Brains, Boobs & Boots

Garden kneeler

2015-04-05T22:02:00.003+01:00

I cannot tell a lie, not my most accomplished piece of handiwork, but at least it's cheerful. Cheerful, after all, does hide a multitude of sins!

Seed envelopes

2015-04-01T22:08:00.000+01:00

Made these to send seeds to my mother last weekend. I may be nearly 44, but you can't beat a set of wiggly eyes!

To wed or to woo?

2015-03-29T08:56:00.001+01:00

Wide-eyed he gazed at the barely setting moon.

It had been a whirlwind year, fun, but had he meant to get married? Who? Who? Who had proposed to who? Who could remember?

He turned, unblinking, toward her glittering ring on the bed between them.

Whoo! Not the first pretty shilling she had cost him. She wanted it all. And more. To wit, his boat, his music, his future.

“Puss” he whispered, “you’re snoring.”

She flicked her tail defensively, beach sand skittered across the sheets.

“Not snoring, purring.”

Owl hooted unhappily. His stomach quibbled and quarrelled, quince wasn’t quite his thing.

Headphone tidy

2015-03-28T16:01:00.002+00:00

Made today. Crafty, like the good old days.

(Seen on Pinterest, instructions on this blog:

http://www.mylifeallinoneplace.com/2011/12/spent-your-itunes-gift-card-repurpose.html)

The Garden Project: The Beginning

2015-03-14T19:59:00.003+00:00

A record of my garden at the beginning:

The state of Grace

2015-03-02T18:50:00.003+00:00

Short story entry for the Bryan MacMahon Short Story Competition as part of Listowel Writers Week (3,000 word maximum):

The state of Grace

When people describe a state of grace, she thinks, “Yes, I know what that is. I have felt that.”

She likes the play on her name, it’s reassuring to think that there is a real and perfect place just for her, to be her true self. If she could just keep hold of it, that feeling that slips like mist through her fingers as soon as she thinks she has it, always making her reach just a little further, sure she’ll arrive there at last. In five pounds time, with a new haircut, if she takes up yoga, if she can find that pair of shoes, remember to wear that perfume, use that new shampoo.

She wonders, fleetingly, if it’s blasphemous to think that, though the papers scold often enough that shopping is the new religion. She doesn’t understand why they’re angry about it though, isn’t that what keeps the country afloat?

“Grace, you’re keeping the economy going!” her best friend Jess had gasped, the time she witnessed her buying face cream at £80 a pop.

She’d laughed.

“Hey, tough times, it’s my patriotic duty. Anyway, haven’t you heard, ‘I’m worth it’!” she’d retorted, shoving her credit card defiantly into the chip and pin machine. But it had taken the edge off. She doesn’t go shopping with Jess so much anymore. It’s harder to reach that state of grace when other people are watching.

“May I help you with anything?” a young shop assistant asks, gliding towards her.

Beatific, she turns to smile, a sense of generous calm washing through her. She likes to be nice to the assistants, likes to think of them talking about her afterwards, telling each other what a nice customer they just had, a little tinge of envy at the beautiful things she has bought. They recognise her in some stores, sometimes even greet her by name, Jess says they’re trained to do that, but it feels like more than that.

“Yes, please, I’d like to try these on in a size six, or a six and a half”, she points to a pair of rich chestnut-coloured knee-high boots on the immaculately arrayed mannequin next to her. Her hands already grip a clutch of hangers, the rest of its ensemble in her size.

“Oh, those have been so popular since we put them on display,” says the girl. “I’ll just check what we have in stock.”

Alone again, she scans the racks for anything she might have missed. If the top she’s holding looks good, she decides, she’ll get the pink one, and the green one too. Better to have a couple extra, just in case. You can’t always find what you’re after when you want it.

Her fingers flick through the rails, like counting off the beads on an abacus. Click, click, click, each thick plastic hanger knocks against the last. Her eyelids blink less rapidly, her breathing slows. The stillness of the store provides sanctuary. She fits herself into the silence, feels the poise she longs for settling on her, imagines this is what it must be like to be able to breathe underwater, to be a dolphin, or a mermaid, to move with fluency and grace away from the petty irritations of the day. The laddered tights, the spilt toner, the telling off for the mislaid report, she floats away from all of these.

She reaches towards the boots on display. How smart they are, how competent she will look in them. She loves that word. Competent. She wants people to see her like that, always picks it as the first word to describe herself at interviews. Competent. Capable. Confident. “The three Cs”, she says, smiling, pretending to adjust the position of her Mulberry tote, bringing it to their attention, gripping the handle to hide a little tremor, even as she’s showing them “Look, I’m one of you.” She caresses the display pair again, the leather cool, the stitching transmitting its promise of repletion beneath her supplicating fingertips.

