remember, and a tea set. Now not all our friends got the idea.  In fact I remember one dad being majorly dead against the concept.  But the outcome is all three do indeed now cook for themselves to varying degrees and the eldest  is probably a damn sight better than me.

Anyway I was half watching the Food Network on the tele today with Guy Fieri, and his five year old son wandered onto the set.  Accidental or a production decision, it didn't make much difference.  It gave Guy the chance to point out the importance of kids connecting with food, enjoying helping to cook and taking - as he put it - ownership of not just the food but the experience.  I'm all for that. Well...as you've heard me say on an audio post elsewhere on here, regardless of previous prejudice, the boys are coming forward in droves for food technology classes; it's the girls that are now lagging behind.

Anyway.  My aim is still to get more men involved in opportunities such as Pampered Chef.  It's ludicrous that more men are cooking than ever before and still we have yet to engage this market. I'm working on it behind the scenes with others and hopefully tangible progress will be seen soon. 

These are seriously suggested as girls school shoes on a website

That's quite enough of that for now. The point is, the school hols are almost over, a new start and the chance to keep calm and carry on with a few of the things we did with the kids over these past weeks - including cooking.

Still to finish - the collosal rows over school shoes...

'God mum, they're like well lame, you're embarrassing. I can't wear them, like a freak, I want them' cos they're dench...'

(Don't ask me, I'm just writing it down, but I suspect it's striking a chord here and there.)

That hideous experience, plus the rows over uniform is long gone for me.  Time passes. I could no longer get away with Mini Milks with my lot but at least, on the bright side, I no longer have to buy my twenty-somethings lime green swimming trunks. Or bury flippin' starfish.

BOOOOMMMM!!!! That'll be a raspberry pip and a decorator bottle, then.

 Time for the pips

 

You just can't take raspberry pips for granted.  In the wrong hands they can cause devastation.

At the very least they can kick-start a need to redecorate.  This is a cautionary tale involving the Pampered Chef  Decorator Bottle Set and a pip.  Rubus idaeus, is the red fruit we are familar with here in the UK and much of Europe.  It's the native species of Rubus to Europe and northern Asia. I didn't realise until recently that black raspberries are grown in parts of America.  Now whether this is all getting confused with what we know as blackberries, I don't know and I'll leave that bit to those that do.

I'm not a fan, to be honest.  In fact, I've never been a fan of raspberries.  Don't know why really, just don't like the taste.  I've already mentioned before that meringue is a mystery to me so raspberry pavlova is about as far off my taste-bud radar as is possible. Perhaps because the perfume taste of the raspberry is a bit lame for me.  I like munching raw gooseberries that are so tart you can actually feel your face turning inside out; the sort that push your lips back inside you mouth towards your tonsils as your eyeballs balance yet wobble on the outer edge of the sockets.  Hardcore sour. I like that.

Anyway, back to pips.  They can wedge in dental lapses and provide an unwelcome crunchy thing.  Not the exact same example, but on holiday abroad recently I was reminded how used to seedless everything we have become.  I was offered some uber-plump raisins to graze on, and duly did.  Now, I got the shock of my life when the plump fruit went crunch in my mouth.  I have to say I panicked slightly as I pondered the effects of eating a loose filling only to be relieved when I realised it was a seed.  A raisin with a seed. Well...yeah...why not?  It's just that we have become used to seedless stuff.

So maybe our concentration in these matters is not what it should be.  We've blanked pips from our memory.  We take no account of what havoc a single pip can unleash.

Will Torrent

Put this to one side for a moment as we focus on decorator bottles.  Now, I haven't got any of these and suppose it's because I generally don't decorate my food.  I might blob something or other here and there but all that fancy waving a sauce around isn't my gig.  Again, as with meringues, I've jabbered on here about jus and other sideshows.  Gravy I get and adore, but a teaspoon of blobby on my plate hardly seems worth the effort.

To get me into all this, I should perhaps give these bottles a go.  There's certainly no faffing about with bags and random nozzels.

Quote: 'Three easy-squeeze bottles and writing, basket weave and rosette tips let you decorate with different designs and colours at one time. Perfect for icing, whipped cream and soft cheese...' 

Sounds painless. Now at this time of year the PCheffers all get to hear about the new products for this season and in parallel there have been demos on how to create no-bake tarts by PChef's new guest chef, Will Torrent, using the new tart tins, decorated with the bottles.

So there's been a flurry of activity of late demonstrating how easy it is to do all this.  My chum Carolyn told me about one such cooking show.  Tart made, there was some raspberry sauce action to get sorted. So, in the bottle goes the sauce, the onlookers looking on, suitably enraptured. Squeeze. Nothing much happens, certainly not the carefully formed red trickle and at this point, of course, the penny drops.  The pip. A damned pip. The bottle has fallen foul to the stroppy pip blocking the only available exit.

