Brains, Boobs & Boots

The man of least resistance

2012-01-25T23:59:00.001Z

This week our short story brief was to write 250-500 words inspired by a randomly selected object from the teacher's bag of tricks (mine was the phone skin above), with the idea of developing a character in preparation for next week's class.

A bit soppy, maybe, but this is my effort, although I'm sure there will be much tweaking of punctuation and word choice before the next 7 days are up!

The man of least resistance
“I said I was fucking sorry, learn to take a fucking apology already! You know sometimes you are such a fucking dick!”

“Dirty mouth, dirty habits, how about some other words for a change.”

“Fuck off, motherfucker!”

The door to the apartment slams shut, the echo of her words pitting the air like shrapnel. I’m so irritated I feel like I’m having a heart attack, my chest is tight and adrenaline’s making my hands shake.

I heave myself off the sofa. I need to do something. Take action. Take control, that’s what my dad used to tell me. I start the usual tour of duty, defusing the landmines and booby-traps she lays with discarded plates and half-emptied coffee cups, pausing in the bathroom to wipe out the amazing technicolour rim of hair dye on the basin and stuff the discarded snakeskin of her tights into the basket.

There’s something else. Another shed skin, a shiny one. An old phone fascia, hers of course, though I doubt anyone would credit me with a sparkly phone cover with the word SEXY in pink diamonds on the back.

Don’t smile. You’re angry, stay angry. I mean it, don’t smile.

“Sexy texty”, she’d laughed when she first showed it to me, waggling it in my face and giving her bottom a little mock-sexy shake. She does have a nice bottom.

“It’s so I can send you dirty photos of myself while you’re at work, it’s my new persona.”

“You don’t really need a new phone cover for that.”

“Of course, I do. I can’t send porn from a phone that looks like Clarice Cliffe designed it.”

Yep, that’s her, a girl who references Clarice Cliffe and porn in the same sentence, who can choose her words with surgical precision, but still prefers the blunt instrument of ‘motherfucker’.

“Anyway, I bet Clarice Cliffe girls are all bony and angular, the new sexy, like Keira Knightley, that’s hardly where your tastes run to”

“Yeah, where do my tastes run?”

“More … more like the inappropriately dressed drunk girl on a Saturday night … but with better legs. Look how shiny. It’s really my post-modern tits ‘n’ ass statement. Who wouldn’t want a text from a phone like this?”

The front door opens, keys thunk into the bowl on the hall table, flying shoes precede her into the room. Wading through sofa cushions like surf, she lands heavily on my lap, then nuzzling under my jumper blows a giant raspberry on my stomach. She reappears, static making a bright red halo of her hair.

“Look what I got,” she giggles, brandishing a new phone cover emblazoned with the Union Jack.

“It’s my ironic BNP statement. Rule Britannia baby, we can wave it at the Proms. Don’t you just love it?”

She gives a little bounce, then cocks her head.

“Are you done being cross with me yet?”

I sigh, and smile. I am. I always am.

the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

2012-01-23T10:27:00.001Z

I've been circling the citadel of fiction writing for the last 25 years, with nary a plotline flung from the parapet, and unable to find another way in. Though it's hardly desperate times, I nonetheless took the desperate measure of signing up for a short story writing course in the hopes of locating that elusive key.

Our first assignment is to write a piece of flash fiction, that is a short story with an exact word count (in this case a Drabble, 100 words long excluding titles) that must have at least one character and a discernible plot.

After long hours staring at a blank screen, several anxiety-filled toasted sandwiches, and a reality-denying afternoon nap, here's my first attempt at fiction since my last matric English exam ...

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

“Picture of indolence”, Fox sneered from his perch. “Fat old man, lazy fleabitten dog. “

Fox nuzzled his pelt, glossy from good eating, and the fat milk-tipped brush that was his pride. He’d been nimble. He’d been quick. Why, he was so fast, he’d outrun his own fleas on occasion.

“And I can outrun that mangy hound too!”

He tensed. He sprang. He flew.

Straight … swift … finding purchase … grappling … nearly there ...

“Hell, yeah!”

But, oh! Oh, that lazy dog! As that saucy tail flicked over his nose, the steel trap of his jaws snapped shut.

Not so lazy after all.

Alternate versions

2012-01-23T09:52:00.000Z

I've dismally failed to write a word since coming back to the sanctuary of my little flat last September. I've had stories to tell, and time to tell them, just no inclination.

The food thing started to bore me, just as this blog had started to bore me the year before, and the diet blog, meant to be funny, was too much exposure to a personal topic, and so crashed and burned with alarming rapidity.

At the best of times, I struggle with the idea of an audience (even one as loyal and supportive as mine), backing away, as I do in all things, from any sense of being observed. It's a contrary position for a blog writer to take, and one I should probably try to work against, if I'm to continue with my writing practice.

My solution is to write whatever I feel like, and split it across the various platforms I've set up (and maybe new ones, if I'm so inclined), with Facebook being my common denominator.

So, I'm back. Or at least trying to be. And for now mostly likely to be here, or here.

What goes down must come up

2011-08-18T20:44:00.000+01:00

Bonjour from La Belle France (encore)!

My extended silence since ski season has been less to do with a lack of incident, and more to do with the fact that I've been pretty much working like a donkey. Unable to say 'no' to employment or opportunity, I've been to Copenhagen, California, Dublin, Norway, France (several times) and sundry UK addresses, racking up more flights in the last 8 months than I have in the previous 8 years. I'm feeling pretty satisfied that I have comprehensively fulfilled my own brief to cram my post-(H)ex life with adventure, but, when a six week slog in Provence starts to look like a welcome respite from the rest of my schedule, I have to admit that even I might have gone too far.

Though my punitively Calvinist work ethic usually prohibits me from enjoying the few perks that come with working for the wealthy, I was determined that, on this long job, I would find some way to benefit from my surroundings, and since what I most love to do is set off on cycling adventures for which I am inappropriately under-prepared, in my off hours I have been out colonising Le Petit Luberon on a borrowed bicycle.

I'd like to claim that I've been reliving some of the glories of my earlier epic cycle from Spain, but since, on a scale from 'pitiful' to 'risible', my fitness levels currently register somewhere around 'pathetic', any scraps of sporting credibility have been shredded by my rasping pleas for oxygen and the ensuing full-body paralysis. Ah, good times!

Fortunately, I am nothing if not bloody-minded (news to no-one!), and my physical unsuitability for the task at hand is hardly an adequate reason to lie in bed, so though the huffing and puffing has yet to diminish, I am nonetheless managing to assemble a motley collection of 'central marker' photographs as heavy-breathing-sweaty-faced-aching-legged proof of delivery to random destinations.

Alongside my recreational kicks, I've been using this job as another opportunity to extend my range - professional pride dictating that I should be able to crank out 6 weeks worth of food without repetition, although in reality I'm a long way from there - and have been working my way through Denis Cotter's latest book, which is so good that I have quite forgiven him for forgetting about me three times and giving my stage placement to someone else. But these ups have, disappointingly, been accompanied by more downs than usual, a culmination of the niggling doubts I've had for the last few months that I am not enjoying my job as much as I used to. I had been flirting with the idea of following up the summer with a shooting season, and possibly even another ski season, so I was surprised, a couple of weeks in, by the lucidity of the unbidden realisation that this is in fact my last job.

