Wednesday 30 December 2009

Look! No food!

...well, almost.

I've just finished reading a book, La Première Gorgée de Bière (et autres plaisirs minuscules) by Philippe Delerm. (I should probably point out at this juncture that the link is entirely for illustrative purposes and that Amazon are not paying me; given the book is in French and the blog in English, that would demonstrate a complete lack of commercial sense, now, wouldn't it?). The reason I wanted to talk about this book is its sheer loveliness, inside and out. The book itself is quite thin without being skinny- the phrase 'a slim volume' comes to mind, but somehow, I couldn't bring myself to write it. The cover is cream, in that ribbed cardboard that could almost be good-quality writing paper, the kind that's nigh-on impossible to cut with a craft knife because it's so hard to stop the blade following the grain. The paper inside the book is also heavy and creamy and strokeable (euhhh...yes, I stroke books, why do you ask?); each page has a large margin on all four sides, the kind that almost asks to be written on (but only in pencil, you must understand- anything else would be sacrilege).

Inside, the book is actually a series of short articles (for want of a better word) of two or three pages. Those who understandd the title should have twigged (heehee! twigged! I like that word) what the book is about. For those who don't, the title in English would be The First Sip of Beer, and Other Minuscule Pleasures. There is, as it happens, a chapter-article (chapticle?) entitled The First Sip of Beer, alongside others such as Sunday Morning Cream Cakes, Podding Peas, Banana Split and Sunday Evening. You should, by now, have understood why this post is only almost free of food. If you haven't, I suggest you reread the sentence with the almostword chapticle in it. Yes, that's the one.

H'anyway, the book constitutes a sort of hymn to the small pleasures in life and to loveliness in all its forms. For me, I think there would have to be mushrooms on toast and half a raw carrot, new exercise books and sharpening pencils, making chocolate leaves and the first greengage of the season. Yes, the majority are food-related. No matter how hard I try, it refuses to be surpressed.

Back to the cupboard, methinks, but only to find the tea leaves. Ze boy is outside digging a hole and requires liquid sustenance.

The Evil Fanged Sprout

A somewhat blurry Evil Fanged Sprout with its handler.


"I don't like sprouts".

How often, especially at this time of year, have you heard that?

And how many times have you stopped to wonder how the sprouts might feel?

Christmas is supposedly the season of peace and goodwill and yet, in spite of their efforts to be amiable, the sprouts are continually excluded.

This feeling of exclusion and isolation was obviously going to have an effect on the collective sprout psyche at some point, and we fear this point may have been reached: the inner pain suffered by the poor maligned brassicas has produced physical results.

Only one sighting of the Evil Fanged Sprout has so far been recorded, but we fear more to come.

So, next time you consider expressing your dislike for sprouts, STOP. Think how the sprout might feel. Think of the effects your comment may have. Think of the Evil Fanged Sprout, and be afraid. Be very afraid.

Incidentally, M&S seem to be taking steps to facilitate the reinsertion of sprouts in society- ze boy and I got this
for Christmas, and we think it's probably a good sign.


Wednesday 23 December 2009

The Scream

Yet another food-related post... but it's the next-to-last one for a while, promise. There are things about ears, llamas and apostrophe misuse planned for next week, but in the mean time, please bear with me- it's nearly Christmas, after all.

Having attempted to make mince pies earlier in the week and failed to find mincemeat (ze boy thinks the lack of British grocery stores in Lyon is a mark of culinary greatness. I think it's a gnomish plot. No change there, then) I resorted to other means of bringing a little bit of British tradition to France. What better way to do this, I ask you, than by hanging food off trees? (Please don't answer that. I'm sure there are many).

The result bears a somewhat disturbing resemblance to a famous painting- I'd put the two up side-by-side on here but I'm not sure how the copyright thing works in these cases. Anyway, the title of the post, the picture and this link should suffice.