Now, I've had a kidney stone.  In fact I enjoyed the mind-altering pain so much I've decided to have another.  It's been sat there for a long time now.  You don't know you've got one until it gets bored and decides to stretch its legs. When it does and you have to pass a stone larger than the exit facility, something has to give.  Likewise the damn pip. 

Someone suggested having a cheeky squeeze over a bowl to free the intrusion. Mistake. Seriously.  As I said, something has to give...

Fruit Casualty

BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

The whole lot exploded.  It must have looked like a scene from 'Casualty'.  Screams, hysterical activity. Red splatters everywhere.  One team member was caked in it, the wallpaper splattered, all the products on the table dripping - only the ceiling escaped the explosion of seasonal fruits.

Naturally those out of the blast zone roared with laughter, but we could all do with learning from this tale.  We've become careless, lazy even.  As long as I keep myself reasonably hydrated me and the kidney stone can call a truce.  But if I let my guard down it will  head south. The thought has just made me shudder as I recall a Boxing Day never to be forgotton as the last stone blinked in the daylight.

Watch your pips, gang.   The little buggers have a mean streak when they fancy it.  

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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.

I need to have a go at whipping something.

 

I don't really do cream so I'm somewhat unfamiliar with stiff peaks.

 

The runny stuff, the single cream is OK up to a point, but double whisked, fluffed-up cream isn't my number one choice. This is perhaps the reason why I have few whisks at my disposal at home.  Apart from a flick around a gravy, I generally have no need for the things.

Meringue is another mystery to me.  Pavlova is a big hit in our usually male dominated house, so I can't even say it's a girly thing.  I have tried it, but it's a deeply disappointing experience.  You bite into it only to find there's nothing actually in your mouth except a blast of something that was probably very sweet.  It just seems a bit pointless. 

In fact, if I'm honest, puds don't really cut it for me at all.  I'd have a cheese board or just an ice cream if an ice cream should be available. Any flavour. Oh and fruit salad.  I make an excuse for chocolate though.  My passion for chocolate is well-documented in these pages.

Pavlova? I don't really get it.

Yet some people visibly melt at the very mention of meringue.  I've noticed it prompts the occaisional "Oooh...ooooh" with a curious accompanying satisfied or expectant facial expression from those of a female persuasion which suggests I am totally out of my depth when it comes to egg white-based confections.  

I might be wrong here but they so often appear to be the same ladies that go all peculiar when it comes to Baileys, which is another off my radar item. It tastes, to me, like the catch-all medicine that I used get rammed down me as kid that was a cure-all for whatever was ailing me at the time from chicken pox to runny nose.


But of course, it contains cream.  So maybe that's it. Or maybe it's the emulsifier containing refined vegetable-oil which stops the cream and whiskey splitting that doesn't work for me, taste-wise. Whiskey or whisky, on the other hand are big hits with me. We've had an affair for many years.

Double cream, double the fun? Pampered Chef double balloon whisk time.

Anyway.  I'm getting off the point. I would like to get into the whole whisking thing because I think there could be something quite satisfying about it and it's prompted by a couple of events. 

One squirt or two..?

One: I read some - no, quite a lot of  - sniggering from women clearly up to speed with the whole 50 Shades of Grey thing and there were whisk references going on.  It's a not a bedside reading item for me so I can only wonder what caused such sniggers or whether I had totally confused the messages. Maybe it was cream, rather than whisk thing...anyway.

And two: the Pampered Chef double balloon whisk I saw demonstrated a bit back.  It's a strange looking creature, if I'm honest.  It looks like somone started making what a whisk should look like and got a bit confused having too many whisk-type metal bits, mid way. 

Anyway the end result is maximum aeration. Loads of air after a moderate beating. It certainly made short work of the cream I looked at. After giving it a bit of a seeing-to, the female demonstrator had peaks all over the place.  And in record time.

I want to join in the fun.

Taken us a while to get there; we've had a passion for sweetened creamy stuff since the sixteenth century. Maybe my not liking frothy cream thing was also driven by the 'squirty' cream that was a pudding staple in my childhood. Press too hard, one squirt and it was all over the damned place. And it tasted of what, exactly?

I could give a batter a batter. It's a possibility. But maybe I need to get over this whole whipped aversion, get a double balloon whisk, give it a go and see if I can peak.

I might even like it.

• If you have any thoughts and theories, please feel free to comment. And repost on facebook and twitter as you so please. You can contact me on mikegetscooking on facebook or at mikegetscooking@gmail.com.

Guacamole? No thanks, I've just had a nuclear fallout.

The infamous MFP

Here's a question: will there be any demand for handmade guacamole after the nuclear apocolypse?

Interesting question.  I hadn't thought about it. I think it's safe to say I never would have given this the attention it deserves until I read some jabbering on Her Majesty's Facebook of late. It set me off, to be honest.  What would you fancy after the wholesale slaughter of the human race? The chippie would be closed, so that's out.