In truth, I've been skirting the outer reaches of my tolerance for homelessness since ski season, while still vacillating for months over my next steps. Finding a balance between my itinerant adventurer and my happy homemaker has turned out to be more difficult than I would have predicted, although, as I flick through the Ikea website, like some form of habitational porn, I have to acknowledge that the consumate nest-builder in me is winning.

Knowing that to change the game I'd have to force my own hand, I have deliberately left my life as a blank space from September, in the hopes that going with the flow would yield a promising new direction. And sure enough, swept along on that current, I found myself hopping the midnight flight on Tuesday for a 24-hour London jaunt, and an interview for a proper job as chef at the Fulham Palace cafe. Though there is, of course, many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, it has all the hallmarks of an ideal next move. A single chef gig, I'd have input into menu development, plenty of cake making (for that segue into pastry that is my heart's desire), a five day working week and regular day time hours (leaving me time to re-discover some of those other interests that have been lost to my obsessive engagement with a foodie career), though everyone who knows me will doubtless agree that the prospect of movies in the manicured grounds, outdoor theatre and an on-site sculpture garden must surely be the clincher.

Happily, I've come back to France with an agreed trial date (6th Sept), the task being to prepare one sweet and one savoury seasonal, cafe-appropriate dish, and I'm feeling reasonably confident that if I don't flub it, the job could be mine. I've undertaken to think 'fast thoughts' for my friend the Awesome Oarsman, as she takes on her next rowing World Championship challenge, so please can you all think 'creative, delicious and competent' thoughts for me!

Either way, it has made me realise that I am, in fact, quite definitely moving back to London, and that (at least for now) no other option is going to satisfy me. It's an equal parts scary and exciting leap of faith - especially as I've also determined that I can at last take on the financial risks of a flat on my own - but I'm going to trust that 'all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well'. Life has been full of a satisfying, if hard earned, sense of forward motion over the last 18 months, and the sudden quickening of the pace feels like an energising reward.

In fact, it feels like time for a party!

On Saturday, 29th October, I will reach the halfway mark on the unavoidable penance for being declared officially feckless and irresponsible. Since what seemed such an unmitigated disaster at the time, has in fact borne incredibly rich fruit, the moment appears ripe to crack open my bottles of birthday Tattinger and toast these next steps.

39 Things I've never done before

2011-05-24T13:57:00.000+01:00

In response to the spiritual malaise I felt upon turning 39, I determined to complete at least 39 things I had never done before by the time I turned 40. Well, the day of reckoning is upon me, so here are the highlights:

Up, up and away in a hot air balloon
An Earl has paid for my services
Been a galley slave for the Round The Island Yacht Race
Visited the gardens at Tresco
Delegated the making of food for one of my parties - a growth experience!
Done an island to island swim
Been queen for a day, with the crown to prove it
Flown in a twin otter
Been a mystery shopper/diner
Eaten Cullen skink in Cullen
Taught a lesson at Dublin Cookery School
Swum naked in a river
Been the recipient of a round of ‘for she’s a jolly good fellow’
Fallen in love with Dublin
Been a life model
Skinned a rabbit
Learned to make the perfect martini
Been fired from a job
Lived in France
Been a magician's lovely assistant
Cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge
Learned to drive an automatic
Eaten at Chez Panisse
Bowed before the king (ie. Rene Redzepi) in Copenhagen
Skied Le Face, the World Cup black run in Val d'Isere
Propositioned a man by texting him a naked picture of myself
Danced to Prince in concert at the LA Forum
Been Page 5 girl of The Guardian
Been a consultant
Had a near miss flirtation with Ireland's Only Single Plastic Surgeon
Victorious in the soon-to-be-world-famous, but previously untested, four-legged race
Cooked for a ex-convict
Had an American e-pie-phany!
Went all the way on a San Francisco trolley
Sat on Hans Christian Andersen's knee
Won a popularity contest, through fair means and foul
Exuded the most Nigella-ness
Earned a 500 euro tip, and I'm not saying what for!
Been rendered speechless ... everybody else's fantasy fulfilled!

Spring is sprung, the grass is riz ...

2011-03-24T20:36:00.000Z

The Great Spring Thaw of ‘11 is upon us. The mountain opposite my office window is exposed, the village fountain flows freely, and the slope conditions fluctuate wildly from early morning ice to lunchtime slush. Heralds of spring every one, but none so convincing as the newly minted boarding card I now hold in my hand. Three and a bit weeks to go before I shake the snow from my boots and exhale that fresh Alpine air. Noise, dirt, and the combined ill-temper of 6 million rats living in too-close confines await me. Ah, civilisation. I can‘t wait!

As the end date draws closer, and the race to empty my store cupboard picks up pace, I’m enjoying a second wind of enthusiasm for this lark, but only because it will soon be over. I’m very pleased to have ticked this near-twenty-year ambition off my list, and in some ways the enforced isolation has provided a useful reflection period after the non-stop activity of last summer, but I can’t deny that my final summation is 25 for, 75 against (still, as I like to say, it’s not an adventure without some bad bits).

Despite my successful descent of Le Face, the World Cup black run (points awarded for survival, rather than stylistic merit), I still don’t much care for skiing. There have been some glorious days that almost changed my mind, and I’m delighted that, in defiance of my natural conservatism where physical risk is concerned, I’ll now happily throw myself down a red run, and can accept that (some) speed is a prerequisite for control, but I’d still rather lunch with moguls than try to navigate around them.

Of my other stated ambitions, I’ve started my food blog, not lost my fat ass, pitched some book ideas, not improved my photographic skills, filled most of my summer work calendar, not re-designed my website, and, most importantly, I think I have improved my food skills.

Having abandoned my ambitions to formally plated food in the first month, and reverted to the Ottolenghi style and flavour profile that are my natural inclination, I’ve experimented with ideas from first principles, devised some recipes I can now truly claim as my own, I’m awesome at making bread, and, after the relentless 6-day, week in, week out schedule, the dinner party circuit should be a doddle. At least 22 out of the 25 pro-points in this single paragraph.

But, it’s both time for a break, and some fresh input, before I launch myself into my summer schedule, So, next stop, new adventure.

Back in the UK just long enough to breathe in the joys of my home country, remember what it’s like to drive my car, and dig my bicycle out of storage, and I’m off again.

First to Copenhagen with The Incomparable K, where art hotels, beer tours, esoteric kitchen equipment, and both the world’s best restaurant, and Europe’s best chef, await us.

Then it’s California, with the possibility of a stage at Chez Panisse in San Francisco, followed by a freewheeling tour of Steinbeck country, the winelands and Big Sur, before a reunion in LA with a school friend I haven’t seen since we were 16 year-old truanting co-conspirators, which should either make me feel young again, or very, very old.

Either way, the perfect segue into turning 40!

