Milk & Manolos

I love finding quirky gifts to send people. Having spent many a year sending carefully chosen booty bags to the rich and famous I’m always quick to note a must have address for the Black Book.

Biscuiteers is one of these addresses. Lovingly handed to me by a fellow gift giver this is already my new favourite. Who wouldn’t love a small pile of beautifully iced biscuits arriving on their door step ?

Prices range from a very affordable £ 8 through to about £ 37 so there’s something here to fit every budget. I considered for a moment sending The Husband the beautifully hand decorated tin of ladies underwear. After much deliberation I decided against it. It was because of those biscuits that he wasn’t getting the real deal. He’d have to enjoy the ‘Love’ cookies instead …

This morning the Husband announced “we’re not doing anything for Valentine’s, right ?”. This suits me fine. Perhaps a delicious meal out, but that’s as far as it goes. No nasty surprises to worry about.

Clearly I’ve been scarred by one James Brown (not THE James Brown I hasten to add, that would just be wrong) and the Valentine celebrations of 1992, when I received my first letter from ‘Bacchus‘. With much hilarity, and a little bit of intrigue I was on a mission to uncover this man of mystery. Within 3 minutes flat it was all over the school. Just who was Bacchus we wanted to know ? The letters continued for the next 4 weeks as I grew more and more wary. The line between Valentine and Stalker becoming hair thin.

Notes were exchanged via library books but still I had no clue. Amazingly romantic on one hand though slightly terrifying on another. “This dude’s watching you” I was told on a regular basis, “doesn’t that freak you out ?”. It hadn’t done, but thanks a lot, you’ve given me something to think about.

It wasn’t until 6 weeks later, that at the first of many 18th Birthday Parties I decided to take a break from getting down with Mr. Wendell, crack open my pack of ten Marlboros and slip delicately at my Malibu and diet coke (I know, it turns my stomach too, but I was only 17). There suddenly behind me I heard a voice utter definantly “I am Bacchus“. All we needed then and there was Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas to make it a true Hollywood moment.

Nearly chocking on my Marlboro the world went into slo-mo. In the 0.1 seconds it took me to turn around, a million thoughts crashed through my mind.

And there was James Brown, the guy who sat at the back of my history class never uttering a word, sporting the bowliest of bowl haircuts and skin that could have done with a chemical peel.

I let him down gently of course. We’d shared something quite amazing - a romance that never was and he’d found himself a little place in my heart for the sheer derring do he’d displayed. From that day on we always shared a secret smile, or wink and because of him Valentine’s will never be the same.

Fast forward to 2008, and here I am with Mr Wonderful, the Husband, the pair of us mutually agreeing to bypass Valentines and couldn’t be happier. That said, I’m toying with indulging his love of chocolate with a little treat from L’Artisan du Chocolat. Not entirely alturistic I confess. Of course I’d snuffle truffle my way through a few too …

Today is pancake day, and come 6 pm I shall be flipping them like a pro. She said confidentially. More likely than not I shall be burning my fingers and creating a mess, subsequently encouraging the Husband get in on the act while I enjoy a glass of fine wine and nurse my war wounds.

Being the child of lapsed Catholics it’s been a family tradition to buy into the most fun aspects of the religion while having Ma and Pa carefully toss aside the less enjoyable aspects of the religion.

So, here’s my killer pancake mix.  The larder is full of maple syrup, and the freezer our favourite vanilla and toffee ice-cream.  The Husband has his squeezy lemon and Munchkin is ready to throw some raspberry jam around.

100g Plain Flour
250ml Milk
1 Egg (Medium)
Pinch of Salt                                          

Oil for frying(should make about 8)  

1. Sieve the flour into a bowl, creating a well in the middle.  Add your egg.
2. Begin to mix, gradually adding your milk.  If bubbles appear you’re doing it right. Once all the milk is added, for ease of cooking transfer to a jug. Pouring is far easier than ladling it in. 
3. Add a little oil to your pan, and heat until it just starts to smoke.
4. Add about 30 ml (or two table spoons worth) of mixture and spread it evenly across the bottom of the pan. As it starts to brown, get ready to flip.  Plastic pallet spoon at the ready.
5. Brown second side.
 
Serve immediately.   

Back in the early eighties Saturday nights were punctuated by my Mother’s famous Spag Bol. That and Juliet Bravo. A combination that today I am still unable to forget.

I was never able to master the art of a good Italian ragu, the way Mama cooked it, despite being shown quite frequently under duress and normally in a sticky Home Economics’ classroom in deepest darkest South London.

That was until the Summer of 1996 when one of my best friends invited me to spend a couple of weeks with her Italian Father and Aunt and in a quintessential Italian village. There, with my pidgin Italian, I learnt the essence of cooking and a true Italian Bolognese.