“Here you go,” the girl says, returning with two large boxes. She smiles prettily. There’s a greasy sheen of spots on her forehead, she can’t be much more than seventeen, but she has a lovely manner. That’s why she prefers this shop. It’s a bit more expensive, not so high street. You can tell the girls that work here all come from nice families, they’re going somewhere, this is just a temporary role, not one they’d ever allow to become permanent. They exude entitlement, life wouldn’t dare disappoint them. They’ve got university, and city careers, and rich, handsome husbands lined up waiting for them to come along and lift them from the rack, pick the one that fits best. Click, click. Banker, lawyer, doctor. Click, click. Chelsea, Hampstead, Notting Hill. Two children or four, nannies or boarding school, skiing or the Caribbean. Click, click, click. Those smart-girl fingers flicking through their tailor-made choices, a little of their future glamour filtering into the atmosphere that surrounds them and, now, her.

She slips off her own shoes, revealing the elaborately decorated pair of tights she’s wearing under her trousers. “Are those the ones from Wolford?” says the shop girl, eyeing her feet appreciatively “They’re gorgeous. Did you see them on that TV presenter? I wish I had some, but my mum said I have to buy them myself if I want to spend that kind of money on tights.” Jess had admired them too, the first time she saw them, then snorted when she found out they cost £35 a pair, now she just rolls her eyes, so Grace wears them under jeans when they meet up. Jess buys hers at 3 for £4 in the local supermarket, she doesn’t really get why it matters.

She shakes her head to dislodge Jess and her judgements, smiles at the sales girl, and rotates her ankle to show off the pattern. “They’re totally worth it”, she enthuses, “you should really get some. Once you’ve tried these, you’ll never want another brand.” She puts her foot into the first boot and pulls up the zip firmly. Zzziip! She imagines that sound like the revving of a tiny Formula 1 car, all power and prestige. Sometimes she likes to zip and unzip them several times, just for the sound and sensation, but she doesn’t now, she doesn’t want to look silly.

She stands and walks to the mirror. Admires the length of her leg, turns her ankle to see the heel, looks at the way the added height has altered the shape of her bottom. “They’re great,” she beams, “I’ll take them.”

She feels the surge that comes with her decisiveness. I’ll take them. I’ve decided. I’m allowed to decide. I like them, I want them, I’m going to have them. She walks with purpose to the till, loving this little routine, pulling out her purse, sliding out her credit card, always wishing she could snap it on the counter, saying “charge it” like they do in the movies, but instead pushing it into the card machine with extra assurance, watching as her items are immaculately wrapped, another reason to aim higher than the high street.

Outside the air is clear and crisp, the shop windows radiate a warm, embracing light as she passes, the other shoppers seem to smile at her. The corners of her bags nuzzle her leg rhythmically, the satiny cords caress her palm. She feels completely calm, head held high, her stride purposeful, her mind quiet. Just the sweet sussuration of tissue paper enveloping the coloured tops, whispering pretty promises of work days and date nights, girlie coffee mornings and casual meet ups, all effortlessly, spontaneously, sveltely stylish.

She walks on, turning the corner away from the parade of shops, past the ugly 60s office block, down towards the bus station, the council estate, and on towards the rows of smaller terrace houses, mostly split into flats, a cheaper end of town, cheaper still the further you get from the station.

The air is colder, and the now dun-coloured light paws at the edges of her calm - sticky fingers of mundanity clutching at the crisp edges of her brightly coloured bags, marring the sheen of the logos with greasy prints, trying to prise the trophies from her triumphant fingers, to turn them back into just boots that will get scuffed, tops that might pinch under her arm, or gape across her breasts, or not really suit her colouring.

This is the dangerous part. She’s Little Red Riding Hood, walking through a perilous wood, racing to reach safety, before the big, bad wolf gets to her and gobbles up her serenity. She grips at the chafing cords more tightly, resisting the serration of her mood. She feels the weight of the boots banging against her thigh, a small ache in her arm and the repeated prick of the sharp cornered bags against her skin. Beads of sweat run down the small of her back, and the collar of her coat scratches the back of her neck. She hoists her parcels higher, the stiff paper a defiant shield, their branding a bold statement of intent against the seepage of ordinary life.

She just needs to hold out until the front door. Until she can close it behind her, and slip back into that transactional calm, unpack the bags, caress the fabrics and model the boots, zipping and unzipping them until she’s satisfied.

It’s not always easy to get it back, that warmth she felt in the store, or to fill her senses with the smell of leather and the feel of stitching in quite the same way. Sometimes the fabrics look duller when she gets them home, her skin seems sallow, and the cut doesn’t quite skim her shape the way she wanted. Things don’t really seem to fit together in the way she thought they would, she finds she is still missing the perfect complement to the vision she had cherished as she held each garment against herself in the mirror of that honey-hued interior.

She places each piece carefully on a hanger, and returns the boots, stuffed with the original paper, to their box. She opens the wardrobe door, air sighing through the rails of plastic shrouded garments, each supple white ghost whispering back at her of a promise just out of reach.

Or, it's not a real adventure without some bad bits ...

2014-06-04T12:18:00.001+01:00

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” John Steinbeck

OK, it's not just going to be jokes and pithy quotations going forward, but having recently re-read my entire blog, and, having a shocking memory for what I get up to, I was delighted by the record of my own history. In that light, things that make me laugh or make me think must surely also deserve a place in my virtual memory.

What cheese do you use to hide a horse?

