Tuesday, November 17, 2009

A daily glass of champagne....

One of the reasons that I still enjoy journalism so much is that occasionally one gets to go to places, do things and meet people you might otherwise not get the chance to do. I'm not talking here about terrorist bombings or disasters but more personal things. Watching a visiting shoal of dolphins from a Greenpeace boat on a bright morning in the middle of the Channel, testing out a new interactive art installation at the Tate or ploughing through an autumnal New Forest in search of mushrooms in the company of a slightly mad, but highly entertaining mushroom expert are just three of the many moments that spring to mind. On those occasions I feel lucky and privileged to be a journalist and it makes me think that, after more than three decades, its still something I want to carry on doing, at least until I get a proper job.
Today was one of those moments when I was asked by the Evening Standard to go to the memorial service for the late great Sir John Mortimer at Southwark Cathedral. Now Sir John was someone I have admired for many years - from when he defended the publishers of Schoolkids Oz at the Old Bailey, through the Rumpole and Leslie Titmus years, right up to his wheelchair bound old age, when, surrounded by a bevy of admiring young women, quaffing his daily glass of champagne, he remained full of opinions, anecdotes, jokes and life generally. He was, as one speaker put it today, a perfect example to us all of how to grow old properly.
I rang him up a couple of times over the years, as did many journalists, to seek his views on matters legal or literary and he was always fun to talk to, always full of good quotes - and knew exactly what he was saying - and always seemed to have plenty of time to talk, despite his busy life entertaining his female friends and lunching. The last time was in the spring of last year when I called to ask his views on plans to modernise the bar. After being instructed by his secretary to call his direct line in two minutes, that familiar, croaky, distinctive voice came on the line, now though terribly wheezy. We spoke for a few minutes and he was as entertaining, friendly and quotable as ever.
Unfortunately, I think he then got me on the redial of his phone and I had about three more calls from him over the next couple of hours when he clearly called me by mistake. I felt terrible about the fact that I had to tell one of the great raconteurs and conversationalists of the age - someone who, it was said today, preferred 'an amusing fib to a boring fact' - that I really didn't have any more questions for him - and was up against a deadline.
So it was with some of these thoughts going through my mind that I sat in Southwark Cathedral today. Not only was it a privilege to be there anyway, alongside many of the great and good from the arts world like Alan Rickman, Sir Peter Hall, Alan Yentob, Richard Eyre and Tom Stoppard, but also to listen to some spellbinding readings - Sir Derek Jacobi, Patricia Hodge and Edward Fox all delivered passages from Sir John's work, while Joss Ackland read from the Bible and Jeremy Irons from Thomas Hardy. There was also some lovely music: Thomas Tallis, one of my favourite arias from the Marriage of Figaro and some classical pieces by Jon Lord, the former member of Deep Purple who became a friend of Mortimer.
I'm like Sir John himself, who, Lord Kinnock said, was a 'devout unbeliever' and an 'Atheist for Jesus,' but cannot deny that the soaring arches of Southwark provided a stunning and moving backdrop to such fine words and music in honour of a great man. As I said, something of a privilege....
Here's the piece I wrote:
http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23770782-great-gather-for-a-voyage-round-sir-john-mortimer.do
And now for my daily glass of champagne...