Postcards from the edge

2011-02-08T20:30:00.001Z

The long silence since my last update has been less due to neglect than the fact that, until recently, there has been little to tell.

Immediately after the boot debacle - which saw me mid-ski lesson, barefoot in the snow, crying from the pain and throwing a tantrum any toddler would have been proud to own - the ski bosses took me on my first ‘grown up’ ski, starting on a ridiculously steep slope straight out the lift, and ending on a very icy, way-out-of-my-comfort-zone red run. From the moment my skis hit snow at the top of the mountain, until I finally felt the terra firma of tarmac beneath me at the bus stop in Le Daille, I whimpered like a puppy from fear. Safe to say, nobody had a good time that day.

I’m just not a thrill-seeker, so progress has been in fits and starts, with plenty of time out to recover from the terror of teetering on the edges of a mighty precipices (precipi?), or anthill-sized green runs, depending on your perspective. A skiing friend’s recent visit seems to have now successfully adjusted my attitude, and I have made it down four red runs this week - admittedly the only flair on display was probably distress, but I think I am now qualified to say that I ski.

Despite this recent success, ski season has been a bit of a curate’s egg (then again, it’s not a real adventure without some bad bits), and, despite nudges from the ski bosses, I remain unconvinced that I‘ll need to repeat the five months of splendid, snow-bound isolation.

It would be churlish not to bask in the glories of breathtaking views, brilliant sunshine and crisp white snow bowls, and I’m very aware of the ironic fabulousness of my personal disasters opening up a world of such luxury to me, but I can’t deny that I’m ambivalent about the concept of rugged mountain ranges groomed nightly for the sole playtime pleasure of the privileged few. And, I’m afraid that the unappealing “Hooray Henrys” that make up the bulk of our clients do little to dispell my reservations.

Thankfully, not every group provokes a shudder of aversion, and the undoubted highlight of the season so far has been the visit of the group of Irish plastic surgeons (actually only 3, we don‘t think Ireland has 18!), and their rabble of revelling associates. Amongst their number, Ireland’s Only Single Plastic Surgeon turned out to be a willing and enthusiastic participant in a focussed bout of entertaining banter in the pub one night. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again - ah, how I do love the Irish.

Most amusingly, when I recounted the story of my near-miss flirtation to a Dublin-based friend, she could name and shame him (although they are not personally acquainted) and list his latest conquests. Apparently, during public appearances, women line up to speak to the very man I was abusing with such flirtatious zeal in the Moris bar, although, three sheets to the wind as I was, I couldn‘t possibly say if this is due to the quality of his conversation, or the cachet of his consultant status. Hearing this made me glad I had caught the bus home, rather than run away to join that particular circus, I’ve never been one for queuing.

But the energy and enthusiasm of the group, and the sheer, unadulterated joie de vivre that flirting always provokes in me, has gone a long way to enhancing my general enjoyment of what has otherwise been an ironically anti-social season. It doesn’t hurt either that the wives, who came out for the first half of the week, were haggling over who would host me in Dublin when I go over to give them a cookery demo.

On the plus side, so much time spent avoiding the slopes has meant I have had plenty of time to address my list of ten things to accomplish during these five months - learning to ski being the after-thought addition at No. 10.

I finally started a food blog - Fake It Til You Make It - on Christmas Day, as practice for the time when I transition from ‘cook who writes’ to ‘writer who cooks’.

And, as many of you will know, things on that front have been going with a surprising schwing.

Firstly, I took part in a ‘Forever Nigella’ tribute blogging contest, and won for exuding the most ‘Nigella-ness’ - I’ve always said anything she can do, I can do better, but that was more about anatomy than culinary credentials.

Then, I entered the Dorset Cereals Little Blog Awards, and with the concerted efforts of my many canvassing friends and family, pulled that one out the bag too (thank you again).

Finally, because three makes a collection, the chalet company I'm working for was featured in an article in The Guardian newspaper on chalets for foodies, with a surprising amount of coverage being given to my tricks.

It’s fortunate that age and infirmity insist I decline a future as a downhill ski racer, but perhaps this early 2011 success is a sign that the cooking/writing lark really is where I’m meant to be headed.

Now, of course, the question is, what do I do for an encore?

Happy New Year!

2010-12-31T10:34:00.001Z

From the desk of ...

2010-12-22T10:25:00.003Z

To my elite, and much cherished, band of readers - thank you for following my blog.

But, it's time for a change ...

Since my earlier stated ambition is to one day make the transition from 'cook who writes' to 'writer who cooks', I've decided to move my attentions over to a new blog project:

Fake It 'Til You Make It (http://learnerchef.blogspot.com)

This will be the first of several food-related blogging/writing projects I have up my sleeve over the next 12-18 months, which will hopefully let me sharpen my writing skills in pursuit of that eventual career change.

If you have an interest in my food adventures, it would be great if you wanted to follow me at my new online location. I'd also love it if you could recommend me to anyone you think might be interested in following my journey to becoming a chef/writer. Having happily nestled in obscurity for the last two years, I now actively want to drum up an audience to foster my greater ambition.

You can subscribe by email in the same way, or follow me in one of the online readers. I have also set up a Fake It Til You Make It Facebook page.

To start myself off, I have copied over some of my more food-centric posts from this blog, and will probably continue my storytelling in much the same vein, but with more recipes, photos and food trivia as well, and hopefully a more frequent posting schedule.

I feel a lot of affection for this blog, my first foray into putting words into the public domain (and getting over my crippling performance anxiety), but until I think of a new positioning for it, I'll probably only be posting here on an extremely ad-hoc basis.

So thank you again for taking the time to read my posts.

See ya at the big one!

Savoie faire

2010-12-15T13:24:00.004Z

Well, here I am, in Val d'Isere, on the next leg of my post-(H)ex life of adventure, working the season as a chef for the ultra cool chalet company, Hip Hideouts.

The effects of one's own agency never cease to amaze me - one minute I'm ensconced in love-of-my-life-London, the next I'm living in France with a real job (pleasingly I've discovered that chefs are at the upper end of the ski resort hierarchy, with nannies and chalet girls being the unfortunate bottom-feeders) and place to stay, and though I've only been here ten days, it seems quite natural to be in this snow-clad arena making the short commute to work across the bridge, the icy Isere rushing below me and mountains towering on all sides.

The language barrier remains the only jarring element of my otherwise seamless segue. Despite 6 emergency language lessons before I set out, my French retains the lack of lustre of a 20 year concerted effort to forget everything I had bullied into me at school. I have managed to spit out “j’ai passé une commande” with some fluency, before being hobbled by my inability to say what I had ordered. Fortunately, rubbing one’s stomach and issuing the tentative word ‘porc’ is apparently a legitimate purchasing strategy, if not exactly calculated to raise one’s self-esteem. I’ve had slightly greater success with the baker, once I realised the trick is to discourage conversation by cramming all the relevant information into one's opening sentence. All things considered, whilst I’m now assiduously listening to the spy tapes ‘the squillionaire’ bootlegged for me, it’s probably best to leave any discussion of my rich internal life to the end of the season.

