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



Picture credit: agnethannifrid.blogspot.co.uk



Gimme, gimme, gimme a plan after midnight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicken Tikka, la, la, la, laaaa.



Chicken Tikka, Chiquitita



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

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

I think we're getting somewhere.

Cava, vodka.  Bound to be messy.

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

Roll mops.  Swedish enough for you?

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

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

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

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

Venus and Mars. Ahh , haaaa!

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

More male pampered chef surprises. Oh Hilary!

Just click on the pic to hear the latest revelation.

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

 Click on the picture to find out more

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).

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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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.