If you were wondering, this strange creature (the one in the picture, you understand, not the blog, which is also a strange creature but in a more abstract sense) is one of a batch of stained glass window biscuits... or, as I'm planning on calling them from now on, Munchies.

Sorry.

Really, I am.

Anyway, Nestlé have already taken the name, so the world may yet be saved from my appalling puns.

Back to the cupboard now before I come out with anything worse.

Tomorrow: A poor maligned vegetable plans its revenge.

Sunday 20 December 2009

Tiramisù

It may have appeared, from my previous post, that my return to mass catering was marked solely by a vast quantity of chocolate mousse. Those of you who know me in the right context may well have been surprised by this. Those of you who have never met me in mass-catering mode, possibly less so. But fear not- for this to be a Return, with a capital R, one measly batch of mousse would not suffice, nononononono. There was also shortbread, and there was TIRAMISU.


The tiramisù, at the tender age of 2 hours, encounters snow for the first time.

Cultural sidenote: the French, unlike the British, think there are several sorts of tiramisù. For any French readers (ze boy, this means TOI) this was a coffee one. My mother-in-law-to-be made a tiramisù of the other variety- fruits rouges- the same afternoon. I'm not sure both are really tiramisù. If any Italians happen to be passing, please can you let me know what your opinion is on this matter? Ta.

This is not, and could never be, a food blog. For one, I'm no good with recipes. I read a number of food blogs and devour recipe books (not literally, mind) but it's mainly for inspiration and- ooh look! - pretty pictures.

However- and this had to be going somewhere, didn't it? I'm not a Eurostar train or a Flyglobespan customer (oh wait, I am. But the less said about that, the better)- I am going to attempt to post a recipe. My tiramisù recipe, developed in an odd set of circumstances at an altitude of 1800 m with no electricity, differs somewhat from the norm and is generally well-received, so I thought I'd share...

Ingredients (to feed a normal medium-sized horde, or a small horde of wookies)

  • Boudoir biscuits/ladyfingers/savoiardini/'those biscuits wot y'put in tiramisù'- 3 packets
  • Mug of coffee
  • Sugar- a bit. No, a bit more than that. Yeah, that'll do.
  • Mascarpone- a couple of tubs (600g or so)
  • Double cream- a bit less than the mascarpone
  • Alcohol- traditionally marsala, the latest version had madeira in it, the campers' version nearly contained genepi but this is not advisable, Tia Maria is also good
  • Egg yolks (optional) and a bit more sugar
  • 300g or so dark chocolate, depending on how much of it you're planning to eat in the process


Equipment

  • Weighing scales
  • Electric whisk, willing French (or other, ve shall not deescreemeenate) Boy, bribed camper or similar
  • Knife, or hammer, or rolling pin and plastic bag, or small clean rodent
  • Gurt Big Bowl For Sticking Stuff In
  • Serving Dish

H'instructions

Pick up weighing scales. Give them a hug to console them over the fact they will not be being used, then put them away again.

Take swig of coffee. If it tastes ok it's not strong enough and you haven't put enough sugar in it. Fix this. Add two glugs of alcohol to coffee.

Put layer of biscuits in bottom of serving dish. Give biscuit to helper to put them in a good mood (this will prove useful later). Spoon coffee-like substance over biscuits, but carefully- you don't want to soak them completely, you just want them to absorb a little bit. Soggy tiramisù (aka tiramisoup) is not as good, somehow.

If you're feeling brave and have egg yolks lying around, or fancy making meringues with the leftover egg whites later (stranger things have happened), whisk them in a bowl over a pan of boiling water with a goodly quantity of sugar and a slug of alcohol (heehee! mental image of inebriated slug)until the mixture thickens and lightens in colour. This is called zabaglione and it is gooood. I'm not convinced it makes much difference to the tiramisù, but this way you get to lick the bowl. If you've made zabaglione, spoon some over the biscuits. If not...well...don't.