I really ought to say upfront that all this is not my thinking. My chum Carolyn was recounting a Pampered Chef cooking show she was at with a new recruit.  PChef makes this non-electrical gadget which PCheffers insist on calling the 'MFP'.  A 'manual food processor' if you like.  Now as you can see from the above pic, it looks like what a food processor looks like.  But no mains electricity is required.  You 'pump it' to quote from the blurb.  In fact  (quote) 'the more you pump, the finer the cuts.'

So if I've got this right, it could be a workout tool as well as a chopper.  Aren't you supposed to 'pump' when you workout?  I've no direct experience because I'm no friend of gyms and I've never seen this chopper - food processor - in the flesh.  I'm sure The Green Godess on Breakfast TV years ago would have found a use for it.  Anyway, to get to the point. A guest at this show suggested that the MFP would be better knowns as a Post Apocalyptic Food Processor, because it needs no power.  Then Linda, quite rightly joined the dots and suggested the demand for homemade guacamole would probably be a tad subdued, perhaps she was, by default questioning the demand for MFPs long term. Not sure if I agree completely. Guacamole is always a bit bland - no, subtle - to me in a nice way and I think I'd like that.  I mean, you wouldn't want anything spicy would you after going through a holocaust?  Enough excitement for one day.

The microplane zester

Apple, Orange and other devices

I could surround myself with other bits of non - power kit like garlic pressers, microplane zesters and so on, although what there would be left to zest is open to question.  And I couldn't ask anyone to find out because my mobile phone would have vaporised at worst or conked out at best, knackered by electrical storms.  Now that would irrate  all the hardcore mobile users wouldn't it?  I'm quite into techie bits  as a rule but the obsession with phones has left me behind.  Do you know, the fifth most popular thing to do with a mobile phone now, is make phone calls? The fifth!


In a bit of a tantrum I searched high and low until I found a phone that just makes calls.  Just calls.  That's it.  I'm happy.  I have no immediate taste for Apple, Orange, Blackberry, Chuck Berry or whatever they're called.

'Hey...can I show you the 5,000 photos from my last holiday I have on my Hokey Cokey 2000, or do you need to know the latest train times in Venezuela...?
'No, but I do strongly recommend you get a life..'

Actually this whole Apocalyptic thing is getting a little clearer to me now.  Those of us of a certain age may well remember the government's advice in the 80s when a Big Bang was a real threat.  They suggested we take all the doors off in the house, lean them against a wall, drape a curtain or two and hide inside. Or under the kitchen table.  Not sure if this was a foolproof plan.


A blast of thermal radiation to the tune of several megakelvins through your letter box would be more than a match for the deluxe kitchen wood effect suite from MFI. Safe to say the cat would be in for a hell of a shock too.

Pinot Grigio - weapon of choice

So all in all, as much as I like the idea of manual food processors and the like, I suspect I wouldn't have much of an appetite, guacamole or otherwise.

50 Shades of Threat

We don't spend much time these days worrying about nutters with warheads and fingers on buttons, well not in the way we used to, certainly.  Todays threats have a different twist. We'd booked flights to the States two days before the Twin Towers.  Friends suggested we should cancel.  Certainly not.  Out of the question.  Didn't fancy giving into that stuff really: we flew.  I certainly don't lose sleep because rightly or wrongly, I'm not scared right now of the Big Bang.

However...I do keep being asked if I'm going to the Pampered Chef Annual Conference.  A huge room packed with hundreds of excitable women armed to the teeth with well-thumbed copies of 50 Shades of Grey and unlimited cases of Pinot  Grigio.

That's a different story.  That's why I'm writing this under the kitchen table.  Move over Tiddles.


BTW  If you like what you read, feel free to repost on facebook, twitter, whatever takes your fancy.  In fact I'd like it if you did.  And PLEASE join the page - on the right hand side, it is a bit of a faff, but there we are.  You can always contact me at mikegetscooking on FB or twitter or at mikegetscooking@gmail.com.  Thanks.

Mangoes? You can't be serious?

The Pampered Chef Mango Wedge.  Great when you can get mangos.

Mangos. Seen one recently?

 

Do you know what, I couldn't buy a mango last week.

I had change in my pocket earmarked for a couple of them.  But there wasn't one single mango in my town to buy. Not one. Well, actually that's not quite true.  There was one, in a traditional grocers, but it had clearly been a mango for quite a long time and had long since dispensed with the need for keeping up appearances.  It had let itself go rather.  Even the lady in the shop didn't bother to hide her dismay; she didn't even really try to sell it to me.


'Yes...it's a bit past it, isn't..?' she said in a faltering voice.  But she still put it back on the rack, mind you.

Now I appreciate for many reading this, the situation sounds highly unlikely.  You've already gone back and re-read the first bit.

'Did he say there were none - in his town..!?' 

Well, yes I did.  I checked the supermarkets and the two available grocers.  You see, I live in a small, rural market town.  Even a few miles down the road the mango choice would no doubt have been extensive.  I could have browsed on at a leisurely pace through a selection, tweaking as I went to check for flabby bits or round firm buttock-y type portions.