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Tomorrow, I'm off to the hospital for my check-up following the stomach problems I had during the summer and I'm happy to say that since having a tube poked around my stomach in September, I've felt perfectly fit and fine, without a trace of the terrible pains that dogged me in July and August. Which is a good job, because I've been so rushed off my feet over the past weeks by a combination of work and socialising, I haven't had time to be ill again...
Some of the socialising was, happily, combined with work, because I had to stage dinner parties for people coming over to help me test wines for two pieces for the Independent - one on red wines for autumn and the other on low alcohol wines. Well, you can't invite people over to taste wine without giving them something to eat, can you? (I am reminded of a comment I once read about a particularly garrulous and disputatious well known media couple, who it was said, would invite people around for an argument and then, almost as an afterthought, throw some food at them....)
Well I cant resist throwing some food at people, given the opportunity. So it was stuffed squid, spiced mackeral and roast poussin and quail for the red wine night, which was following by, for me, the highlight of the evening, the spectacular cheese board prepared by my friends Angela and Jeremy. Angela had been in Paris the night before and visited a fromagerie on her way back to the Eurostar and they arrived with Jeremy bearing a vast board, laid out with chevres, soft, blue and hard cheese and all manner of other things like grapes, nuts, dates, crackers and breads. Such style. I'm glad some of the wines stood out as well - here are the ten best for the Indy..
http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/features/the-ten-best-autumn-reds-1810923.html
There were several other very good wines which just failed to make the cut, but I'll post on them later.
On October 31, there were more people around to taste low alcohol wines and, of course, a vaguely Halloween themed meal. I agonised over this for some time - not wanting to be silly (ghoulish masks for everyone and tomato 'blood' sauce were both immediately ruled out) but also relishing the challenge of sticking to certain rules. Everthing had to be orange and black or white, more or less the colours of Halloween. So it was pumpkin soup, morcilla sausages with apple and celariac puree and Portugese Feijoada, made with black beans, pork and chorizo as a main course, followed by black plums in white port. Well, it sort of stuck within the rules. And was fun. I was going to do a cuttlefish ink paella, but one guest, Nick, doesnt do fish at all, so that was out...
The Feijoada was, out of necessity, a cross between the original Portugese version, which uses Red kidney beans and the Brazilian one, with black beans and a more varied selection of meats. A dish I had always wanted to cook. It also led me to an interesting chat with the lady who runs a little Portugese cafe in north Finchley, where I had gone to seek peri peri, the Portugese tabasco like sauce, used to give the dish greater heat. She didn't have any to sell me, but took sympathy on my plight and eventually gave me a bottle of her own, firmly refusing payment. I promised to return to eat her own Feijoada one Saturday night - it looked an interesting place, with Portugese football on the tv and families scoffing hearty food, kids running around. My kind of cafe.
Anyway, Glenda (who I hadn't seen for some time and on whom motherhood has cast a kind of beauteous glow) asked for the recipe, so here it is:
Ingredients: for about 6-8 people:

Two/three large onions, thin sliced.
A whole bulb of garlic, chopped.
Two dried chillies, soaked in warm water until soft and chopped, water reserved.
Six or eight cooking chorizo, depending on size, cut into thirds. They have to be cooking ones, not the salami type.
Or use a chorizo/morcilla combination
About 2lbs pork shoulder, in bite size pieces
A packet of pancetta
Sliced red and green peppers (sort of optional)
Black beans, soaked overnight
Cup of tomato passata or sauce
Two pints at least chicken or vegetable stock.
You need a big casserole dish for this.

Season the meats and fry in olive oil in casserole until well browned. Remove with slotted spoon. Do not throw away the oil.
Gently soften onions, then garlic and chopped chillies in the oil, for about 20 minutes.
When they are soft, add the tomato passata, peppers if you want, and cook for another 15 minutes to get a rich, thick sauce. Season. Add more chilli if you want it hot.
Return the meats, add the drained beans and the chicken stock. Bring to the boil and simmer over a high heat for about ten minutes.
Then put it in the oven on a very low heat, gas mark four, covered, for about 2-3 hours, so it just bubbles away. You will almost certainly need to add more water/stock to keep it moist.
Serve liberally garnished with coriander and lime slices (This is Portugal, not Spain), copious amounts of rice (or fried potatoes) and that peri-peri on the side. It needs a really robust wine and any of the Ten Best I mentioned earlier would do fine, apart from the Pinot Noir, which might be a little overwhelmed. For authenticity, I'd suggest the Portugese Touriga Nacional 2007, made from the grapes used for port and just £6.99 from M&S.
The wines I certainly would not recommend with such a full flavoured dish were the low alcohol wines we tried earlier the same evening, which simply left us craving for the real thing...here's what we thought....http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/features/how-low-can-you-go-do-reducedalcohol-wines-pass-the-taste-test-1818842.html
Must go, have a son who needs the computer and a couple of pheasants to stuff....

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Keith Floyd

When I was first discovering the joys of cooking in the 1980's, Keith Floyd was my idol, hero and guru. I loved his chaotic, over the top style on television, his flamboyant bow ties ( I took to sporting one myself on occasions) his shunning of any kind of apron in the kitchen, the way he permanently flaunted a large glass of wine. I devoured his books like Floyd on Fish and Floyd on Spain. Browsing through them again now, I realised that there are dishes there I still cook and influences that are still on my cooking, even though I've long forgotten the source. I felt immediately inspired to rush into the kitchen and start cooking, my taste buds going strong. And that doesnt usually happen before I've had my first cup of coffee.
Floyd was a million miles away from the starched and stiff approach which, and its hard to remember it now, was the norm among television cooks until he came along. He was, as all the obituaries have made clear, the first television celebrity chef. But he was more than just an amusing drunk -as people like Jamie Oliver and Hugh Fernley Whittingstall, both inheritors his style - have made clear, he was enormously influential on them and on in helping to create the wider acceptance of the importance of everyday good food and cooking. He made cooking fun and casual, he demystified recipes, he made it all seem to so easy. It was, of course, very sad to see his decline in recent years - the failed marriages and restaurants, the health problems - and he must have looked slightly enviously (although I suspect with a healthy amount of realism) on the easy fortunes being made by his successors. But such a lust for life, for tastes, for indulgence. You had to admire it. And it was at least good to know that he died in his own chair, as the Indy reported yesterday, after a very good lunch of cocktails, roast partridge and a nice bottle of Cotes Du Rhone. The story is here: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/news/cocktails-and-a-slurp-or-two--keith-floyds-final-day-1787742.html
So, was it the drinking that did for him? Or the smoking? Or the inevitably rich diet? He wasn't really a salad and mineral water kind of guy. Probably a bit of everything really - he had bowel cancer, but died from a heart attack. If one thing doesn't get you, another will, I think.