Put cream in bowl. Use electric whisk or helper (with whom you should have shared the bowl from the zabaglione to encourage them to help) to whisk cream. Add mascarpone and some sugar for good measure and give the whole lot a good beating with a wooden spoon (no, not the helper, you're going to need them later and it pays to be nice at this point).

Have helper (/use knife/rolling pin to) bash up the chocolate. Eat all the bits that are too big. If you can't bribe someone to help you, chocolate chips are also an option, but there won't be any excuse to eat half of it then. Mix half of the chocolate in with two thirds of the mascarpone and cream mixture (yes! I can do FRACTIONS now!)- this cuts through the richness nicely and is, essentially, what makes my recipe different. Layer mixture over biscuits.

Keep going with the layers. For the last layer, use the mascarpone/cream stuff WITHOUT the chocolate added (it's prettier), then tip the remaining chocolate on top- see picture above for how it should turn out.

Put tiramisù in fridge, or take it out to play in the snow if you want. You could even take pictures of it if you're that way inclined. It keeps for a few days in the fridge and won't go soggy unless you put too much coffee stuff on the biscuits. It will also tolerate having birthday candles stuck in it, unlike some desserts I could mention.

Back to the cupboard now. Please don't steal my leftovers or I'll publish the recipe for lavender meringues. Now there's a threat.


Friday 18 December 2009

Return to Mass Catering


I'm back.

Did you miss me, chocolate mousse? Did you?

I doubt it.

The problem with chocolate-love is that it never loves you back. That said, I thought Green & Black's Butterscotch and I were developing a pretty strong relationship, but then I moved to France, where it's hard to find, and let's just say the distance thing didn't work out.

I took this mousse out in the snow to try and make friends with it. It somehow looked more willing than the other 29. Alas, a friendship between girl and chocolate product cannot last long.

Om nom nom.

Only joking. I don't eat my friends.

Not between meals, anyway.

Thursday 17 December 2009

Monsieur/dame

"Clients should be greeted using the formula 'Bonjour, Madame' or 'Bonjour, Monsieur'".

So far, so good. What could go wrong with that?

There is, however, one slight problem: what happens when you CAN'T TELL? It may sound callous (not callus, there will be no podiatric problems in this post) but it does happen, and surprisingly often.

The hair, the face, the clothes- none affords any indication as to the gender of the customer. I look, subtly but carefully, for facial hair. Still no luck? I look at the hands- rings can be a giveaway. Then there's the voice, but that doesn't always help, either. Time to give in...

"Bonjour, M...(mumbles and turns round as if to look for essential equipment behind chair).

Ah, the thrills of life as a checkout girl.

Back to the cupboard, now, I think: I may have offended the National Federation of Bearded Ladies and I should probably lay low for a while (I'm small, so that shouldn't be too hard...)

Saturday 12 December 2009

The Lesser-Spotted Tree-Climbing Shopping Trolley


It gived me a happy. You can has happy too!

English translation: It made me smile so I thought I'd share it.

Friday 11 December 2009

3.74

is....
  • 0.6 more than the usual approximation of Pi.
  • The average number of times I sneeze in a row. Maybe.
  • Not the answer, which is, as ever, 42.
  • What remains of my first supermarket pay cheque now I've paid my taxe d'habitation- vaguely similar to council tax, but all the more evil in that it's paid yearly, with a nasty bill arriving towards the end of November, and in that students aren't exempt.

I'm trying to decide what to do with my 3.74. I feel I should put it to some significant use, but I'm not quite sure what.

So far, I have come up with the following ideas:

  • I could buy 10 cups of vile coffee machine tea substitute and a baguette from the supermarket
  • Alternatively, I could buy half a chicken, but I'm not sure how much use that would be.
  • Failing that, I could pay off the gnomes for two days, six hours and nineteen minutes. Actually, a word of explanation about gnome protection payments: they have little understanding of the concept of money, but are fascinated by shiny things. Two days, six hours and nineteen minutes is the length of time the average group of gnomes would be kept occupied by 3.74 in change. The time is liable to change if the coins are not particularly shiny.
Suggestions on a postcard to the usual address, please.