So far, this ski season lark is a great freebies wheeze. I'm now proudly clutching a season ski pass, comprehensive on- and off-piste insurance, a new North Face windbreaker, skis for the season, and five days of beginners lessons. I did have to fork out 80 euros for a helmet, but remain upbeat about that investment on the (I think, correct) assumption that, while my greatest achievements are ahead, my greatest assets are above.

Weighed down by all my swag, yesterday I finally got out on the slopes for the first time, my nascent attempts at skiing being predictably unbecoming - I fell off the drag lift, shed tears before closing and generally made a terrified ass of myself. But, I have committed to a month of effort before I declare where my affections lie. Right now, the most enthusiasm I can muster is "I don’t completely hate it". If I can pass from outright fear and loathing to something resembling enjoyment, my built-in reward system dictates I try paragliding next.

My Stormtrooper-white ski boots must, however, be the most uncomfortable footwear ever devised. Frozen rigid by a night in the -23 atmosphere of our vestibule (ice on the inside!), they had transformed from quite amenable into the most unforgiving icy slipper an ugly sister has ever tried to cram her giant clodhopper into. Twenty minutes of cussing while I hopped around the hallway leaning on poor Graham resulted in an "I hate skiing" declaration before we had even left the apartment. Lesson learnt, however. It's a sad day indeed when you realise that taking your ski boots to bed is perhaps a more pressing concern than that 25-year-old-ski-instructor-with-piercing-blue-eyes-and-lower-than average-literacy-levels.

Fortunately, after a party at Snowberry last night (Europe's best ski shop - this place is crammed to the gills with superlatives, Val D is the most beautiful ski area in the world, apparently!), I can confirm that the ski instructors fall into two less than captivating camps - puffy-faced English boys and weathered Frenchmen. Then again, as a friend pointed out during my last Dublin visit, 'middle-aged men' seems to be one of my demographics, so perhaps all is not lost.

On which note, one of our January groups will be 18 plastic surgeons from Ireland (surely the country's entire contingent). Since my planned 40th birthday present to myself has always been to start at the ankles and pull everything two inches higher, tied off in a bow at the top.

Perhaps the moment is ripe to suggest this in place of a tip!

A date with density

2010-10-10T21:14:00.004+01:00

In one of my favourite childhood stories, Noddy gains custody of the Toy Town train after the greedy driver, who has been scrumping peaches from the side of the line, falls out of the cab while over-reaching for a particularly juicy specimen.

I remembered this today, as I balanced precariously across a nettle-filled ditch, doing my best not to tumble into a thorny hedgerow, while stretching to pick the fattest blackberries with which to make pâte de fruit.

I smiled to think that, perhaps, this early interest, echoing my current activity, demonstrated the inevitability that I would grow up to become a chef, and, spurred on by this rosy reminiscence, I meandered down the dark alley of other much-loved tales of my yoof:

Little Rogue, in which a rebellious baby elephant uses his powers (stamping, flapping, spearing and trumpeting) for naughtiness, and is exiled from the herd. Sent off into the wilderness, he finds himself cold, hungry and alone - poor Little Rogue (my strong sense of empathy amply demonstrated by copious weeping at this point in the story, every night for several years). A raft of good deeds later, however, he is redeemed and welcomed back with a “Good Elephant” medal and a satisfying bag of FIFTY buns (well, I do like to bake!).

Then there was Little O’s Naughty Day, another story of truancy and rehabilitation, involving random acts of vandalism such as frogs in the fresh milk, broken cameras, graffitied walls and mud-soaked new shoes. Another period of exile (stuck up a tree in the family orchard) brings about an attitude adjustment, and repentant and returned to the fold, she is rewarded with strawberries and cream. (The most significant detail of the story, for me, being “her brother Charlie gave her his biggest strawberry”.)

Recalling my favourite Just William story, however, I felt my thesis of inevitability start to unravel. Everyone’s favourite delinquent rescues a shopkeeper who has been imprisoned in his own storeroom, and is rewarded with all the sweets he can carry. There was many a happy childhood reverie spent planning the swag selection for my own, surely inevitable, heroic hour.

And then, my memories found their way from epic fiction to less-than-lofty fact - aged 4 or 5, having scoffed my fudge allocation at high speed, my transparently greedy tactic for eliciting a more-than-my-fair-share extra portion, was to announce loudly and cheerfully “I’m finished!” – an incident from the family archive still parodied to this day – and when that failed to secure another sugar fix, I’m pretty sure I mugged my long-suffering brother for half of his.

Suddenly, the truth dawned on me, and my fantasy of pre-destiny deflated as quickly as a balloon on a bramble. It was never my career that was inevitable, just my delinquent attitude and the ever-expanding size of my ass!

Pipe dreams

2010-10-09T15:30:00.007+01:00

When I was 21, I ran the Knysna half marathon. In fairness, ‘run’ is probably an over-statement of what I did, although it was a half marathon, and I did complete the course. I’ve already admitted that sporting prowess is not one of my gifts, and while I had some basic fitness, my real talent was (is!) for procrastination. For six weeks, in daily preparation, I repeated the statement of intent “today, I am going to start training”, without ever lacing up my shoes.

The inevitable result was walking like a Spaghetti Western extra for a week – a salutary lesson if ever there was one. These days (unplanned epic cross-country cycle rides notwithstanding), I do like to be ever so slightly more prepared.

Given that I only have 8 weeks before I hit the slopes, it, therefore, occurred to me that some rudimentary readying might be in order. I’ve heard that squats, lunges and leg extensions are all helpful, improved core stability a definite bonus and increased aerobic capacity would be gilding the lily.

But, 25-year-old ski instructors aside, my real interest in a ski season is all about the cooking. I’m more bread dough than snow plough, and really looking to up the ante on my existing skills. So my preparations look a little more like this:

When they insisted, at our six-week cookery school assessment, that we prove our ability to make a piping bag, I scoffed, thinking it a minor accomplishment. Now, I hold up my hands and admit I was wrong. If your ambition is to make the most fabulous food in Le Fornet, then it’s right up there in significance with learning to drive and being able to type 85 wpm.

Luckily, once learned, it’s like riding a bicycle, a couple of false starts, but you never really forget. So, while my learner efforts at chocolate embellishments are a little shaky today, by the time I’m shrugging the snow from my rucksack at the chalet door, I plan to be winning prizes.

Summer lovin'

2010-10-07T18:46:00.003+01:00

Still fixated on the desolate landscape of my love life, I decided to seek solace by ploughing old furrows. Time to return to the scene of last summer’s greatest triumph – not, as it turns out, the Welsh Whippet, but Samuel, my faithful sourdough starter.

Sadly, as is so often the way with these things, months of neglect, and a virulent form of fungal infection, had put paid to our love affair. I’m ashamed to admit that, until I went looking for old faithful this morning, I hadn’t actually noticed his demise, nor the fact that the bold and brave Knights of Acton had discreetly laid poor Sam to rest down the sink.