These things have been much on my mind recently. I learnt of Floyds death on the radio of the taxi that was taking me to my appointment at the hospital for the ERCP procedure that was designed to end the agonising stomach cramps that have been dogging me since early July. Well, I had the procedure - a tube shoved down my throat and into my stomach, a 3mm snip of the bottom of my bile duct and what they call a 'ductal clearance' designed to remove a stray gall stone that had, doctors thought, been growing there since my gall bladder was removed in April, together with what they termed 'sludge.' The thing is, they didn't find anything, even though my consultant believed that a stone was almost certainly the cause. What the doctors who did the ERCP did say was that the 'snip' should be enough to relieve pressure on the bile duct and stop the cramps. Since they have been occurring at intervals of between 5 and 14 days - although the intervals did appear to be shortening - then only time will tell whether they are right. I've been fine since the ERCP - just some residual soreness from the procedure itself. And my last attack and longest attack of cramps was 11 days ago.

But - and here's the slight connection with Floyd - one thing that does intrigue me is the connection between diet and the gall bladder and subsequent problems. Did Floyds bowel cancer stem from his imaginative diet? At no time have any of my doctors suggested there was any diet connection with my propensity for growing gall stones - it just happens, mostly in women rather than men. Neither was I given any post-operative diet advice, so carried on eating and drinking as normal. I have a varied, but I hope relatively healthy diet and certainly dont want to give any of it up. Some gall bladder removal patients do find they have to de-fat their diets (and take drugs for life) to prevent seriously loose bowels after eating - a common side affect. Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me, although my fat content is quite low. I do think there was some correlation between my consumption of dairy and spicy (specifically Indian) foods and the earlier gall stone attacks and later cramps. Its an unproven theory - some of the attacks came after I'd eaten the blandest of foods, but most occurred on a more or less empty stomach. What this does suggest to me is that there are many things we still dont know about connections between diet and disease.
Although I tended to avoid spicy or dairy foods over the past few weeks, I'm not going to bother now. And, I can drink alcohol again. So, its now just a matter of waiting to see if I get another attack. And getting on with the cooking. Tonight, I think it will be one of Floyd's finest- hake and potatoes from Floyd on Spain. I wont be getting out the bow tie, but I will be raising a large glass of rose in memory of a flawed, but rather endearing man.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Eating out