Wednesday 9 December 2009

Fairy Tale of the Kitchen















Once upon a time, there was an evil jellybabivorous hedgehog. He (for it was indeed a he- the female of the species prefers jellytots, the older siblings of the jelly babies) roamed the Frozen North committing heinous crimes of gelloinfanticide. But, one bright and sunny afternoon (why does it always have to be dark and stormy? There will be no pathetic fallacy here) the beast met his match...
















The valorous, chivalrous, and otherwise greatly respected knight Zog slew the beast, moved by the cries for help of a jelly damsel in distress (yeah, she's the pink one. How did you guess?). The damsel, as damsels are wont to do (wonton damsels, at least) rewarded her rescuer with a kiss. In doing so, further woe befell her as she fell (lots of falling!) foul of the knight Zog's betrothed. Where hedgehog failed, girl succeeded. The jelly damsel is no more.

HA.

The knight Zog, whilst pretending to be chivalrous, in fact only slew the beast because it was on his jelly-baby hunting territory.

Jelly babies were hurt in the making of this blog post. So was the hedgehog.

Tuesday 8 December 2009

Is it because I is English?

Some pearls of wisdom from work:

"Oh look, Catherine's drinking tea. She's definitely English".


"Oh look, a sandwich made with sliced bread! Must be because she's English..."

"The till is...tired? You have such an English sense of humour..."

"There are cookies in the break room! Food from your country! Well, America, but it's all the same, isn't it?"

I try to smile. I try to take it all with le flegme anglais- a stiff upper lip (not sure how compatible smiling is with a stiff upper lip in cases not involving Botox...)

But inside? Inside I am SEETHING. Some of you will be aware of how strongly I dislike being defined by my nationality, a nationality I have accepted for administrative ease: my preferred options of 'British' and 'Catholic' (I assure you, in terms of cultural identification, I find the latter term to be more applicable than 'English') do not work in France.

And as far as my sense of humour goes, I find the idea that the entire English population has the same slightly warped and gnome-based take on things as I do frankly disturbing.


Tuesday 1 December 2009

Yes, I judge people who buy wine in plastic bottles

I am currently, against my better judgement but for my better tax credit rating (the gnomes betrayed me to the French authorities, darn and blast them) working as a supermarket cashier. From time to time, mainly for my own amusement (I like to think it's a form of sociological study in an attempt to justify five years of university education, but let's face it, I may be somewhat deluded) I try to imagine what kind of person would buy the items passing, with a rather satisfying BEEP, beneath my nose. (Incidentally, the cash register only speaks in capitals, so it goes BEEP, and not beep- rather like Death in the Discworld books). Marscapone? Middle-class female, married, dinner party. Three bags of cat litter and a tin of tuna? That one speaks for itself. Raclette and potatoes? Possibly winter sports types. Wine in a plastic bottle?

Oh dear.

OH DEAR.

I suspect the gnomes may be behind this one two. It's their kind of game.


EDIT:
'one two'? well, from someone who gave 'cinquante-dix centimes' in change this afternoon, what can you expect? Hmmm. Back to the cupboard methinks.

Monday 30 November 2009

Smile, it's...anthromormorphised food


I don't know if I was traumatised by the dancing mushrooms in Fantasia as a child, but the idea of fruit and vegetables with faces makes me smile inside. I try to keep these kinds of things inside my head where they can't cause any damage, really I do. But sometimes... it just gets out.

Apologies for the photo quality, but I think the pears' personalities are still visible enough... the grumpy one that didn't want to be in the photo at the back right, for instance, or the stoned pear on the left. The two at the front seem to have a story to tell, too...to me, it looks like the right-front pear is desperately in love with his neighbour, who clearly couldn't care less.

I'll go back to my cupboard now before I scare anyone else.