And this search was first thing, about 8am to avoid any rush on exotic items.  But it was interesting to note the reaction of those I asked.  I had to ask in the shops - something we don't normally do these days - because time was of the essence and I needed to get to the point.

Having received a few startled jumps from the early supermarket gang, unsettled by demands for information on the whereabouts of fruits native to the Indian subcontinet, I dashed instead to the grocers.  The first encounter is detailed above and the second and final was even more brief.  I didn't even really make it through the doors properly. A quick dash passed the Jersey Royals and a chap, still putting out the morning displays, came up to me with armfuls of strawberry punnets.

'Morning!'  Cheery so far, in a grocer kind of way. 'Looking for anything in particular Sir..?'
'Well...mangoes actually, I don't suppose you..?

He shot me a glance that hovered between disbelief and outrage.

Strawberry punnets

'Mangoes?! No, definitely not!' Then, short pause...'Sorry about that' after he'd regained his composure. The look on his face suggested he was far too busy with a potential early strawberry rush to spend time on whimsical requests, I was clearly getting ideas above my station and should really downsize my ambitions. Or maybe he knew that mango peel and sap contain urushiol, the chemical  in poison ivy and I was obviously planning some kind of civil disobedience.

Don't get me wrong, I love living in a small community, I'm not an urban creature. But there are times when it would be great to be somewhere where you could buy more than one sort of rice.  And don't get me started on  polenta.  That can never be an impulse buy, involving a 50 mile round trip; no I'm not joking.

So mango and chilli salsa is on hold until I venture onwards.  I would like to sample the PChef Mango Wedger with its dishwasher safe ergonomic handles and protective storage cover, but...geography will clearly play its part.

There are 35,000,000 tonnes grown worldwide, and the only mango I could get couldn't manage The Last Waltz, never mind a Salsa.
 

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Why have boys taken command of the kitchen?

TV is awash with blokes cooking.  We know that. 

It's possible to watch a man cooking most nights on terrestrial TV and certainly every night on satellite.  And it's likely that the outcome is the huge increase in the numbers of boys cooking at school and choosing food technology, over others, in options.

Equally is that also the reason why so many girls actively don't choose food technology now?  Or is there a more subtle answer to all this?   I've been speaking to food technology teacher, Anne Gamble...

(Press the orange arrow to hear the audio...)

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• If anything occurs to you or you have a point to make, please make a comment about what you've just heard. It's your page too.  Also please join the page - you can do that down the right hand side, or like my facebook page at mikegetscooking  (a work in progress).

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.

Sheeps bits, samosas and a helicopter

 

 

Haggis samosas?  Haggis?

 

I think I'd be happy to try that.  Just been watching the excellant Hairy Bikers and a Mum Knows Best repeat. I like haggis and I like samosas so it's a done deal. Not that I've enjoyed haggis for a while.  When one of my sons was into rugby, the club organised an annual fundraiser Burns Night.  Very few on our table actually enjoyed the haggis or the tot of whisky to pour onto it.  And yet they went year after year. Meanwhile as a significant fan of both those items, I would leave the Ball roughly the same shape/dimensions of a haggis, wobbling due to  having consumed vast amounts of sheeps bits and whisky.  Whether it was the alarming shift in my centre of gravity due to bloated stomach or the alcohol, I can't be certain.

Thinking back to why so many of my fellow diners shunned the menu, I suppose there's a clue in the ingredients: sheep's pluck (heart, liver and lungs to you and me) with more mainstream onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, all plopped into a sheeps stomach and boiled until it's given up the fight.  It's widely believed that it's of Scottish origin but there are records of a dish answering to a vague description in Lancashire in 1430. Let's not get involved, there's heritage at  stake here.

Pigs trotters with a hoof

 

As a kid,  I waded through more than my fair share of pigs trotters and tripe.  I couldn't tell you the last time I saw either to buy. Butchers where I live opt for safe cuts they know will sell to what appears to be a squeamish market that's lost contact with food and where it comes from.  And who can blame them?  They have to make a living selling what will sell.  It's our fault, not theirs.

So imagine my surprise when I visited Birmingham some months back at the vast array of meaty bits in the covered market.  It was hard to keep my jaw from dropping.  The star of the show for me was the stall selling piles of hooves. I'm going to presume from a cow.  This is way off my radar.  I have no idea how to cook or what you do with a hoof.  Now Birmingham is about as multicultural as you could find in the UK and that would account for my ignorance, I suspect, living as I do in a small rural market town. I mean, they were sold by a butcher so eating must be the end result...yes?

Apart from eating the unusual (well, unusual by today's standards) there is also the question of eating in unusual places.