I enjoyed the England football team's victory over Croatia the other night, which I watched at the home of Marion, my ex-wife, together with our sons, for particularly personal reasons. I'd strolled around there earlier and cooked some pasta - farfalle with a puttenesca sauce that I knocked up in about ten minutes - for all of us, which we ate while watching England demolish the Croatians. Marion had bought some sweetcorn the previous weekend from a pick your own farm and we had them as an utterly delicious starter - simply boiled for a few minutes, and eaten with butter or olive oil and salt and pepper. After the pasta, we had some ripe white nectarines, grapes and a dollop of ice cream for pudding. It was a very pleasant meal - although starters and pudding arent always necessary for midweek suppers - and i savoured every normal, home-cooked mouthful much more than usual. The good football was simply an added bonus. And the reason why? Well, after the match was over, I left the house and walked briskly for ten minutes up the Holloway Road to the Whittington Hospital, returning to my bed in Bridges ward, where I had spent the last five days.
By the time I got there, the lights were already dimmed and the ward quiet. Although my night out had been happily sanctioned by the nurses, I felt a bit like a guilty soldier returning late from a evening pass in town, a prisoner on day release or a boarding school abscondee. But at least soldiers prisoners and boarders get televisions and gyms - nothing like that in Bridges ward at the Whittington.
I'd been in the hospital since the previous Thursday evening when I checked into casualty, desperate for pain relief to ease the agonising stomach cramps that, by then, had lasted for three hours. I was given a big shot of morphine and admitted for the night. The source of the problem was a rogue gall stone in my bile duct - or so I had been told - which had been left behind when my gangrenous gall bladder (and up to fifty stones) had been removed in an emergency operation in April. Now this remaining gall stone had grown, was rumbling around in my bile duct and had been causing me intermittent but worsening pain for several weeks: I'd lost a whole day of holiday in Turkey to this pain and had spent an agonising and sleepless night the previous weekend before the Thursday attack. By the time I admitted myself to the Whittington, I was already being seen as an outpatient and had been told that the way of dealing with this was a ERCP - basically, they send a tube down my throat with a camera and a scalpel on the end of it and cut the bottom of the bile duct to release the gall stone. Its relatively simple procedure, done under local anaesthetic.
To cut a long story short, after my admittance I was told the next morning that I had the choice of staying in hospital, which would accelerate the process, so I might get the ERCP within a few days. If I discharged myself, then I was back to being an outpatient, with an ERCP possibly a few weeks away. It was also pointed out that, should another attack occur - which it did, with 12 hours of pain on Sunday, alleviated only by two morphine shots - I was in the best possible place. I was also suffering from mild jaundice because of the damage to my liver and I needed treatment for that.
I did ask for a weekend pass - I had a full social programme lined up, including a party on the Friday night given by one of my Goldsmiths' colleagues for our outgoing MA class that I had been really looking forward too- and had been in the middle of cooking for when I was overcome by the pains. But was told that if I left then they would have to give the bed to someone else and I would be discharged. As it happens, I wasn't feeling top notch - the day after each attack I always feel a bit battered - and could not have drunk anyway - so it was probably the best thing.
So, I decided to stick it out, hence my five days on Bridges ward. Well, it was supposed to be shorter, but the NHS being what it is, things kept getting delayed. And, once I recovered from the Thursday attack, I felt reasonably ok and determined not to be confined by the hospital routine any more than necessary. Between these attacks, I've been feeling fine, going to the gym etc. So, I nipped home from the hospital a couple of times over the weekend for clothes and other supplies and to eat decent food - I didnt want to waste what was left in the fridge. And I made use of a little internet cafe near the hospital to keep in touch with friends and work. I regret I didnt manage to get my running gear brought in.
I also went for a stroll down the Holloway Road to the Saturday morning organic market near St Johns Way. This is a small market - only about half a dozen traders on a wide bit of pavement - but included an excellent farm fruit and vegetables stall, from which I bought some lovely early season apples and Victoria plums; the rest of the produce looked terrific and I felt disappointed I couldn't take it away to cook with. There were also a great looking cheese stall, someone selling huge loaves of fresh bread, a sushi stall and a woman offering hot sausages in ciabatta. All very promising and certainly brightens up the often tawdry and traffic choked Holloway Road. . As in the way these things seems to grow, someone had also set up a second hand bookstall, which was attracting several browsers. The market is also outside a wonderful shop selling Iranian foods - a good selection of fruit and veg and massive bunches of fresh herbs, together with real Middle Eastern pastries, home made humous and other delights worth investigating. Long may such ventures prosper.
If anything needs the same treatment that Jamie Oliver meeted out to school meals, its hospital food. Even more than school meals, it is self evident that hospital food should be healthy, vibrant, balanced, attractive to eat. So why do they offer white sugar with the already over sweet breakfast cereals? 'It's because people ask us for it,' said the orderly. Why do they only offer white bread for toast (actually they don't offer toast, just bread. You have to plead for toast) Why is there only full fat milk with the tea and coffee. Why do they insist on plonking heavy, overcooked meat and watery veg meals in front of people at noon and at five? Most people seem to leave the majority of food on their plates. The menu seems stuck in the dark ages - more white bread sandwiches, pre-historic ideas of salads, stews and pies, endless nursery food. The waste incredible. And dont start me off on the almost entire absence of recycling in the hospital anyway. I despaired. If you want your food brought in, there wasn't even a microwave for heating stuff up - and, I learnt in my earlier stay, patients aren't allowed to use themselves anyway - its that health and safety thing.
While I caught up on my sleep and reading (Margaret Attwood's The Handmaids Tale and Dylan's Chronicles Vol 1) I survived by a combination of having some cold food brought into me ( I'm a not a massive fan of M&S, but thank heaven for their substantial salads) buying sandwiches and coffees at or the High Street-style food court in the hospital complex (a bit pricey, but a lifesaver in many ways) and nipping out on two evenings to local places - pasta one night, pizza the next - as well as the Wednesday night stroll down the Holloway Road to Marions. And the fruit from the Saturday market. Okay, a cost a bit, but not much more than normal food buying and I wasnt' spending much on anything else. What I really felt sorry for were those who were unable to wander around the hospital as I was or unable to afford the cost of a ham and cheese panini downstairs.
I was discharged late on Thursday night, without having had the operation - they couldnt get me on the list that day - and feeling I had largely wasted a week of my life. But I've got a bag full of painkilling drugs in case of another attack (statistically speaking, I'm overdue for one) and an outpatient appointment for it to be dealt with at another hospital next week.
And best of all? I'm back in my kitchen.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Some recent highlights, food wise: Barbecue with friends last Sunday, immediately breaking my rule about bbq's during the day - see last blog - okay, it wasn't that hot and we had to do it during the day because its the only way I get to see G and B and L, who had school the next day and so could not come in the evening because they live a long way away. Did spiced mackerel and herbed sea bass on the barbie accompanied by lemon/fennel/olive potatoes - see blogs of about a year ago - which L adored, so much that he left me a little note and drawing and a FB message the next day. Shame my sons have grown out of that kind of thing.
Used mashed leftover mackerel to make crostini on Monday for lunch, with salad. Leftovers make the best food, sometimes.
The spiced mackeral was made using something I have discovered in Turkish (actually Kurdish, I suspect) shops around north London. I was told Kayseri Cemen was a dip - they keep it in the chiller cabinet next to the humous and taramalsalata - or should be spread on toasted pitta. But it is almost too spicy for that, although you can do a little bit, but seems best suited as a more earthier, full bodied version of harissa, the north African spice paste I adore. I used it instead of harissa in a marinade for the mackerel - mixed with olive oil, cumin and salt and pepper and it was terrific, with a real depth of flavour. I did the same this weekend on some chicken. Fabulous. Middle Eastern-flavoured food does seem to work better on warm summer nights. A small, foodie, discovery of the summer.
Have been drinking - since my palate returned -some lovely, lovely white wines for an Independent Ten Best White Wines column, due shortly. A couple of weeks ago, I took some around to my old friend and colleague Mike Durham's for a tasting of Italian cheeses - he was inspired by something I wrote earlier this year for the Wine Society newsletter - http://www.thewinesociety.com/Wine.aspx?PageCode=enjoy&PageName=How%20to%20Enjoy%20Wine&SubPageCode=match&SubPageName=How%20to%20match%20wine%20and%20cheese - so arranged for an evening spent tasting cheeses he had brought back from a stay in Italy. After a bowl of pasta, we ate two hard pecorinos, a very soft, smelly cheese and a medium hard cheese wrapped in vine leave, all brought back from Rome and all excellent. The two pecorinos - salty and tangy -worked very well with an organic Chianti and the others with two contrasting pecorinos (the grape, not the cheese) - the lovely, lightly fragrant Colline Pescarse IGT 2007 from M&S and the much more full bodied, nutty, complex Colle Die Venti, Terre Di Chieti 2008, from Wine Rack. Mike reckoned he knew the village, close to his Italian home, so it just about the got the vote for the Ten Best on that alone.
A footnote on the Wine Society piece: I write - and have written for many years - about many complex and often difficult subjects for national newspapers. As a journalist, one of the ways you get to judge your impact is by the amount of what you might call reader response and is fair to say that I probably have had more response to that piece, in a limited circulation newsletter, than I have had to many serious news reports and features in national newspapers. It may reflect better on the Wine Society than it does on national newspapers! I had one reader email me to say that, prompted by my piece, he and some friends had embarked on a five hour cheese and wine matching marathon - all the combinations carefully thought out - and that they had a splendid time. I only wish all my writings had been so inspiring.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Barbecues

