WIndy

We're just back from quite a long trip to Portugal, where we had an extremely carnivorous time, chomping our way through a meat parade of chicken, chops and steaks accompanied by mountains of very delicious chips.  

On our return we barely fitted through the front door. I headed straight over to the greengrocer's to stock up on cabbages, beans, peppers and artichokes, serving them up with dahl, hummous and baked beans. The affect on our systems has been dramatic and we are currently unfit for human company, even now we daren't stay too long in the same room as I'm pretty sure we constitute a fire hazard.

In the morning I head to the coast for a swim - curious to see if my internal combustion engine can propel me across the channel

to make Kale crisps

tear up dry raw pieces of kale leaf without any stem, rub them over LIGHTLY with nice oil and lay the pieces out on a baking sheet. Sprinkle with salt and bake in a moderate oven for about 5 minutes.   When you remove them from the oven you must EAT THEM INSTANTLY they are delicious for precisely 30 seconds ... at 31 seconds they are foul

I'm all about food this week

WOMAD starts on Thursday - this is the 10th year that I will be shopping, chopping and hopping around for this musical food event * 

This year's big challenge has been to find a ewe's cheese like one used in Romania to make a rustic dish called Shut-up-and-swallow. I am also looking for live clams, garden eggs and several shades of yellow/green plantain

three years ago Babylon Circus made this film about their experience of Taste the World




*if you click the 'womad' tag below all previous posts on this annual extravaganza will appear

Who Ate All The Pies?

Lisbon is lovely but I headed straight out to Belem where the world-famous-best-ever Portuguese custard pies are made. This turned out to be the world's biggest cake-eating palace, as well as all the almond cakes, rice cakes, meringues and gateaux made here, 12,000 custard pies are baked and eaten daily in a cafe that can seat 2,000 cake-eaters.

Some Azorean Culture

I have a new bff in the Azores, keen to educate me in the culture of the islands she has sent me this link featuring Azorean singer Zeca Medeiros. I love it.

New Year - French style

2nd January
We were at the Village Hall for New Year’s Eve. My chum Mme B organised the bash and as she has fallen out with half the French people in the village and, as I'm a bit scared of her, I was press-ganged in to make up numbers. The Director isn’t naturally sociable and he doesn’t speak much French - he doesn’t like staying out late either so I realised that I wasn’t giving him much of a treat when I bought the tickets.

Mme B called me to make sure that we’d be there prompt at 8, this was so we could stand around drinking warm whisky and cheap port for two hours. At ten we noticed that the old people had sat down and were clenching cutlery in their hands, we followed suit and soon the the giblet salads appeared. We were just beginning to think that it might all be ok when the disco started - an elderly swinger in tight white pants and toupee put Agadoo on his decks and everybody got up to dance.

There was at least an hour of dancing between each course. The French people round here really like interactive dancing, Discoman played lots of brass oompah tunes and everyone knew what to do, all the arms in the air at the same time, kicking in unison, I suppose it’s a version of line dancing but I don’t know how to do that either. The funny thing was, how nobody noticed when midnight came, The Director looked at his watch and said it’s 12.30 in an incredulous tone that meant and we’ve only just had soup.

The main course (duck breast) arrived at 2am and still there was cheese, salad and dessert to come, then there would be bubbly and as there weren't many of us in the first place, there was no going home before the frizzante.

I had to sling The Director over my shoulder and give him a Fireman's Lift home. After I put him to bed I went down for breakfast and noticed that the dartboard I gave him two weeks ago is still on the floor behind the chair.

Looking for the Chicken Nugget Tree

25th September
Most of the British population here are attending French classes as a way of trying to get to grips with the language. Fat Dad however, has taken the osmotic approach to language learning, that well known process where simply being in France makes the language absorb through the skin. He doesn’t believe in school so his children don’t go. And because it’s really hard communicating with French people when you don’t speak the language, the osmotic method is slow.

Sometimes I stop by his gate and let Fat Dad lecture me, he always has a lot to say about the evils of processed food, he doesn’t allow his children any sugar or salt and wants them to grow up eating food that they have grown or foraged themselves, living off the land 'like the French do'. Their vegetable garden isn't going yet, so it’s down to foraging for the moment. He asks if I have any idea what is around that they could gather. There are figs everywhere, I get him a plateful. He looks mystified - I show him how to eat the fruit. He tries a little and decides that figs are not going to be on their menu, they’ve also rejected tomatoes and apples - I’m curious to know what they do eat.

It was the eldest child’s birthday today, Fat Dad took his son to visit neighbours so they can announce the event. I passed by with a card and was invited into their house for the first time. The kitchen is dominated by a huge table mostly covered with power tools, screws and nails, children and mother are sitting at the table happily munching away from a big tray of cold white oven chips, a dish of hard boiled eggs and a tray of chicken nuggets. This is the food they like, Fat Dad says,
on special occasions we have this for a treat.