Roast dinner followed by a roast dinner 

 

I have eaten on a gas rig in the North Sea.  That was quite some experience.  You have to get there by helicopter obviously which marks it down as unusual before you do anything else.  Inside the canteen, ignoring the fact that you are miles from anywhere and lashed by waves the size of houses, the sheer scale of the eating was legendary.  It may have changed in the years since, but it was roast followed by a roast, with roast to follow.  Seriously, vast helpings and damned tasty.

I also ate a somewhat nervy lunch with members of our armed forces in Northern Ireland during one of my previous careers. You don't forget grabbing what you can with a bunch of  anxious young men in a hurry.

But as I write this, something unusual has happened.  I look up from my laptop through the window and I see the dwindling remnants of sunshine.  We've not had much of that.  And that reminds me...

Some years ago I ran a short live radio project with a couple of colleagues and a shed load of 11 to 18s.  It was hot all week. Really hot. We had an idea.  Can you really fry an egg on a path?  Or a car bonnet? It would make a great feature.

The car thing fell on deaf ears.  The usual kind of response was; "Are you havin' a laugh?  I've just had the damned thing Turtle waxed and you want to practice your Full English?  Jog on Monkey Boy."

So we tried the path. Let me tell you, eggs don't fry on hot paths. They sort of set. Ish. And they take some scraping off later.  I guess they might somewhere, majorly hot, but not our kind of hot. Shell-shocked, I was.  Eggsactly. Oh dear.

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Horns, flags and in the pink. Just another Pampered Chef 'Conference.' See you there..?

Feather boa time 

 

I wonder how I'd look with a pink feather boa?
Interesting thought. I can say right here, right now that not one single feather of any colour or dimension resides in my wardrobe.  That's just in case you were wondering.

Now, I wouldn't blame you for thinking that this is a random train of thought.  You know, what's suddenly make him think of feathery adornments?

Conference. It's not even called 'The' Conference.  Just Conference.  The Pampered Cheffers know all about this and there's a certain tang, a certain zip in the PChef Facebook Action at the moment because they're getting their loins girded in readiness.  I'd like to give more details and a cheeky insight into what happens at an event so eargerly anticipated.  It must be a pretty confident gig if it can ditch the 'The' willy nilly. But I can't because I've never been there. I've heard tales, obviously, but I have no first hand knowledge.

I've seen the pics from previous years and grass skirts seemed to feature heavily. I can sense you're getting a bit lost here, so I'll go back a bit.  Pampered Chef is a direct selling company - one of the most successful in fact; long established in the US, not so long here in the UK where I sit. And in common with such organisations, the selling part is essentially done by those that sign up across the country.  The vast majority are part time and fit it around existing lives, some are occasional, some are full time. And again in common with industry practice there are incentives - a fair steady stream of free products to those that sell - independent consultants - just for selling.


On top of that there are holidays and so on.  The gang are not long back from a few days in Dubai and rather good it was too, I'm told.  The next biggie is a cruise, free to those that sell enough, and that will be a a significant amount of people, let me tell you.  Tempting to think the free stuff tumbles to a select few: not so.

Anyway, now we're getting to the point, although I've something else to tell you about the Dubai trip in a bit. Very saucy. Again in line with everyone else there are conferences where the company plus consultants of various levels all get together, in this case Birmingham. It's in July. There are meetings, workshops on a range of activities including, this time social media, and so on.  Naturally, there's a knees up or two. The pics from last years knees-up suggests it was a Hawiian-inspired event that looked like one of those Elvis films from the 60s.

Getting in a Flapper

 

The main theme this year, if I remember right, is Flappers or Gangsters.  I don't know, however, if this is compulsory garb.  I do know that PChef HQ asked those attending Conference to wear something pink.  This is all in line with with Cancer charity work that PChef does which raises thousands every year.  And all credit to those involved. Next Sunday I will be there supporting my wife and her friends taking part in Run for Life which they have done for several years. We should never lose sight of how important such combined efforts are.

I can do pink. I own a few pink shirts so that's not a problem. My wife has bought me pink shirts previously. Pink is good.

However, I've already been offered (through snorts and chuckles by PC ladies) the loan of a grass skirts, coconut shells etc etc. as they recall previous years.  I've yet to be offered Flapper attire but feather boas have been mentioned. Now, I don't want to seem ungrateful, but...

Hundreds of women, the core of such direct selling, will descend on Birmingham from across Britain. Plus a few blokes. A few blokes. Is the thought of a boa, constricting the number of chaps coming forward, I wonder, not just to conference but the whole picture? I've been thinking of that of late.

Anyway. Will I be there? Don't know. I have several names on my dance card apparently, so that can't be bad.  It will be energising and just damned good fun for those there. As one PCheffer put it to me, 'I went with a hobby and came back with a business.'  And let's not lose sight of how significant that is in such times of reduced incomes.  The chance to add to, supplement, change to a more fulfilling role can't be ignored.