What is it about the first hot weather that always get people going crazy to barbecue. Frankly, the last thing I want to do for lunch on a hot day - there are too few of them to waste - is to stand with the sun on my back over a pile of intensely hot briquettes (or whatever) smelling the aroma of meat sizzling mingling with the sweat dropping off my forehead. Who wants all that cooked meat (and barbecues are mostly about meat, although some fish is actually just as good or better. But most of what people eat on barbecues is rubbish anyway.) Give me a nice salad or some meze and shady terrace anytime.
Dont get me wrong, I love cooking outdoors and do so at every opportunity. But to me, barbecues are best saved for warm evenings, when the sun is low in the sky or just setting, the fierce heat of the day has gone and appetites can be properly matched by the smell of smoke and grilling food. One of the best barbecues I've ever had was using a couple of disposable barbecues on the beach at Sennen Cove in Cornwall one June evening a couple of years ago. It was early evening, we needed our sweaters, the tide had gone out after a long hot day surfing, and we grilled local mackerel and chicken on skewers made from rosemary twigs. We played beach cricket in the twilight afterwards. All around us, other scattered groups were doing the same, the smoke of the barbecues and little fires drifting up and along the sands, everyone relishing the space on the beach that had been impossibly packed a few hours earlier. It was glorious.
And, sod the sun, you can barbecue in the rain. Maybe its just me, but I love warm rain on hot days, a combination you don't get much in their country, but is commonplace in warmer climates. Last Monday, the Bank Holiday, after a two days of warm weather, was a typically British summer muggy, cloudy day It was Max's 15th birthday and I'd been to the cinema with the boys and their mother, my ex, Marion to see Star Trek. (Excellent re-invention, actually. And I'm old enough to remember the original.) We were hoping the forecast rain would hold off, so that we could have a barbecue in my garden afterwards. When we came out of the cinema it had been raining, but the air temperature was possibly even warmer than earlier. There was a smell in the air that Marion said reminded her of the Med. So we had to barbecue. My garden was still, quiet and warm, with the birds singing evening songs. We ate sweetcorn, baked feta, my home made lamb koftas, chicken kebabs, made garlic brushetta by grilling bread on the barbie and toasted Max's birthday with some excellent M&S sparkling Burgundy. (Sorry about the plug, but its very nice) We survived the odd brief repeat shower of rain, sitting under the parasol and moving the barbecue under cover. And we sat talking by candlelight long after it was dark and the birds had gone quiet. It was not sunny, no-one was offered a blackened sausage or a still raw in the centre chicken drumstick and there wasn't a can of beer in sight. But it's what I call a barbecue.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Elizabeth David