Bolognese Sauce

1 Onion
2 Cloves of Garlic
400g Mince Meat
900g Passata
190g Sun-dried Tomato Paste
1/3 Bottle of Red Wine
1/2 Tablespoon of Oregano (dried)
Half a dozen fresh Basil leaves, torn into small pieces
1 Beef Oxo Cube
1 Star Anaise
Salt and Pepper to taste

Dice your onion and sweat it off in a tablespoon of olive oil. Once soft add your crushed garlic and cook just long enough for it to amalgamate. Add your mince and stock cube and cook on a medium heat until the meat colours and separates. You’re now ready to add your passata, sundried tomato paste, red wine, oregano, basil and star anaise. Don’t feel anxious that at this point it’s quite watery. The key to this sauce is it’s reduction.

Turn your heat down low, and leave uncovered, checking every quarter of an hour or so and giving a it a good stir. The longer you can leave it to reduce, the better the result, I leave mine simmering for a good hour and a half. Keep a close eye on the consistency, adding more liquid, either water or wine (I favour the latter), until you have a consistency you like.

Unsurprisingly, I serve mine with spaghetti, freezing Munchkin size portions for the winter ahead. It’s also great in an a lasagne and can be easily adapted for a killer chilli con carne (loose the basil and star anaise and add kidney beans, Worcester Sauce and chilli to taste).

I’m planning on keep my feet nutritionally on the ground this festive season, having recently discovered the delights on Wheatgrass on a recent trip to Borough Market.

I fully admit that I can be a culinary slut. Despite knowing it’s so wrong, my head is easily turned by a juicy looking burger (rare please) and all manner of breaded delights. At the opposite end of the scale I’m a killer soup maker, and can take or leave chocolate, so I’m hoping that things even out in the dietary karma stakes.

My latest weapon in the effort to keep my slutty ways is a tiny shot of pea green liquid, peppery in taste and full of goodness. I am quite possibly late at coming to the Wheatgrass table, but now that I’m here I ain’t going anywhere.

The virtues of our green friend are endless. My favourite stat is that 30 mls of wheatgrass juice is the equivalent of 1 kg of leafy green vegetables. Secondly it has more vitamin C, kilo for kilo, than oranges and more vitamin A than carrots.

Helping to stimulate your body’s production of red blood cells, it can also help with normalise blood pressure and increase the amount of oxygen in the blood, making it a natural antioxidant.

Fabulously there are also claims that it also holds anti-ageing properties and can help make hair not only but thicker but shinier too.

Taken in either sachet form, or freshly juiced, for those not lucky enough to have a store specialising in juicing close at hand I’ve found Juiceland to be wonderful supplier.

At this rate, with luck on my side and a good north wind blowing, I might just survive this years festivities. Go on then, I’ll have another glass …

Afternoon tea is the new champagne and oysters.

I must admit I am most partial to a good cupcake, so you can only imagine my excitement at their return to their rightful place in a balanced diet - it can’t all be pumpkin seeds and green tea.

On a recent weekend trip to celebrate my Dorset dwelling friend’s birthday, I discovered the joys of Cakeadoodledoo. Sadly on this occassion I wasn’t the temptress that ordered a dozen scrumptious treats to arrive in time for elevenses, but I sure as hell took note and enjoyed them. At just £ 1 a cake (minimum order is 9) they’re a really affordable present. Of course my love of all things delivered is utterly served by Cakeadoodledo, but I honestly can’t think of anything nicer than a bunch of beautifully iced cakes arriving at someone’s door.

Of course they don’t have to mark a birthday, so any old excuse will do.

One of the first times my mother met The Husband (of course then he was known simply as The Boyfriend) she took great pleasure at relaying stories about quite what an eccentric child I was. Her particular favourite is about my then obsession with the rain cover of my 1970’s Maclaren pushchair (in shocking scarlett) that I would insist upon wearing, albeit with a big gapping hole at the back, to lunch on Saturdays at our favourite Bistro. I would enter, like a grand dame, cape following in the wind, umbrella as tall as me in hand and politely request a table for three please. I would then quite often be found in the kitchen making friends with the chefs and visits to the toilets would normally total double numbers. It was then that my love for going out for a family lunch was cemented. This regular fixture has remained through numerous boyfriends, a turbulent adolescence and a newborn addition.

Our favourite place to eat en famille is the chain restaurant Giraffe. We’re such regulars that they know the Munchkin by name and follow her development like an dedicated friend or family member.

Sans baby, back in the day, we’d frequent Giraffe, usually for a delicious brunch followed by a light shop or perhaps an afternoon in the pub. The food then, as it is now, was eclectic, fresh and of an impressively high standard.