It's just that I'm not sure if  I'm Flapper material. Now, apart from pink, the PCheffers have also been asked to take flags to wave in an Olympics kind of groove and blast one of those vuvuzelas horn jobs that irratate the hell out of football organising committees.  It was car horns last year, apparently.  I've perked up now.  I wish I'd gone last year. A rare excuse to nip to the local scrapyard and rip the horn from an old Sierra. One of my sons has a colossal Cuban flag on his bedroom wall, but I'm guessing that wouldn't hit the right tone.

Oh yes. Before I forget. About the Dubai trip. Well...predominately women again.  And (can't reveal sources, I wasn't there, remember) but, on the plane, by the pool, shopping, one of the main topics of conversation, if not the main topic was...well it involved...how can I put it...ermm..I had no idea women talked about that stuff.

I'll stop now. I'm getting in a flap.

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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.)

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A pampering fit for a Queen. And an inflatable crown.

Pic from Belinda.

Ma'amite on toast for my Jubilee breakfast?  Not for me thanks. 

Notice the witty twist on the Marmite there? The label, presumably for a short run is a union flag with the 'Ma'amite' wording.  I quite like that.  Bit of thought going on.  I like it significantly more than I like the sticky brown stuff in the jar.  Concentrated brewers yeast on toast, originally from the Bass Brewery, has never featured on my 'to-do' list.  And I would not have naturally thought of it as a likely Jubilee commemoration product.  But then I've just read about French champagne sold at Gatwick, I think it was, with a gigantic union flag all over the bottle.

Now steady on here; French champagne wrapped in our flag?  Thin end of the wedge. Jumping on a bandwagon I suspect. Stiffly worded email to the relevant embassy required.

I do wonder what Ma'am (pronounced 'mam' so I'm told) is making of all this stuff that's out there?  Mind you, when your face is all over the stamps I guess you get used to Royal merchandising.

I fancy some fancies, personally. The nations baker, Mr Kipling has a boxed set of eight 'Great British Fancies' in a suitably patriotic box.  They taste of nothing whatsoever, but I love them and I have no idea why.  What a Great British Fancy is exactly, I have no idea on that score either.

So if my Jubilee tea is to be extended beyond cake, then as an Englishman, I have to have a sandwich.  And there are actually recipes out there for classic British/English sandwiches.  Now, I didn't realise I needed instructions.  Something out the fridge between a couple of slices usually covers it.  Anyway, I nicked this from Fortnum and Masons website:

Proper sandwiches for tea should be tiny and crustless, and cut into triangles, squares or fingers.
Cucumber: Very thin-cut brown bread spread with well-peppered cream cheese, very thinly sliced cucumber and crusts removed.
Anchovy Relish: Unsalted butter and Fortnum’s Anchovy Relish sprinkled with chopped chives.
Marmite and watercress sandwiches: Use thin-cut brown bread and roll up like a miniature Turkish carpet.
Colnbrook: Shredded boiled beef, mace, butter and shredded pickled cabbage (sauerkraut).

Mace?  Mace...? In a sandwich?
And that damn Marmite again, and how exactly do you roll a sandwich  to look like a miniture Turkish carpet? What does a miniture Turkish carpet look like?  There's no call for them where I am.

Anyway, the P Cheffers have been busy across the land making gigantic trifles in vast bowls and truly spectacular cakes all decorated with 'The Flag'.  Sales of blueberries must be at near record levels. Meanwhile I've been dragged around the shops again trying to source 'novelties' for the weekend.  We have the required bunting and flagged-up cup cake paper cases.

There was one awkward moment when my wife spotted red white and blue hair extentions in Primark.
"Do you think these will look daft...?"

Naturally, I shot her a quick look for signs of irony, but there were none. Realising there was an outside chance she might be serious, I pretended to get a text and moved off.

Aside from fancies, the weekend winner for me is the £5 inflatable pink crown in a shop I can't remember. At last, a jubilee momento that makes sense.  What's not to like about an inflatable crown? And pink at that.

Got to be better than that damned marmite, ma'am.

Goggle free onion action thanks to Pampered Chef

Fancy a go with my chopper? (blush)

'Oh I'm definitely having one of  them,' she said, 'I can stop wearing goggles.'

Actually, I think from the description, it was more of a snorkel mask, but anyway. Whatever it was, it wasn't a standard kitchen utensil.

Now, you hear of this kind of thing but I never, honestly, thought it was true; resorting to goggles when chopping onions.  It's just at the far end of being plausible. I need to get the tea on, but before I do, where did the kids put the goggles after the Saturday swimming lesson?

Logically you need the Pampered Chef food chopper but anyway...back to the story.

Reeking of swimming baths you twang a pair of hideously tight goggles over your face, carefully adjusted just last week for an eight year old, which now push your eyeballs out alarmingly.  Disorientated, you now look at the world which seems smaller than it did two minutes ago with not absolutely everything in your vision and do the only sensible thing - grab a really sharp knife.  Undeterred by the fact that the only way you can see anything is to lean backwards at an angle, whilst standing as close to the kitchen bench as possible you now start onion chopping.