Today happens to be the 17th anniversary of the death in 1992 of the remarkable Elizabeth David, whose influence on what we eat now and the revolution in British cooking is immeasurable. I was made aware of the date when, by a curious co-incidence in the early hours of this morning, I randomly picked up an old copy of Convivium, a shortlived magazine-cum-book (think Granta or Readers Digest) which existed briefly in the early 1990's and whose 1993 inaugural edition, the one I was holding in my hands, was dedicated to David. It contained a fascinating series of pieces, adapted from the addresses given to her memorial service the previous autumn by some of those who knew her well. I re-read them with great pleasure, being reminded of David's dedication to stylish restraint and simple, elemental cooking - a dish of plain, grilled red peppers was a favourite - and that she considered herself first and foremost a writer, rather than a cook. She also abhorred the word 'foodie' which is deeply ironic considering that many of those who today described themselves as foodies - myself included - owe an enormous debt to David for changing the way we eat. Anyone wanting to know more about Davi's extraordinary life should read the fabulous (but curiously recipe free) biography by Artemis Cooper, Writing At The Kitchen Table.
In another strange co-incidence, earlier this week I had actually been discussing David's kitchen table with the great Prue Leith, another person who has done enormous amounts to drag British cooking out of its post-Second World War ration induced mire.
I was sitting next to Leith (or Prue as I now feel emboldened to call her, since we got on so well) at a magnificent seven course charity dinner at the Marriott Hotel, created by seven leading British chefs in aid of Hospitality Action, a charity that helps needy people associated with the catering trade. You can read my account of the meal in the Evening Standard website here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23694512-details/Great+British+Menu+chefs+cook+up+seven+course+feast/article.do
Stupidly, I didnt think to ask Prue, who knew David well, what she would have made of the elegantly constructed modern takes on British food - a haggis mousse and a verbena blancmange might have been a bit fussy for her, but I'm sure she would have enjoyed the halibut with cockles and the lamb baked in a pastry crust. But Prue did regale me with stories of how grumpy and rude David became in her later years, as well as being mostly drunk, something I thought Cooper rather played down. The stairs in her small Chelsea house, said Prue, were almost impossible to negotiate - piles of books on one side, cases of her favourite French white wines on the other.
Prue's best tale concern the heavy old French table on which David made the centrepiece of her kitchen, where she spent most of her days, writing at one end, cooking at the other. At the auction of her kitchen contents which followed David's death, Leith paid £1,100 for the table, by then much battered, stained and worn, complete with ancient crumbs embedded in its cracks. "I had to have it,'' she said, 'It was the table, the one she wrote one. I mean, this is part of food history. It was an iconic table.'' At the insistence of her husband, she had much of the dirt and grease scraped away, but it remained a treasure for some years. She admitted that at one point she had considered widening it, but was unable to find a piece of wood sufficiently thick.
Prue confided that a few years ago she was made an offer she simply could not refuse. She explained: "Jill Norman, [the cookery writer] another friend of mine and Elizabeths, confessed that her husband had set his heart on buying the table - for a decent sum - so that he could give it to Jill for her 60th birthday. Jill was Elizabeth's editor at Penguin and literary executor, so I couldn't refuse, could I?'' She didn't say how much she was paid for it, but clearly, every kitchen table has its price.
Coincidence and memories. So that's why tonight, in my kitchen, at my table, I'm going to raise a glass of fine French white wine and nibble one of her favourite Rokka crackers, in memory of the great Elizabeth David.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Rehabilitation