Fortunately, flour and water make a versatile medium, so, in the best Frank N. Furter tradition, I have set about making myself another ‘man’ (not usually given to this form of ribaldry, I find it more than I can resist not to declare that, while there’ll be no blonde hair, and no tan, there will definitely be nice buns).

But, before I, with typical indiscretion, throw myself whole-heartedly into an unhealthy and deep-seated affection for this new creation, I will acknowledge a central truth of this endeavour: in the rarified atmosphere of Alpine snow slopes, measured up against ‘tall and built like an ox’, this bowl of putty-coloured liquid is most likely to prove cold comfort.

And so, tipping my hat to that reality, I'm going to name this starter Seth.

Reasons to be grateful No. 6:

2010-10-01T20:32:00.001+01:00

Unexpected opportunities.

The internet dating bubble has finally burst.

Admittedly I’d deleted my profile several months ago, but it has taken until now to face the fact that, like everything else, my love life is in a sad state of recession.

I’d like to give more credit for the end of the boom years to that fickle creature, the dating male, but I should probably allow that the bouts of scary neediness, unreasonable prickliness and general ball-buster behaviour that have characterised my slow, post-(H)ex, return to dating form, may also have had something to do with my continued single status. Ah, good times!

Between the Irish Ox, the Welsh Whippet, Beulah, Bobster and a few errant ex-husbands, I seem to have run the gamut of possibilities within the British Isles from A to B. They say the mark of a good party is when you wake up the next day needing to change your name and leave the country. Now seems to be that moment.

So, when the opportunity to spend five months traversing the Alpine splendour of 25-year-old ski slope employees in Val d’Isere unexpectedly landed in my lap the other day, I found myself strangely unable to say “Non”.

On hearing that I would be surrendering my lovely room in pursuit of a French fancy, the Knights of Acton tried to helpfully highlight the flaws in my plan, starting with the obvious issue of snow. Snow is (apparently) not just wet, but actually cold, with the unfortunate habit of turning to grey slurry under the wheels of a 4x4. “Forget Christmas-card-Alpine views”, they warned, “think Napoleon’s 1812 retreat from Moscow.”

Instead, I fondly recalled the chiselled perfection of my snowboarding instructor, Aaron-of-the-piercing-blue-eyes-and-lower-than-average-literacy-levels.

“Sure, Baby, it’s cold outside, but is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

Fruits of the forest

2010-09-30T22:29:00.009+01:00

With my notoriously black thumb (houseplants are always an ill-advised gift), I’m never going to be a grow-your-own guru. My past is littered with failed attempts to play urban farmer from eviction from an allotment, to slug invasions on a biblical scale, ASBO hens, and of course, The Great Hastings Tomato Massacre, all accompanied by the background stench of haphazardly rotting compost.

My lack of skill doesn’t diminish the thrill I get out of harvesting from hedgerows, or enjoying the efforts of the more productive people I have encountered this year.

In France, I decimated the proud self-sufficiency of my hosts, who had somewhat underestimated the amount of food 18 people can eat in a week. Aubergines, tomatoes, sweetcorn, cucumbers and courgettes were amongst the crops that came under my knife only minutes after leaving the plot. Along the way, this typical Mediterranean fare was also unexpectedly boosted by something more familiarly English.

Emerging from my afternoon break, I was met by some of the participants on the men’s course, bristling with pride, and bearing gifts. In search of outside meditative space, they had been diverted into an hour or so of blackberrying, bringing back their harvest in a roughly crafted receptacle, complete with instructions.

The touching human element to this offering was possibly even more beguiling than its culinary potential, but I could only hurry to reinforce the faith that had assumed I would turn their efforts into a delicious reward. No-one in the group being familiar with clafoutis, this typically French dish seemed like an appropriate response, the round of applause I received later reinforcing the aptness of my selection.

Blackberry Clafoutis

60g plain flour
85g caster sugar
Pinch of salt
4 eggs
¾ pint milk
¼ pint cream
60g flaked almonds, toasted
500g blackberries (or enough to cover the base of a 10” tart pan)

Pre-heat oven to 190° C. Butter a 10” tart pan (not one with a removable base!). Make a batter with the flour, sugar, salt, eggs, milk and cream. Cover base of pan with fruit. Pour over batter. Scatter flaked almonds over the top. Bake for 40-45 minutes. The clafoutis is done when it has puffed up evenly to the centre. (If you are using a gas oven, place the clafoutis high in the oven, or it can burn on the bottom before it has cooked through.)

Winner and still champion

2010-09-27T15:19:00.003+01:00

There are some down sides to the itinerant lifestyle of private chef, the most glaring of which is that I don’t actually like being away from home. I’m constitutionally inclined to nesting, and suffer uncomfortable bouts of less-than-splendid isolation on every assignment. It’s worst at the beginning of the job, as both sides get each other’s measure, and slowly wears away as they are won over by good food and cheerful discretion, and I start to cross off meals in my mental countdown to departure day.

The prospect of feeling forlorn not being a legitimate reason for staying at home, I like to reassure myself that it wouldn’t be a true adventure without some more challenging aspects, and petting, stroking and other displays of appreciation from clients do go some way to counter-balancing my sense of dejection. In truth, since I’m not known to embrace the concept of delayed gratification, if I haven’t scored an ovation, an invitation to live with them, or professions of undying love by the last supper, I deem the job a lonely failure.

In the Scilly Isles, my clients ran an annual competition for the younger members of the party. Originally designed years ago to encourage their young sons outside on a rainy day (island weather being unpredictable at best), the competition consists of a number of (mainly) physical challenges such as cycling round the island, swimming through a sea cave, sand castle building etc with points awarded for each one. The biggest challenge, however, is the inter-island swim from Bryher to Tresco. For this, the score accumulation is a generous 20 points. Do it naked, and you can up the ante by 50 points.

The lure of a shiny prize (the most intrepid participant stands to win a specially engraved silver trophy) was compelling enough for me to devise a cunning strategy of non-participation, waiting to the last to sweep the board with my naked swim.

When it came down to it, it transpired 50 points wasn’t going to cut it, and I completed my channel crossing more conventionally attired, my sartorial selection no doubt contributing to the heady mix of relief and jubilation as I beached myself on Tresco. Admittedly, it’s a low-tide, mid-July feat, and, with shallow waters on either side, probably only constitutes 400m of actual swimming, but the no-exercise-since-Spain anxiety I felt had translated into fears from the audience that I might drown.

Despite my best doggy-paddle performance in years, I was a long way behind the front runner in the competition stakes, so no burnished trinkets for me (although an inter-island swim, no matter how unimpressive, still makes it onto my list of 39 Things).

Playing in the sea was a rare moment of camaraderie in a week that largely felt like a misfire in the client-relations department. Mostly I get on well with all concerned, but, occasionally, it’s plain that despite the veneer of politesse, going our separate ways is the best of all possible outcomes. So, imagine my surprise, returning from France in early September, to find a waiting parcel containing my own personalised Bryher to Tresco trophy. Most definitively not for my sporting prowess, somewhere along the way, my service style had managed to score a few points after all.