While a great place for an all adult affair, Giraffe certainly comes into it’s own when there are small children around. An extensive kids menu is offered and they’re always happy to tailor meals for fussy eaters. Quite early into motherhood I discovered the joys of meeting my friends at 5 pm, feeding the kids, and enjoying a glass of wine and a catch up. The kids are able to run around this child friendly haven, pick up books from the library there and have all in all jolly good time. Mid week, my friends and I able to take advantage of the two for one happy hour special so it works out to be a pretty cheap date, and something to look forward to when the day starts to drag. Numerous dates without kids have also enjoyed it - they can coo at the Munchkin and enjoy a cocktail or two, but then still have the rest of their evening to enjoy.

From personal experience the vibe rightly changes at about 7pm, the lights fade as do the bright colours and balloons, making it far more adult friendly … our love for it is so great we’ve even been known to go on a dates there.

If you can’t make it to a farmers market the next best thing for fresh fruit and veg has got to be Abel & Cole. The Husband discovered them in his quest to feed me all things organic during my pregnancy. While I was more than happy to be hand fed grapes, melon and quite a bit of beetroot I still managed to get the odd packet of scampi fries past the food gastapo.

Delivered weekly we began to eat seasonaly and we both enjoyed the challenge of finding, and sometimes creating, recipes that would include one or more of our provisions. Unlike other companies we tried you could specify that you particularly liked or disliked something and also add to you box a pethora of deliciousness including chocolate, meat, fish and cheese. They even provide you with recipes should you be stuck as to what to cook.

Paricularly useful during weening time, Abel & Cole are a great alternative for those who don’t have the time or inclination to do their fruit and veg shopping the farmers market way.

I’m quite possibly preaching to the converted, but for those of you who are yet to discover the joys of doing your grocery shopping online, I urge you to give it a go.

I love little more than a full on grocery shop, particularly en famille, but as life’s got busier so too has our shopping bill. The temptation of time saving treats was quite frequently too much for the Husband and I to bear - not to mention the ability for one of us to remember the vital pound coin for our rather unwilling and independent trolley. Then of course, there is keeping the Munchkin amused throughout the proceedings which is a whole different story.

I’m a Sainsbury’s girl through and through. How thoroughly middle class. We choose our hour slot and I shop away on line over the course of the week, sending my finite order by 6 pm the night before it’s due. They even remember our regular items which helps save on time. They’re rarely late, however if they are, we have a whole £10 off our next week’s shop.

Of course every supermarket is in on the act, Tescos, Waitrose and Asda all offer their own services. One gem I must pass on, is to avoid the purchase of any fruit and veg, simply because you’ll more likely than not end up with the least appealing specimens, often a little passed their prime.

Now what are you waiting for ?

Back in the mid nineties when life moved at the speed of sound, and when house parties would not only go on all night but end with the collective viewing of the Hollyoaks Omnibus, my loved up friendship circle would frequently meet for Sunday lunch. A lunch that would roll into another coffee, then perhaps a glass of wine, and then someone would inevitably suggest we order a bottle or two. Our venue, various smokey public houses, sometimes as dingey as can be. As long as we were together what did we care ?

As it does, life moved on. We all met new people, and fell in love. While our friendships remained intact, our now gigantic friendship circle prohibited the cosy Sunday lunches we had all come to know and love. Of course, they still existed, just not in the same form.
Last Sunday we met friends for lunch at Ditto Bar & Restaurant. Albeit, not my original line up back in 1997 it was certainly my husbands. All hung-over and ready for a roast, not to mention accompanied by the Munchkin, we were unaware of the magic that was about to happen.

Lead to our table one of the first things that hit us was the lovely relaxed feel of the place. Stylishly set up for service there was an inviting buzz, neither too busy nor too quite. As we walked to our table the Munchkin squealed with joy. Tucked in a separate room, not entirely noticeable she had seen what we were soon to discover, was the playroom. And not just any playroom. Upon closer inspection we found what can only be described as Eden for any small person accompanying their parents to lunch - a wonderfully equipped soft play area full to the brim with toys.
Comfortably settled at our table I can safely say that we had the best Sunday lunch since being parents. The food was exceptional with true Sunday staples, the staff friendly and efficient. Having arrived at 1 pm our feet didn’t set out on the sad trudge home until 4.30 pm. Not only lunch but a day out too.

It’s so rare that a place can cater to such differing needs, but Ditto have managed to do it so wonderfully. Not once while in the restaurant did we feel that we were in a family restaurant and all children were amazingly behaved. The brightlights and squishiness of the soft play room certainly made for one small but nicely tired and subdued dining companion.