Sunday service

As some of you who know can tell, when it comes to our existence on this beautiful planet I am more Dawkins than divine. 

But, callous atheist that I am, a family Sunday has more than a bit of the sacrosanct about it.  And today was a good example. An early start, due to an away hockey match at Richmond, meant that from 11, the rest of the day was clear. 

Of course a lot of that time is spent on tasks that have a low thrill potential. Waitrose is hardly a go to destination,even with the draw of a £5 voucher (which I suspect I more than over-compensate for). And helping with homework has the capacity for unpleasantness which can barely be imagined. Today it was literacy circle for one and calculating perpendicular lines in trig for the other. But luckily we seemed to get through both with barely a stomp of a foot or a raising of the voice.

Which then allowed us to focus on more interesting stuff. For me, a chance to test out my preserving thermometer on some rather fine Seville oranges.

And with M helping me, the tedious job of slicing orange rind was halved. I suspect that what we had created was what can only be described as super-thick cut and there was a lot of taking the pith; but hey it was a joint effort. And even she was a bit agog at the amount of sugar that goes in. I have to admit that I tried to keep her away from the boiling bit. Molten sugar on a fast boil has the potential to be a really really grisly murder method. Has it ever featured on CSI? It should. And even the ladling out was not without it's moments. But here we are with 8 jars of bejewelled orange iridescence. Has the thermometer made it any better? Well it seemed to, but we won't know until the toast comes calling.

And as the seemingly endless stream of washing churned its way from machine to line (heavy rain showers permitting), there was also time to try roasting a lamb shoulder with moroccan spices. Lots of cumin, coriander, cinnamon, garlic, smoked paprika  and chilli. And once J had applied some blunt trauma to the gravy, with couscous (and potatoes roasted in goose fat for E) it tasted pretty fine.

Followed by plum crumble with an almond topping inspired by the Nigel Slater Kitchen Diaries, all in all it made for an almost perfect Sunday supper. 








But actually the part of it that really made the difference was playing cards. Midweek, there seems to be barely any time for anything more than the essentials. But on Sunday we have the opportunity (if we take it) to do something all together. In this case it was knock out whist. While I was on dog's chance in the time it takes to woof, with the other three it was nip and tuck all the way down. There were jokes, some very, very poor poker faces and a lot of fun.

So this post is not really about Fireside Feasts, it's about family feasts. And deep down, it's not about what we eat, its about how we eat - and communicate. 

Finally, if there are any American readers out there - we're planning an RV trip in the summer from Denver to LA, through the parks. What should we cook and take with us in the food line? Any help gratefully received.

Veg box roulette

I suspect that like a lot of people, my reasons for buying a veg box are probably more emotional than rational. That's not such a bad thing in my eyes, farming over centuries has created the landscapes that I love so much, and the relentless pressure to deliver to a supermarket's spreadsheet will see the eradication of the small mixed farms that are such a part of the countryside.

And therefore, for the most part I try to accept that the contents of our medium Riverford veg box is not in my control with good grace. Years ago I had a job interview down there and I remember Guy Watson telling me that they would never give customers the option to choose because it made the box packers job too difficult. I never got past first interview in case you're interested - but I still admire what's been created.

However, right now in the depths of January, my patience is being sorely tested by the seemly weekly appearance of a cauliflower nestling like some grotesque cerebellum in among the cabbages, swedes and parsnips. Reading that back to myself, I appreciate that this sounds a little unhinged, but in my defence it's because nobody, but nobody, in this house likes cauliflower. Not even cauliflower cheese, which for most people is comfort food of the highest order.

So over the last few years my mission come caulitime (like Hammer time but without the comedy trousers) has been to find a way of making this brain of bland half way acceptable to others.

The results?

Well, lets just say, underwhelming.

So far the only thing to even make past first base have been:
- an Ottolenghi char-grilled salad (which is fantastic)
- a chickpea and cauliflower curry from Angela Hartnett (I think).
What both of these recipes have in common is that they add a whole bunch of flavours 

Today, Bill Granger was at the plate with cauliflower fritters.





After the inevitable floretting (is that actually a word?) and blanching....

the dry florets were dipped in a batter of egg yolks, flour, ground cumin, coriander and turmeric, grated onion and garlic, into which was folded egg whites beaten to soft peaks.

then shallow-fried in very hot olive oil, until they were a crisp golden colour all over.









The verdict? A muted OK.

The flavours were there, but without a deep fat frier I have to say that I don't think that these were crispy enough. Also maybe another oil, say rapeseed, with a higher smoking point might have been better. 

But that may not be the point. What's great is that I'm trying new recipes and ideas. In a world where seemingly consumers can get whatever they want, whenever they want irrespective of seasons or the carbon footprint, it's good sometimes not to take the easy way.

Oh and apologies that this post has nothing to do with cooking outdoors, but with London hovering just above 0 degrees night and day I wimped out of getting the stove going.

And can anybody out there give me some knockout cauliflower recipes?