I’ve been the recipient of some really charming acts of appreciation during the course of the last six months - gestures of thoughtfulness and generosity that have conveyed real recognition of the effort and skill required by my job. I have prized them all, but been surprised by none more than this one.

Cycling home from Seville, I wore a pair gloves originally intended for an intrepid 9-year-old BMXer. Emblazoned with the legend “Winner and still champion”, I used this as my motivational mantra as I whined, moaned, sobbed and swore my way up every arduous ascent. Sometimes since then, when the adventure doesn’t feel like freewheeling, I remind myself of this consoling motto. And now, thanks to those funny clients, I have the trophy to go with it.

Musical cheers

2010-08-25T12:51:00.005+01:00

It has already been established that the most charitable description of my musical tastes I can hope for is ‘eclectic’ - Juluka, eighties cheese and high-pitched dog music (along with Alma Cogan and her sisterhood) forms the mainstay of my playlist to the derision of many.

But, no matter how questionable my choices may be, my heart is unshakeably loyal to certain songs, which have an irresistible power to transport me back to highly specific scenes and sensations …

Walking On Sunshine - Katrina and the Waves
Being a teenager in Pretoria, back when purple and yellow was a cutting edge sartorial statement - soaked to the skin by civil service rain and dancing like a dervish all the way back from the town centre to this song, playing only in my head.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love - Queen
The friendships only teenage girls can have - sitting in the Girls’ High grounds being serenaded by Jacqui Clarke, who twenty years later still remembered that I wanted to name my first-born after Holden Caulfield, and Facebooked me to find out if I had.

Somewhere In My Heart - Aztec Camera
The last summer after graduation, squatting in a friend’s flat, broke and unemployed but buoyed by perfect weather, the oft-repeated mantra “I have infinite confidence in my ability to find a job”, and the virtue of endless list-making - the tasks (fix swimming costume, buy denim jacket …) and debts (Ma R200, Truworths £150 …) chronicled on a roughly transcribed recipe I still use today.

Footloose - Kenny Loggins
My song for cycling through Spain - eating bread and honey on an isolated verge early one Sunday morning in the Basque Country, dancing to this song on my iPod, then turning round to bid an abashed good morning to the bemused Spanish farmer driving his tractor towards me.

Hyperactive - Thomas Dolby
My song for Ireland – too much pent-up sexual energy preventing me from sitting still, going to sleep or studying for the exams, so stalking it off on a nightly five mile hike around Shanagarry and Ballycotton to endless repetitions of this at a decibel level I’m sure to regret in later life.

You’re The One That I Want - John Travolta & Olivia Newton-John
In fact, this whole album and the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing – all-girl-kitchen days at Ottolenghi (the kitchen porter was forced to be an honorary girl), everyone singing and cooking in the sweltering heat, creating an energy that was quite different from the usual, more testosterone-charged atmosphere.

Smile - Lily Allen
A latecomer to the party, as ever, I only discovered this song after Lily Allen had 'retired' from music. Squawking tunelessly at high speed down the M5, on my way at last as a freelance chef, bemused to discover that there are oddly some XY-chromosome candidates who actually like this ball-buster music. There might be hope for me, after all.

In Dublin's fair city ...

2010-08-08T21:13:00.003+01:00

It’s not just cricket

2010-07-04T20:31:00.002+01:00

I spent six days last week in Oxfordshire, cooking at the most lavish house party I’m sure I’ll ever not be invited to. Hosted by the CEO of Dubai’s premier private equity firm, it reputedly cost £1.2million and was an intriguing blend of imaginative hospitality and crass over-consumption.

Largely consisting of cricket-mad Pakistani ex-pats, on arrival, each guest in the all-male party received bespoke cricket gear in order to take their place in one of the pre-arranged teams. For four days they waged battle against each other in true One Day International style, their antics flashed up on a giant screen by professional cameramen, and remarked upon by BBC commentator Jonathan Agnew, who memorably called time on his own participation by declaring he was leaving to commentate on the England v Australia match the following day.

At night they were entertained by live music, large scale banquets, comedians and other acts. The alcohol flowed from the moment eyes were reluctantly prised open in the morning, and the quantity of food was prodigious. In the grand scheme of things, my efforts, and those of the two chefs I worked alongside, were somewhat superfluous, since in addition to our planned menus, there was a full buffet of Indian food and a different external caterer each day including fish and chips in a vintage tram, wood fired pizza oven, spit roast and shwarmas, while Mr Whippy churned out free soft serve from his van alongside the pitch every afternoon.

A couple of days respite (interrupted by dinner for a former, now disgraced, MP and his wife), and it was time for another day, another county.

Situated on a picture-perfect, all mod-cons, worked-but-not-by-us farm, I am playing at being a genuine family cook for the first time. Given that I managed to lose 10lb over 8 days in May, working 15 hours a day to feed 16 very hungry adults, the load here is disconcertingly light (lunch and dinner for no more than four people at a time), although I did start my stint with a birthday party for 45 very over-excited seven year olds, screaming joyously as they bounced over the inflatable obstacle course in the paddock, and rampaged through the Laser Quest set up in the back garden.

Despite that, I’ve managed several afternoon naps already, so I’m feeling slightly more re-charged since my nervous energy has me waking at 4am every morning. It also doesn’t hurt that, although the neighbours are at the end of the drive, from the house there is only an uninterrupted view of rolling downland - the nanny commented that it could be France, but who would want to be anywhere other than beautiful Sussex, my favourite county. (France is so next month.) By the end of next weekend, I will hopefully be back to full strength, just in time to fly to …

The Scilly Isles.

I’m hoping with every fibre of my being that this trip will include a helicopter transfer to Tresco, since of all the things I would like to add to my ’39 things I’ve never done before' list by next May, a helicopter flight is number one.

From Tresco, it’s back for a London/Cheltenham stint doing menu development for a new café, with a one-day trip to Northamptonshire to do a pasta-making demonstration (something else I’ve never done before!), then back to Oxfordshire for more family cooking, before I wrap up my summer shenanigans with three weeks in France cooking for a couple I met through LILI three years ago.

I’ve never had a workload so suited to my temperament, the endless larking about, running from pillar to post, being just the sort of frenetic activity to keep me at my happiest. Plus, the brevity of every contract means I’ve no time to get bored, or decide I don’t like it, before I’m on to the next thing.

I haven’t said it for a while, but it holds true now more than ever, it rocks to be me!

Reasons to be grateful: No. 5

2010-06-23T06:10:00.001+01:00

Group effort.

Having squandered so much of the last decade being miserable, I’m feeling some reluctance about reaching the end of my 30s. To cushion the blow, I made the resolution that I would fill this last year with 39 things I have never done before.

This promise started on a literal high when, the day after my birthday, my sister took me on a hot air balloon ride, and work has since helped maintain the momentum. But on Sunday, I really pushed the boat out when I held a belated birthday picnic in Marble Hill Park, and for the first time ever, shared the love, and spread the load of providing the feast.

Over two decades of party-giving, I have stayed up past midnight, and risen from my bed before six, to ensure that my food lives up to my exacting standards. So, it was an absolute revelation to me to discover how much my guests enjoyed the opportunity to make their own contribution.