I mean, did  you really think this through? Half blind and machete-ing your way through root vegetables?

The goggles, perfect for a belly-flopping eight year old, have now significantly reduced blood supply to the side of your face and breathing is at best only available through your now wide open mouth.  Concentration levels are now at such a peak you've not realised that the tip of your index finger is almost certain to be part of the chilli con carne you're preparing because you failed to notice...

a) the pain in said finger
b) small river of blood
c) the fact that you can see less and less to be fair, because you hadn't accounted for the fact that the goggles would steam up in the warm kitchen.

And yet when the husband carries out his vigorous tree pruning outside you bellow at him, because 'he'll have somone's eye out, with that thing.'

Wrenching off the goggles which have left a perfect goggle-shaped outline around your face skin, you're now aware you've been dribbling ever so slightly from your gaping mouth, partly due to the heightened concentration levels. Looking down at your handiwork, you're surprised, not for the first time time, that you haven't got the finely chopped onion all the TV chefs seem to manage.  Instead you've got wierd big chunks because, of course, everything seemed so much smaller through  steamed up lenses.

Science bit:
1. When you cut the onion root it releases an enzyme.
2. That enzyme reacts in the rest of the onion to release a gas.
3. When that gas combines with water, it creates an acid.
4. If that water is in your eye, you have acid in your eye. That makes you cry.

Several ladies asked for further demonstations of my P Chef chopper at my last cooking show.  And of course, it's always incredibly amusing to ask a bloke if they can use his chopper.  It was over an hour into the demonstration, but they got there in the end. 'Oooh - shall we leave you two to it..?'  (Cue sniggering and discreet blush). Excitment over, they bought armfuls of the thing, I'm pleased to say.

It is extraordinarily efficient, even a slippery morsel of smoked salmon destined for a tartlet gave way to my chopper action (you see, you've got me started now - I'm half expecting Sid James to appear - Carry on Pampering.)

Nuts, mushrooms, cooked meats all succumb to the blades and the dishwasher does the rest.

And the woman featured at the start of this tale can now look forward to less hazzardous veg preparation and less facial disfigurement.



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Pampered Chef stoneware saves your fish fingers from unsightly floppiness.

Is there anything more disappointing than a limp fish finger.

Sad, floppy and minus most of its Cap'n Birdseye crumb coating, or Tesco, or ASDA, Aldi or wherever your reshaped and crumbed finger has come from.  Example: fish fingers on a metal tray. Turn after half through the cooking time and watch the underside coating stay exactly where it was, as a now semi-naked fish finger flops over. Heartbreaking.  No, seriously. Admittedly if the fingers are in a sandwich then who's to know the coating content, but you know; there are issues here.

The ice crystals from said finger, melt, form tiny puddles and leave the sodden findger just too heavy on its fragile underbelly. Flip, rip and disappointment.  If only there was an answer, if only they could be cooked on something that took care of the frozen bit.

Over the horizon like helicopters in Apocalypse Now looms...stoneware.  They shun cleansing, refuse to let anything stick to them and can handle almost anything you care to throw at them.  Weapons of Mass Cooking.

A round stone in my house, for example has been used for pizza, potatoes, bacon, sausage, pies, so on and etc. And nothing, absolutely nothing has stuck to it. The only alarming point is the marked colour change of the stone. When you take it out of the box, it has the flawless complexion of Gwyneth  Paltrow.  Mine is now more like Charles Bronson.  I have no idea why but I think of a flattened turtle shell when I look at it.  

Now, I am a strictly low maintenance washer upper. I don't do it if at all possible, is what I'm saying. It was the tradition where I came from and maybe you too - female cooks food, male immerses everything in vast quantities of suds, scrubs violently, leaves slippery pools of water everywhere, mostly on the kitchen floor as a sud-dy mess drips off the draining board, male sleeps noisely in chair, female goes back to kitchen, wipes up mess, making mental note to give male a piece of her mind later, then washes the pots herself, properly this time, returns to male and 'accidently' kicks him on the way to sitting down. Just another Sunday.

Thank the Lord for dishwashers.  If ever there was a piece of kit that I w ould rather not do without it's the dishwasher. Except emptying it, obviously, I'd rather not do that. Pampered  Chef stoneware positively dislikes suds and all things detergent.  In fact, it will have nothing to do with the stuff. No suds, bubbles or anything of the sort.  After a good workout in the oven all it requires is a light shower.  A soak if the sausage fat is particularly diagreeable, but more than often a splash or two of hot water is all it asks for. If it was a human it would probably be a bloke: minimum personal hygiene, in and out of the shower, no shampoo.

I just can't get enough of the stuff.  To prove a point I cracked an egg onto my round stone and baked it in the oven with some other bits.  You rarely if ever need any oil of any sort. Yet even that lost its grip and slid onto a plate. Horrible to eat, naturally, it was like a plastic something you might have bought from a joke shop, but the point was made.

