Every now and again I empty my wallet of receipts. I don't know about you, but I find them shockingly revealing of a lifestyle I didn't know I had …
I present the following without comment or expurgation. I haven't taken non-food receipts out of the list - there weren't any.
This recipe may sound a bit odd (though it shouldn't) - but it's easily my favourite pasta dish – if you don't count linguine con vongole. It's also one of those storecupboard staples that produces a fantastic yet sophisticated meal, easily and cheaply.
I've named it after a similar dish at Chalk Farm restaurant Marine Ices on which my version is - dare I whisper it? - an improvement.
On the back of a door in the ladies' loos in the Renoir cinema near Russell Square. This. Is. London.
Below is the third best breakfast I've ever had in my life. What is it, and what are the other 2? Read on, baby …
I don't make bread. The sort of people who make their own bread, as we all know, are either self-important Islington twats who nest amongst ethnic cushions, French films and heavy-framed glasses with plain lenses, or hut-dwelling field folk who breed spaniels and knit their own muesli. Not me.
Tired of the winter? Actually I'm not, and as it's my blog we're playing it my way. So here's some comfort food with warming spice as we enter chapter II of Debbie's Deep South food porn marathon …
Continue reading "New Orleans Foodyssey II: Creole and Cajun" »
This year, I finally put my foot down. At the Christmas meal my friends and I arrange every year, there was no way I would settle for any more of that rehydrated sawdust stuffing - I want meat, and plenty of it.
This stuffing worked well, so I thought I'd share the recipe in case anyone is stumped for something to a bit of extra flavour to the ol' turkey.
New Orleans is the home of two of the world's great sandwiches. Warning: the following images may make you hungry.
What are hares? Once familiar to the point of ubiquity, mythically resonant to the point of legendry and eaten to the point of … well, eaten, these beasts are now scarcely recognised. Easter bunny? It was really a hare, you know.
Respected and feared for their solitary nature and - I suspect - their strange, staring eyes, hares across the world are immortalised in fairytale as madmen, tricksters and messengers of the moon. They are noble, weird, and a rare winter treat.
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