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. 

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.

Curry please, make sure it's slim line.

 

This is a tricky one and I'm not sure what I think.  This is what set me off...

'You've used the wrong milk again...how many more times.  It's not my milk!'

My wife is now giving me that look that suggests I will pay a heavy price for this latest lapse in concentration at a time and date to suit her. If you lived in my house, you'd hear that quite a bit.  Sometimes I forget, sometimes - I have to admit - I can't be faffed with swapping endless different sorts of milk about.


I was making two mugs of hot chocolate and 'accidently' used semi skimmed milk in both, instead of one with skimmed milk.  Skimmed is the fluid of choice for my wife. I should make the effort particularly as I am getting seriously fed up with others foisting their food and drink notions on me.

We both used to drink full fat.  I can't remember when we shifted sideways, likewise I can't remember when we both dropped sugar.  To go off track slightly, I used to work for a major organisation that sent a 'nurse' around occasionally for workplace healthcare. Now a colleague of mine, true to his agricultural roots, ate vast quantities of fatty bits washed down with Jersey milk.  I haven't seen Jersey milk for years; not sure if you can still buy it.  It's so fatty it almost stands up by itself.

Anyway, the nurse did all the relevant checks during one of her workplace visits and the test results seemed to suggest my colleague had been dead for several years, it's just that no-one had bothered to tell him. He was off the scale; such was the effect of the milk and all round meaty consumption.  Except of course he was very much alive, in pretty sound health generally and was a little surprised to find out he was dead.

Suffice to say, he didn't change his diet, and is still on his toes.

Fish and chips anyone?

Now, I do try to watch what I consume.  I'm not a great fast-food fan, except fish and chips.  The whole burger thing leaves me apathetic. I do need to lose weight though, but that's more to do with not getting off my backside enough.  I don't drink much alcohol really and I don't smoke: never have done, never tried it in fact, so I've no idea what that's like.  It's my choice.  I like choice.  I choose to like choice.

So I'm starting to get just a tad frustrated by the increasing levels of 'skinny' and 'lite' in the choice put before me. No, not just before me, almost thrust upon me. Before we go further, when did skinny become a gastronomic option? I can't remember.  Skinny. Odd.  If I called someone skinny they'd probably be less than pleased.  Slim, yes, not skinny.  And yet if I want a coffee that isn't skinny I'm looked upon like a social misfit.  Yes I know I'm getting paranoid and a bit silly, but I almost feel like I need to apologise in advance when I place an order.

"Can I have the chicken please...and I'd like the skin left on"
"Left on..?
"And a coffee.."
" Skinny..?"
"Just semi-skimmed, please..."
"So...you'd like skin, but not skinny?"

And off she goes to tell her workmates to treat the bloke on table seven with extreme caution as he's clearly unstable.

It's a tricky one.  We should eat responsibly.  We eat too much fat.  I eat too much fat.  I know I do.  I like cake and chocolate and biscuits.  I like to be able to choose a fatty or a non fatty version: example, I prefer low-fat yoghurt.  I like the choice, I just don't like the feeling that I'm wrong to like a battered sausage once every six months.  But maybe I should?  Maybe I'm the one that's wrong. Maybe choice should not be a choice after all.  Food education is a serious matter not to be trivialised as so many people gain dangerous weight levels.  What we do that will make a major impact, I have no idea. I'm not sure guilt is a great option though as it prompts me to eat another biscuit to take the guilty feelings away.  I do think we haven't seriously tackled the issues of high fat foods sold cheaply or marketing to children.  It all feels a bit token.

Fried?..not fried?

I saw this recipe on the facebook thingy for 'lite' fried chicken.  (I can't tell you how much I loathe the non-word 'lite'...anyway.)  The reason why the 'lite' fried chicken was 'lite' was because it wasn't fried.  So what exactly is the point of calling the damn thing fried?  It was oven baked.  But because we all secretly like fatty fried chicken, we have to call a non-fried chicken fried so we can say we haven't actually eaten fried, fried chicken.   If I want oven baked chicken, let me choose that or let me choose a fried version:  why call something what it isn't? We can't seem to make our minds up with messages mixed all over.

I was in a well-known national pub chain pub last night for a meal after a very long day left me too tired to cook.  Browsing through the range of menus before me I glanced at the drinks and saw - skinny singles.  What?  Example: Vodka and a low carb Monster.  I think after grazing through steak, chips, a fried egg and onion rings, a low carb Monster isn't really going to scratch the surface. However, at least I have the option, and we would criticise them if they didn't make an effort.

This reminds me: a while back we went for an Indian meal in a restaurant after which my wife asked for a gin and tonic, but make sure it's a slim line.  That's after a months supply of curry calories in one sitting. I did raise the issue but...

I suppose there are two main threads to all this. Firstly, I am a grown up, I am incredibly fortunate to live in a country at a time in history when I can choose what I want to eat within reason, so please let me choose.  And please continue giving me that sensible option. Just don't make me feel guilty, it will backfire.  And why do we now pretend to eat what we are not eating? I don't understand and I'm not sure the pretend part is helping with food education.  There is a third thread which is about what manufacturers put in our food to make it low or non fat and yet taste 'fatty' and 'creamy'.  But that's for another day.

Guess what I had to eat today?  A chicken dinner and chocolate fudge cake to follow.  Oh dear. I'll be eating deep fried Mars Bars next and that'll really give me something to feel guilty about.

I'm going to quite open here; I'm not sure what I really think or perhaps more accurately, should think. Maybe we are all so disconnected from food and its production that we need protecting from ourselves. Skinny or not so skinny.  That is the question.

• 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.

Look who's thinking of joining. Is that ...? No, surely not.