So, how is the old body going, not quite four weeks after my emergency operation to remove a troublesome gall bladder.....?
The good news is, after three weeks of an excruciatingly dry and often painful throat, caused by the candidiasis I contracted as a result of the anti-biotics I was being given, I've got about 99pc of my tastebuds back and I've stopped being woken up during the night by a mouth that feels as though the entire Sahara desert has taken up residence there. So, I can taste wine and coffee and a few other things properly for the first time in what seems like ages. Which is good because I've got a positive ocean of white wine blocking my hall waiting for my recovery so I can organise a tasting for a Ten Best White Wines column I've got to write for the Independent. And I'm going to relish every single mouthful of the seven course charity dinner, created by some of the country's best chefs, that I'm attending on behalf of the Standard tomorrow night. Could not have come at a better time....
Physically, things are a bit mixed. I'm still a bit sore around the wound. And I've some pains still deep in my lungs, presumably a hangover from the pneumonia. But I had a busy time last weekend, going for a long gentle walk and trimming a hedge on Sunday without too much trouble. I can walk up stairs, but still get very tired easily: I was just ready to collapse last night after a fairly limited jaunt around Tesco (I know, but its the closest and there was stuff I needed all on one place. There are situations when you dont have the time or energy to trot round the bijou delis of Muswell Hill, none of whom, so far as I know, sell soap powder and dishwasher salts. But I gave myself a good ethical slap). I might still be suffering from three very hectic working days last week - one teaching at Goldsmiths, followed by a busy evening, then two at the Standard. It wasn't so much the work that was exhausting, but the up to 90mins commute both ways - bus and tubeX3. Plus the fact that various roadworks and bus diversions meant that I had to walk some of the way home each night. Sod's law.
By the end of those days I was pretty knackered but was still determined to achieve my aim of going swimming on Friday evening, now that the scars have begun to fade to the point where they won't frighten the kids. Now I love swimming with a passion. I normally swim at least once or twice a week, 30-40 lengths a time at a reasonable pace and have done for years.It is the most therapuetic and relaxing of exercises and one which anyone of any age, including the very elderly and the disabled can participate. It's rhythmic, repetitive nature settles the mind as well as the body and I've solved many of life's major problems - difficult career choices, what to cook for dinner etc - during the course of a long swim. In recent years, when I have had some problems with my feet (plantar fascitis - no, don't ask) my knees (playing tennis) and my back (squash and badminton on the same day) swimming was the only exercise I could do. And so it is now.
I first stated swimming in the early 80's when I moved into a flat opposite some baths and decided to take full advantage. I soon got my completely unfit, twenty-something, beer guzzling one-pack of Gitanes a day, body up to 100 lengths a week and felt very proud.
I got out of the regular swimming baths habit when I moved to London in 1986 although I always swam and snorkelled enthusiastically when I was near warm seas. It was about ten years, when I my sons were old enough to start swimming lessons and I could go and do a few lengths while they being taught, before I got back into swimming regularly again. And I'm immensely proud of the fact that both my sons are now regular, strong swimmers, competing for their local club, Anaconda, in countless galas. Both have many medals to their names . Leo is club boys captain, has competed at regional level and is now also a qualified lifeguard. He trains, when not studying for exams, up to six nights a week - sometimes competing in a gala on the seventh. When I boast I can still swim 50 lengths in under 35 mins he scoffs, pointing out that he does that in half the time. For a warm up.
But Leo and I both get grumpy if we go a few days without a swim. Which I was I was determined to do a few lengths on Friday night. I managed 18, rather stately lengths, with some pauses at either end. It was blissful. I would have done more, but wanted to see what effect it had on my body. I had a good session in the steam room afterwards, which helps sore muscles and felt fine.
Saturday however, as I said, I felt quite tired and a bit stiff all over. I certainly don't feel like another walk today, although I might tackle the other hedge. I've spoken to two people this week (you get to compare this kind of thing) who told me how long it took them to get over major operations. So, I have to resign myself to the fact that its a longer road than I might imagine. But I'm looking forward to Monday night's dinner and then Tuesday night back in the swimming baths again. And I'm determined to get up to the 50 lengths mark again - no matter how long it takes.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

stomach pains and taste buds

I should be updating this blog more often, but the last few months have been terribly busy, so that writing in any personal way has had to take a back seat to the demands of work. I see now that the last time I wrote was in December, when Fifi, my cat died, which was terribly sad and cast a real pall over Christmas. We all still miss her terribly. Sometimes I still think I hear the sound of the bell on her collar, which tinkled as she padded around the house. Her ashes, in a nice little wooden casket, sit on the mantlepiece in the front room. Yes, I know. But there they are.