Supper at the village hall

17th August
We're usualy too tired to go out in the evenings but last night The Director and I went to the Salle des Fetes to join in with the annual summer dinner party. Bic Biro, the Bontettes and Scary Eena were there, and Bruno the Knob Destroyer, drunk, he simultaneously sprayed me with the cracker he was eating while bashing my left breast as he gesticulated. The dumb smiley girl I washed bottles with last month was also there with a man I took to be her twin brother until she introduced him to me as her boyfriend. I watched The Director gradually nodding forward as the evening wore on, he straightened up with a jerk now and again until he finally gave in and dropped off. His snoring drew a bit of attention but not as much as I would've expected, no one pointed and laughed like they do in England.

My humane trap stayed empty for a couple of days, then yesterday, sitting happily in the cage with a walnut in his hands, was a half-tailed mouse. Clearly none the worse for Thursday's adventure, this time I took him a good mile up the road to let him out.

Horizontal vs Vertical meals

16th August
The days have started falling into a sort of rhythm now. Breakfast happens around 7ish. Then kit is packed for the day's filming. There have been some trips up into the mountains looking for ephippigers (a chunky sort of cricket the size of a big thumb) and grasshoppers, in which case a picnic is packed. When filming is close by we have the picnic here, under the lime tree if it's nice enough (weather is not great at the moment). Plates are piled high and massive multi-layered sandwiches are constructed. We’ll have a coffee then head straight back out to work, the whole event turns around in about half an hour

By contrast in French homes and lunchtime cafés, the elements of a meal are spaced out. A bowl of soup is followed by a plate of tomatoes then paté and pickles. The main dish is something like steak or casserole. Then dessert, coffee and back to work having had a two-hour break.

After lunch we will work until suppertime, I often light a fire outside near the lime tree and cook there because our scullery kitchen is damp and squalid. Something like grilled meat, new potatoes and whatever vegetables are looking good at the moment. Then cheese and salad or dessert. After eating, people might call partners, play cards, continue talking and drinking. The filming plan for the next day is made before bed.

The second supper event

10th August
Keen to make up for last month's debacle when I treated the Bontette's to a charred yet semi-raw dinner, and wanting to prove that the English do in fact know a thing or two about food, I invited them to join us for supper last night.

My sister wanted to make a Tiramisu for dessert and got started with laying out sponges and mixing creamy stuff before realising that we’ve run out of coffee, so she improvised.
One thing I’m starting to notice about the French is that they’re quite particular about certain recipes and can argue for many hours about the exact proportion of, for example, flour to milk for a pancake or exactly which cheese must be used in a quiche.
I decided to play safe with the main course and prepared chicken thighs roasted with lemon, honey and thyme, slapped it in the oven and went on my evening search for crickets to feed the mantids that we are keeping in the newly cleared studio.

The Bontette's arrived in all their usual glamourousness. We did a tour of the 'improved' premises, I'm not sure what impression the use of a spanner to enter a room gives, but the 'fingertip-grip-then pull' technique on a strip of metal screwed to the front door in order to leave the house didn't go down well. Mme B shows me how this is not possible with a French manicure.

The Director showed our rushes and I forgot about the chicken, by the time we're back at the table there's an acrid smell coming from the kitchen. But the guests might not have noticed because we're suddenly busy trying to find non-lethal seating. I've noticed that the chairs bend alarmingly under the stress of people-weight on all those woodworm holes so I open the doors to let the smoke out of the house and do a bit of chicken rescue work while the men search the attic for more furniture.

Once we're settled, supper is animated and goes swimmingly. It's time for the finale, dessert is served. Mme Bontette exclaims 'Ah superbe une Charlotte’, my sister corrects her

no, not a Charlotte - it’s a Tiramisu, but with fruit and jelly instead of coffee and chocolate

Village Fete

19th July
The village is en fete this weekend kicking off with an opening night supper. Last night I found myself in the kitchen at the Salle des Fetes washing wine bottles with a dumb smiley woman in bright lipstick. People buzzed around chopping tomatoes, making salads and above all chatting. A woman stirred sausages in a large cauldron placed on a gas burner. The sausages emit so much water that they are stewing not sizzling. Smiley Woman and I filled wine bottles from large plastic containers, helped fuss around with tables, chairs and decorations then went home to get dressed up. Later, when guests arrive they are given two thin plastic trays, one with a salad in it and the other containing the grey sausage and lentils. I took mine and joined three elderly ladies on one of the plastic tables outside. One of them - a fierce-looking lady in slippers is a reincarnatation of Eena Sharples  for half an hour I am a member of their coven as they exchange gossip and sharp observations. It’s huge fun. Suddenly clouds scud over and there’s clearly going to be a storm. Two of my companions have finished eating and head inside but seconds of sausage are coming round, I correctly judge how much sausage I can eat before the raindrops start falling but Eena doesn’t  I dash in to shelter as she struggles manfully on in the rain.