Bin the tin, kids. Stoneware, my friends.  It's the future.

Lamb and feta meatballs with warm chickpea salad

I do happen to be a fairly serious fan of the humble meatball.  

Just for a change, here's a Pampered Chef- Greek-style version - lamb and feta meatballs witha warm chickpea salad and yogurt with pita bread.  Click on the small arrow on the soundcloud box and have a listen to how it all went...remember you can always make a comment or join the page or join me at http://www.facebook.com/mikegetscooking

Mini apple and blackberry crumbles

A quick peek around the kitchen suggested a couple of mini apple and blackberry crumbles might be in order. No shopping, it's the kind of stuff that's already sitting there. So this is what I did ...

Coffee, white no sugar. Is it too much to ask, Casper?

All I want is a coffee.  Just a cup of coffee.  White, no sugar thanks.

It's amazing how difficult that is to get these days. Whatever happened to the white and no sugar please? Sadly, it's no longer fashionable, that what's happened to it.  Because if there is such a drink in the high street coffee house or department store cafe, it's been forced to have a name change. In some cases the end result has had a good Gok Wok-ing and been turned into something else, but the same. Plain is dull, plain is uncool, plain is...well, plain. Sandwiches are paninis. The white sliced is now ciabatta or rosetta, maggiolino and tartaruga.  Boys can't be called Colin anymore, it's Casper, girls are Mozarella or something or other.

Somewhat parched and mildy delirious after a lengthy shopping bout with my wife I ventured into a well- known high street coffee establishment.  Now that alone is a major shift in English culture that we seem to have quietly accepted, and I have no complaint there, as such.

"Just a coffee please...ordinary coffee..."
"Latte?"
"Just a coffee, thanks"
"Espresso Macchiato?"
" Ermmm...?"
"Iced Caffe Americano"
" Just a...."
" Lattecino, Moccaccino, Mokka..."
"...white, no su..."
" Breve, Espresso Romano, Espresso Ristretto, CaffÈ Freddo..."
" Look, all I want is a normal black coffee I can put some milk in and no s...."
" Espresso Con Panna, Cafecito, frappa thingy, wotta-chino, flappa wappa, giddy up a ding dong?"

(Pause)

"Can I have a cup of tea..?"
"Fair trade..?"

I left, still thirsty, sans caffeine and in a thoroughly unpleasant mood which was severely cranked further when my wife said, " Never mind....I just want to to pop into Clarks to see if they've got any shoes for work." 

Pop?  Pop? Name me a woman who has ever popped for shoes.

Next time, I'm taking a flask.

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(PPS... Yes, the above does sound a little far fetched but honestly, it did happen, in Lincoln, even down to the shoes...ask my wife.  Particularly the shoes bit. Don't get me started.)

At last. A can-do attitude from a can opener. Sounds corny to me.

Corned beef sandwich anyone..?  One slice or two.

I've just had a full on row with a can opener. I gave it a piece of my mind I can tell you.

I asked it to do a simple job, a job that fully fits its job description. I asked it to open a can, a job it carried out with a rather sulky attitude for my liking.  It all started with a tin of corned beef, the contents of which were destined to be sandwiches.  Now it wasn't until I took the tin from the fridge that I realised the famous corned beef tin key was missing. Which begs the first question; why are corned beef tins such a damned silly shape, all squarish and tapered.

Views differ.  Some say because the meat is easier to slice like that, others say it goes back to World War One and the tins were easy to store and carry in a soldiers bag, the key being his handy means of getting at the meat. Well I hope they appreciated the concept is all I can say because opening a squarish tin with a sulking can opener is a lengthy  and near fatal occupation.  The opener pierced the tin and frankly gave up after that. Opening the can round the rounded corners was laughable.  The result after 20 minutes or so of hacking was a mass of jagged metalwork, and a temper.   I gave up in the end and - to cut the story short -  I realised late in the day that I could wrap a tiny screwdriver around the little metal tab that was left where the key should have been and managed, somehow, to turn it.  In effect, the screwdriver became the key and the contents are now sandwiches.

It's not the first time this can opener has let me down. More than once my kitchen has looked like a scene in Casualty or Holby City as jagged tin lids, half cut and half punched have sliced through  various bits of me.  Frankly, the novelty has worn off.

If you are tired of including sticking plasters as part of your essential kitchenware then standby for a solution.  Not that long ago I witnessed a can being opened with one of these. Extraordinary. Your jaw will drop. It's like watching a Penn and Teller magic trick in your own home.  A can opener that not only opens cans but cuts in such a way that the now severed can lid is smooth. You can pick the circular lid up, run your finger around the edge and all your fingers plus skin will remain intact.

They should be available on the NHS; they'd save the NHS billions a year in A and E finger fixing. And, just to show what a show off it is, both left and right handed types can use one.  Clever clogs.

Might sound corny to you but there's plenty to beef about.  (Those are page 23 and 19 of the cliche book respectively.)