So...where where we? Sitting next to my keyboard is a little plastic bottle contained four brownish stones, gleaming and polished. They could be waiting to be made up into some kind of jewellery -drop earrings or a nice broach. Perhaps that's what I will do with them. They are just some of the forty-plus gallstones I'd been carrying around inside me, my gall bladder acting as a kind of bag of marbles, and which were taken out of me in an emergency operation more than two weeks ago now and from which I'm still recovering.
I'd been having intermittent gallstones over the past few years: as the stone passed down the bile duct, a brief period of spasmodic, intense pain in the righthand side of the stomach, just below the rib cage, followed by 24 hours of feeling a bit grotty and then perfectly alright the next day. My consultant said not to bother about having the gall bladder out unless the attacks became more frequent. Two weeks ago, on a Saturday night, I had the first attack for almost two years. This time the pain didnt abate after a couple of hours. This time it went on and on, reaching peaks I just didn't know how to endure. After about three hours, desperate for help, I went to the casualty department where I was pumped full of pain-killers. When it began to ease, they sent me home. The next day, as previously, I had a slight fever. But this time, it didnt go away and the pain in my stomach stayed. After two days of rising temperature, I went back to the hospital, where to cut a long story short, I had an emergency op to take out the by now infected gall bladder the next afternoon. Which is when things really began to go wrong.
Firstly, the gall bladder was so big and bad, they could not use the normal keyhole surgery techniques to get it out and had to go to full slice me open mode, so the whole operation took two and a half hours. Secondly, as I was going under the aneasthetic, as I later learnt, I choked, bringing up some of my stomach contents, when then went down the pipe into my lungs, causing aspirational pneumonia, as its called. Thirdly, when they brought me to consciousness, my lungs suffered a reactive spasm and I couldn't get any air into them. I was put back under anaesthetic and woke up six hours later in intensive care, attached to every monitor, drip and drain you could imagine. And still with a bloody great tube down my throat.
After a very uncomfortable night under heavy sedation, they took the tube out the following morning. I spent two days in intensive care and a week on a main ward. It was three days before I could survive without the morphine drip, four days before I could walk unaided and five days before my lungs were strong enough to breath without oxygen. On the sixth day, I developed candidias in my throat, which was due to the anti-biotics that were being inject into my veins every few hours. Candidiasis is basically thrush and is the worst, driest sore throat you could imagine, causes a terrible tickling cough - not v good if you have stitches -and severe pains every time you swallow. Cue more drugs to cure that.
I came out last thursday, after ten days. My surgeon, who's poked around an open stomach or two, said my gall bladder was one of the worst he had seen. There's still pain around the stitches and deep in my lungs and the candidiasis is taking a long time to go. I can't sleep in any other position than flat on my back. Which means I dont sleep, much. I feel pretty weak most of the time. It will, I'm told, be several weeks before I can resume proper exercise or swimming, which puts paid to my ambition to take part in the Crouch End 10k later this month. My taste buds are mostly fucked for a while - wine and coffee taste terrible - my appetite is a bit lacking, although I eat once food is put in front of me. And I cant bend over or stretch very much. I'm not complaining about this, it just happened.
The good thing is that I dont have to worry about changing my diet. We can, it seems do without these troublesome organs. Neither, according to my surgeon, can I attribute what happened in any way to lifestyle factors. Gall bladders just go wrong, no-one quite knows why.
And like everyone else who experiences the NHS from the er, consumers' point of view, I came away utterly in awe of some of the nurses - their expertise (don't ever, ever, let a junior doctor starting poking around trying to get a needle into the veins on the back of your hand) their endless patience with difficult and demanding patients and their ability to work incredibly long hours and remain alert and cheerful. It made some of my twelve hour shifts as night editor of the Independent seem child's play. As for hospital food, well, I'll get back to that another day.
As I said, stuff happens. I'm not whining, just getting it all down while its still fresh and to help me keep my writing hand in. And although I was far from being in a seriously life threatening situation, I'm aware that sometimes we get forced out of of our comfort zones. Just a tad more aware of some of the realities of life. So that's why I'm particularly relishing the bursting, vibrant greener-than-green leaves of this spring, the remaining blossom, the sunshine, and, most of all, the birdsong in my garden in the early evening. I'm going to try and have a good summer.