Of course, I couldn’t relinquish the reins completely, and I still decided the menu and allocated tasks, but, though I had worried that this might rankle, it was met with unexpected relief and appreciation, since my anal-retentive control freakery had lifted the burden of decision-making.

Unaware that my non-party subsistence diet consists largely of toast and sweets (making any real food a much-appreciated novelty), many of my friends have expressed reluctance to cook for me. But, issuing all of the recipes in my round-robin ‘Picnic Nazi’ email of instructions apparently went some way to allaying those fears, and a number of people commented that they were happy to have all the recipes for the food they had eaten, since it's information I'm not generally very good at sharing.

Pulled together on the picnic cloth, the food was as beautiful and delicious as anything I could have wished for, and it was, without doubt, the most trouble-free, cost-effective and relaxing social occasion I’ve ever instigated.

As someone who has only recently learned to ask for help, it was more heart-warming confirmation that one’s friends are waiting for an opportunity to offer assistance, no-strings attached.

I think this may be the way of the future. In fact, I can’t wait for the next one. Now, I wonder how they feel about canapés …

Land ho!

2010-06-22T19:10:00.004+01:00

Who can resist peeking, in passing, through uncurtained windows? We are all curious about the lives, so separate from ours, that go on behind those walls, and from this point of view, cooking has been an absolute goldmine. I don’t just get to look through the window, but to step inside, and take a look around lifestyles so very different from mine.

Last week, I fulfilled an ambition, held since my university days, to cook aboard a boat. Back in those days, of course, my fantasy involved sailing, briefly clad, lithe-limbed and sun-kissed, around the Caribbean. Twenty years later, I settled for head-to-toe kitchen whites and a trip on a cruiser across the Solent.

I’d been reluctant to scupper my chances of making this dream a reality by admitting to queasiness on ferry crossings, but fortunately, with barely any wind, our trips were turbulence-free. This probably didn’t give me the most representative experience of cooking on board, although bouncing around in the wash from the rib did see me pulling something out of the oven with one hand, while keeping the other firmly on my omelette pan, lest it fly across the stove and deposit itself straight in the sink.

The galley was generously proportioned, and well kitted out with appliances, although I was disappointed to discover every mod con didn’t include a gimballed stove (one that moves in a fore/aft axis to accommodate the motion on the ocean) but that was just my curiosity, rather than a practical necessity. If I didn’t get to test drive that particular appliance, I did get the concept of close quarters in abundance. Cram four people into a space marginally smaller than two double beds laid end to end (including all fixtures and fittings), and it soon feels pretty up close and personal. Make the brief mid-morning canapés, buffet lunch and afternoon tea for 20, followed immediately by a sit down 3-course dinner for 14, then a buffet lunch for 50 the next day, and generosity starts to fade as the defining characteristic.

Surrounded by people for whom sailing is not merely a diverting way to spend the day, or make a buck, I was very much an outsider. This is a not an arena I can fake my way through, although interestingly, as with all industries, it’s a smaller world once you’re in it than it appears from the outside.

This was rapidly apparent on Day 1, when I spotted a fellow Ballymaloe alumnus out my galley window. Last heard of in the British Virgin Islands, there she was tied up in Southampton on the same day, in the same marina, and on the same pontoon. What were the chances? Apparently, higher than one would expect, since two days later, a new friend called to tell me that, amidst the noise and haste of 16,000 sailors on 1,700 boats in the Round the Island race, he had ended up berthed 100 ft down the dock from the boat on which I was frantically plating up dressed lobster.

Carrying the WAGs of a racing crew aboard our 75 ft of motorised luxury, we watched as this super-cool, state-of-the-art racer romped across the finish line in Cowes, and I can’t say that I didn’t feel some pride and excitement as we ran alongside it, and then watched it pull away with its superior streamlining and windpower. But, I realised that the thrill and adrenalin rush of man against nature, the power surge of wind filling the sails, keels slicing through water and ropes running through one's hands, will ever be lost on me. I’m clearly not cut out to be a sailor.

Possibly it’s that thrill-seekers vs risk takers divide I’m always on about. Or, more likely, the deciding factor in rejecting a life at sea was the heads (as toilets aboard are called). I’m the woman who can’t go to the toilet in John Lewis, so what were the chances I was going to enjoy performing my bodily functions with only a sliver of wood and fibreglass between me and my decorum. What can I say, I have issues. The first thing I did upon setting foot on dry land, was head for the comfort and safety of land-based plumbing.

I did admire the ingenuity of design, the hardiness, practicality and good humour of the crew, and on a fine summer’s day it’s a pleasant and picturesque way to spend one’s time (even chained to the stove). Would I do it again? Absolutely. Am I about to sign up for a summer on the high seas, cruising to Capri, or the Caribbean? Probably not. It’s life, Captain, but not as we know it.

The broader the better

2010-06-16T12:08:00.013+01:00

Alongside my delight in the discovery of the origins of Cullen skink, it was more than a little predictable that a woman of my predilections was going to find added pleasure in the revelation of a whole new vocabulary.

It’s never easy to reel off, on demand, terms that are second nature to one, but The Modern Marvel did me proud with her rapidfire recitation of common words and expressions. Thanks to her good-natured tuition, I can now construct the following (largely sensible) narrative in broadest Dorrick (the local dialect):

I stand by the chumlie looking up the lum (lang may yer lum reek!), where I can hear the cries of a pule. It’s cold today, so I’ve put on a seemit and gansie as well as breeks. Unusually for me, I’m even wearing my courtie-perkies. It’s my turn to dacht the fleer, which I do to the sound of huchty-chuchty music. The Modern Marvel comes in. “Fit like?”, I ask. “Fit?”, she replies, above the noise of the radio, before offering me a sheave of loaf. ‘Had yer wisht’, I say rudely, she knows I’m on a diet!

(The banal translation of which is: I stand by the fireplace looking up the chimney (long may your chimney smoke!), where I can hear the cries of a seagull. It’s cold today, so I’ve put on a vest and jersey as well as trousers. Unusually for me, I’m even wearing my plimsolls. It’s my turn to wash the floor, which I do to the sound of Highland music. The Modern Marvel comes in. “How are you?”, I ask. “What?”, she replies, above the noise of the radio, before offering me a slice of bread. ‘Hold your tongue’, I say rudely, she knows I’m on a diet!)

I had already learned the terms ‘ma quine’ (my girl) and ‘ma loon’ (my boy) in the cab from the airport, but have since discovered that it is the custom to diminutise everything. With this rule, ‘loon’ becomes ‘loonie’, ‘book’ becomes ‘bookie’ (Margaret becomes Peggy), and so on. The prevalence of this habit was perfectly illustrated on my walk through the Cullen pet cemetery this morning where I read the headstone: ‘Pepsi – Oor quinie gone for a walkie’.

In the end, though, my favourite alternative in this whirlwind wordfest has been the graphically accurate, if slightly disconcerting, ‘flesher’ for 'butcher'. My own attitude to the killing of animals for food has always been pretty robust, but that is really calling a spade a spade!