 Click on the picture to find out more

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.)

• 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.

Lasagne Wars. Pampered Chef to the rescue, Arnie.

We're gonna teach this lasagne a lesson or two

You wouldn't have thought lasagne trimming would be up there in the league of kitchen challenges. Just goes to show I know nothing.

A not very exciting rectangle of flat pasta.  That's it really, what else do you need to know? Well it's the perfect vehicle for minced beef and a cheese sauce and at that stage in its lifecycle it becomes a damn fine thing to eat.

I like making the finished lasagne and I like eating it ever so slightly more.  But there are issues.  The trays I cook it in are not the same size, whatever the plan, of the pasta sheet.  Which ever tray/dish I use, neither will take the sheets as they are; there are overlaps, gaps and what ever.  Now you'd think the pasta makers and the dish makers would get their heads together and draw up a detailed list of specifications and get some synergy into this.  I could then take out the sheets from the box and lay them like little duvet covers on a bed of beefy yum-ness.  Perhaps I'm over ambitious in this regard.

But at least I'm not the only one with issues. At the moment I just tend to snap off the corners with finger and thumb and make do. Other snapped bits that didn't snap well, fill in the gaps so there's a great deal of bodge and compromise.  But others have more given this more thought than I.

There's been much chatter of late on Her Majesty's facebook about trimming techniques.
My chum Kirsty is no namby-pamby when it comes to dealing with pasta.  Oh no.  This woman gets out the shears.  I've said before about my admiration for shears when it comes to taking out branches and stubborn undergrowth, but pasta?  I need to be careful in my critique here because any woman that resorts to shears for egg-based semolina concoctions isn't going to take nonsense from a dozy half wit bloke like me.

As a side issue, during a mad supermarket dash recently with seconds to spare, all I could see were the not really value, value sheets even below the level of value range.  They clearly had no intention of cooking even after far longer than normal in the oven. I might as well have used roof tiles.  Horrendous.  Anyway...

So...just when I thought we'd reached a level, it turns out others, like Marianne favour the Pampered Chef Japanese-inspired  Santoku knife.  This is one mean piece of (quote) '...finely crafted fully forged, high-carbon German steel for a perfect edge and sharpness, stain and corrosion resistance, and superior strength and durability.'  It also has a lifetime guarantee and a full tang. In case tangs are a new thing for you, it apparently refers to the blade going into the handle.  Hence a full tang means the blade goes right down the length of the handle, aiding balance, strength etc.

I doubt if the original lasagne makers - which were almost certainly Greek and not Italian as we might think (the main theory is that lasagne comes from Greek λάγανον (laganon), a flat sheet of pasta dough cut into strips) would have ever thought such Nato-style weaponry would be required.

Marianne quote: 'Hold the lasagne sheet at a slight angle on the choppingboard, then 'slam' your big santoku at the place where you want it cut.... it snaps in 2 pieces (well most of the time!)'

It's like reading the script from  Arnie's  'Terminator 3: Pasta, The Revenge.'  Warning, contains scenes of extreme violence and appalling language. 'Hasta la Pasta Baby...'

I'm going to look at lasagne preparation in a totally new light now.  Anyway, I'm just going to settle down  and peel an apple for lunch. I'm going to give it a go with my hedgetrimmers.

Men are useless with dishwashers - official.

Why are men so  totally and utterly useless at using the dishwasher?

I mean, what could be simpler?  You put the stuff in the machine and it washes it. As long as they don't put bits of double gusset angle throcket from the motorbike or the dog in there for a quick rinse, what's to argue about using the thing?

This rose its head again after I suggested in the last post, about the floppy fish finger, that I couldn't manage without a dishwasher under any circumstances.  Two points hadn't crossed my mind.  I didn't realise that dishwasher misuse was such an open sore in the female community and that I wasn't the only one who was told off on a daily basis for my crass ignornace of dishwasher protocol.

After the last post I had several 'Oh God my husband is such a ....' etc and so on.  I'll spare you the detail but fill in the gaps yourself.  To be honest I found it quite liberating on a personal level.  So I'm not the only total...... after all!

Two areas of confrontation.   Why do men think it is actually OK to only empty only half the dishwasher at a time and the direction of cutlery in the cutlery tray.

Typical rebuke in my kitchen is as follows.

"Why have you put the knives pointing down and the forks pointing down again. AGAIN! I mean how many more times!"

"Because the pointy bits are facing down and I won't stab myself."

"But they don't clean properly that way!"

"How does the direction of a stabby bit affect the cleaning of..."

"You just do, that's all!  And you don't put bowls facing that way and how do you expect that to clean when it's balanced on that, I mean...."

(Sigh...wife takes most of dishwasher content out and restacks muttering severely, you won't hear the last of this. Fast forward to later in day)

To precis this, I've just emptied the bottom half of the dishwasher, the big stuff, because we're going out in five minutes, top stuff remains.  Dishwasher spot check.

"Why have you only done half the dishwasher?"

"Because we're going to be late and at least I've got some done", I whine pathetically waiting for the gale force response.

" I can't leave the kitchen in this state...."

"But they're in the dishwasher, the door's closed..." Voice trails away knowing the argument is at best lame and unconvincing.

But at least, I'm not the only one.  I feel so much better now.

I'd go back to rubber gloves but we'd never agree on the colour.  Pink?  Pink?!

-------------

PS Nothing to do with anything on here.  This is a personal message from me, sorry to interrupt but I was just wondering if any dear reader knew of a roomshare in  London/south of England.  Middle son seriously desperate and needs a lucky break. New job, no room. Sods Law. Short term even a floor crash so he can look for a room. I thank you.

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.

(PS...please feel free to leave a comment or join the site)

(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.)