The haem o’ Cullen skink

2010-06-15T11:54:00.001+01:00

I flew up to Aberdeen on Sunday to trial for some work later in the year, cooking for a laird and his lady. I’d been warned to expect an excitement-free stay in deepest rural Scotland, so I was pretty delighted to come over the brow of the hill into my destination village and see the unexpectedly thrilling sign “Welcome to Cullen – the home of Cullen skink”.

Although I knew that it was a soup, I’d always assumed that Cullen skink was some exotic Scottish term, the meaning of which was hidden from us mere Sassenachs. Who knew that Cullen was a place in its own right? One, I have now discovered, that is also famous for its railway viaduct (defunct since the ‘60s) and its homemade ice-cream (the subject of heated online debate as a contender for the best ice-cream in Scotland).

It would, obviously, have been remiss to have anything else for dinner on my first night. ‘Skink’ is Scots for shin or knuckle of beef, and has developed the secondary meaning of 'soup', as made with these bones. This local variant makes time-honoured use of resources more immediately to hand. Basically a smoked fish chowder, it has been most famously made with smoked haddock from Findon/Finnan (the eponymous Finnan haddie), a few miles outside of Aberdeen, although any smoked fish can be substituted.

While at the Big Hoose, I took advantage of local knowledge and pumped the ‘pantry girls’ for the secrets of the authentic Cullen skink. I was told, in no uncertain terms, by The Modern Marvel (the laird’s indomitable assistant cook) that flour should never be added as a thickener. The true version contains only onion, potato, fish and milk (with cream for best).

Instructions are simple enough. Sweat off your onions. Parboil diced potatoes. Poach fish in milk, then remove fish and set aside. Add milk and potatoes to onion and cook until potatoes are soft. Flake in fish. Add cream, and some chopped parsley, if you're feeling fancy. To make a thicker soup, blend a proportion of the onion/potato/milk mixture before you add the fish.

Apparently, the men at sea would make this soup with tinned Carnation milk, since fresh was not available, and this is also considered a legitimate version, for those who prefer it slightly sweeter. There may be more sophisticated interpretations available – Nick Nairn featured a more highbrow version in his Great British Menu – but this is it, as made by real, live Cullenites, and that’s hard to argue with.

Electronic empathy

2010-06-12T20:17:00.003+01:00

Mercifully released by the divorce courts from my misguided sense of financial responsibility for The (H)ex, and my doomed-to-failure attempts to keep us afloat, I reaped the bitter rewards of this thankless task a few months later, in bankruptcy court. Waiting to be branded officially feckless and irresponsible and surrender my fiscal reputation was stomach-churning. In the end, the administrative process is surprisingly straightforward, but the sense of humiliation that accompanies it is extremely powerful.

Ill-informed about exactly what to expect, I waited (early as ever, and deeply, and tearfully, regretting turning down my mother’s offer of company) for my turn to have the scarlet ‘B’ pinned on me, every self-punitive Oliver Twist-style fantasy playing itself out in my over-wrought brain.

It’s an unfortunate family trait that no-one can punish us as severely as we will punish ourselves. Still in the throes of learning the most valuable lesson I finally wrested from the wreckage of my life with The (H)ex – ask for help – I did not have the wit, nor sense of entitlement, to reach out for solace. In consequence, I am sure that my sense of failure and contrition was far sharper than the Official Receiver would ever have wished me to endure.

But in the midst of my despair, comfort did come, in the form of my always pitch-perfect best friend.

A single text from her read “You’re fabulous, Peggy”.

Less than 25 character spaces to contain her full comprehension of my position, and her entirely unconditional acceptance of the flawed and struggling person that I am. In three words she delivered, with the immediacy of being in that waiting room, the reassurance I so badly needed that I was (and am) a great many things apart from bruised and bankrupt.

I kept that message for more than a year and a half before my retro-chic Nokia 3310 ate it in error, and each time I was bowed by the fury of the tempest The H(ex) had whipped up around me, I mined that affirmation afresh. So, I shed real tears of regret at losing it (although, perhaps I no longer need the lesson in the same way), but while it existed, that tiny set of binary instructions was, surely, the ultimate confluence of the miracles of modern technology and traditional friendship.

Critical Mass

2010-06-11T23:23:00.007+01:00

A flying visit to the seaside today for tea and cake with The Wizard included an equally brief stop on the rooftop of the De La Warr Pavilion to see Anthony Gormley’s ‘Critical Mass’ – 60 figures, using five casts of Gormley’s body, with postures developing from a low crouching position to squatting, sitting, kneeling and standing.

Not usually one to be po-faced in my response, and always eager to play, it was only the presence of a proper grown-up, in the form of The Wizard, that prevented me from racing around the site, engaging with the figures in my usual highly tactile way. I felt the strongest urge to lie on the rooftop and measure myself against an outstretched figure, to sit across the back of a crouching man, or to put my arms around the person huddled in a posture of seeming distress. I felt the crick in the neck of the man lying flat-out, but with head raised, as if about to speak, and the rough press of the roof tiles against the protruding bones of a face-down figure.

However, my initial delight at finding myself in a field of Gormleys (he is, after all, one of my favourite contemporary artists), quickly turned to unease; and discomfort, both for viewer and subject, seems to be a central theme of the work.

In fact, it was strongly reminiscent for me of the premise of a current television series, Flash Forward. During the pilot episode, the world blacks out for 2 minutes, to then wake to the devastation caused by this global loss of consciousness. Bodies lie scattered where they fell, amid the chaos. One has the same sense of walking through the aftermath of some catastrophic event, of fall-out. (Apparently the work was originally intended for a large Austrian railway terminus, where the immediate Holocaust association could only heighten this sense of trauma). This, in turn, makes sense of the apparently random scattering of figures, mirroring, as it does, the selection by chance of victims of disaster.

With this interpretation in mind, I swung between the possibility of viewing the figures as dead or alive (Gormley describes their placement on the De La Warr rooftop as being like a ‘sky burial’).

The recumbent figures have collected rainwater in their crevices, and while this is, no doubt, merely an unintended consequence of their current location, as a detail, it was oddly affecting, contributing to my indecision on the life or death question. The ability to cup water in one's live and trembling hand is fleeting at best, so the pooling in the grooves of these figures suggests a stasis and solidity that is lifeless.

Their random distribution on the rooftop provokes our instinct for pattern recognition, as we search for repetitions of the same pose. Although each cast of a position is differently oriented to call forth an alternate response, this rough process of shape sorting encourages the viewer to find the stance with which they most strongly identify. In the end, it was this that helped me to come down on the side of ‘alive’ – something in the posture of the squatting figure, for which I felt most empathy.

But the lack of expression, indeed the absence of most facial features, subverts our desire for identification, distancing us from the intended object of our empathy. This links to a final point, raised in the website blurb for the exhibition, that, in our modern lives, largely founded in complex conurbations, the space, or distance, between us defines us as strongly as the walls we put up to contain us. Gormley seems to be replicating this tension in the way his figures both draw us in, and hold us at arms length.