2014-05-29T11:05:00.002+01:00

Mascarpone!

Good technology

2014-05-24T18:05:00.000+01:00

Focaccia

2012-12-22T11:07:00.000+00:00

This is my favourite recipe for focaccia by Sarah Raven, as shamelessly lifted from somebody else's blog (typing it all out myself smacks of unnecessary effort).

1 tsp. active dry yeast

1 1/4 cups warm water
1 level tsp. sea salt, and a little more for topping
2 3/4 cups bread flour
5-8 Tblsp. olive oil

In a large mixing bowl, dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Stir in the salt and all the flour to make a fairly sticky dough. If the dough is very soft it makes the yeast work more quickly and then you get the characteristic holes forming in the bread, so try not to add extra flour.

Cover it with plastic wrap and leave to rise for 30-45 minutes. When it has doubled its volume, add 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Fold the dough in the bowl to integrate the oil and then cover again with plastic wrap and leave the dough to rise as before.

Repeat this whole process twice, each time adding another tablespoon of the oil and folding.

When the dough has risen for the fourth time, place it on a small flat baking sheet (about 9 x 12 inches) lined with parchment paper or greased with olive oil. Push the dough out to the corners (it should be about 3/4 inch thick) and then add another tablespoon of olive oil and press it into the bread. You’re aiming to make 1/4-inch dents.

Cover the dough with a cloth and leave to rise again for another hour or so until it has doubled in volume and begun to bubble.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Sprinkle the dough lightly with sea salt, scatter over the tomatoes and rosemary, and bake in the preheated oven. Place a heatproof bowl of water in the bottom of the oven. This creates steam, which gives a lighter, fluffier texture to the bread.

Bake until the focaccia has a nice golden color. Allow to cool for half an hour and then place on a wire rack to cool further.

Thanks to http://thatsonetoughcookie.com/2009/07/04/two-kinds-of-focaccia/ for the secretarial work on my behalf, and also the awesome photo above, and genius suggestion of the following alternative topping suggestion:

1 1/2 tsp. dried lavender (some crumbled into tiny bits, a few left whole)

1 tsp. fresh lemon rosemary
1 tsp. granulated sugar
1/2 tsp. sugared safron

Fringe benefits

2012-08-20T22:40:00.000+01:00

Alongside a Michelin-starred lunch from my Provencal clients yesterday, I also got an hour's business coaching from Harvard-Business-School-alumnus Mrs Client, who listened to my pitch and asked various penetrating and sceptical questions to test the plan's mettle.

Since I've never had to go out for funding before, I freely admit that I am an innocent abroad in this rather intimidating field, and I am sure my naivete will be stripped from me the hard way, so it was very useful to be able to hash out some of the realities with someone whose specific area of expertise this is.

My biggest concern is how much equity I will have to surrender to somebody else's pocketbook, since I feel very strongly that money shouldn't trump blood, sweat and ideas, and unless there is a very real payoff for me (both in terms of money and, more importantly, autonomy) in this, what's the point?

I've been working up my figures based on the ideal scenario of getting a big fat cheque from some willing investor, while silently fretting about the very real possibility of getting no funding at all. In the back of my mind has always been the question "how thin a shoestring can I really work on?"

Having outlined what investors will be looking for, and the typical structure of investment offers to start-ups, she, rightly, led me back to my own question, with the following pointers:

the ideal amount is a big ask for what is still just a concept
the earlier you go out for investment, the more you have to give away
the further developed I am, the more valuable my equity becomes ie. the less I have to give away for cash, so preferably, get some real customers on the books before you ask strangers for money
Investors will typically make staged payments dependent on specified goals being met within agreed timescales, so have a very clear timetable of what needs to be done in the first 6-12 months in order to achieve the next payment stage
Accept that some money needs to be spent on developing proof of concept, and factor this into the initial round of friends and family fundraising

In some strange way, rather than being a depressing reality check, I feel rather invigorated. I feel a strangely protective urge towards my idea, that rather than selling it cheap, I want it to be worth something when I hand part of it over, and this approach does allow me the room to achieve that.

That doesn't mean it will be easy, even on a very thin shoestring, raising the money is no walk in the park, and my mind is churning with different scenarios for making that happen. But I feel pretty confident that I will make it happen.

Off to see the wizard

2012-08-16T21:08:00.000+01:00

I've been hankering to go to an upcoming conference on gluten-free bakery technology being held by Campden BRI, but knowing how limited my development budget is, I just couldn't bring myself to commit the money.

It should be full of interesting movers and shakers in the GF industry, including the lady from Genius, telling her story of the challenges of bringing a product to market, and so a great learning and networking opportunity for me at an opportune moment in my own product development, but seven hundred pounds is still seven hundred pounds.

Frustrated, but not willing to let it go, I decided to do something different.

It's often said of women in business that they don't value themselves or their time highly enough, are more reticent about charging appropriately, and less willing to ask for what they want, but that the successful ones get over that.

So, alien as that concept still feels, I asked for what I wanted.

I wrote to them explaining that as a start-up I wanted to come but couldn't afford the fee, and they gave me a 50% discount. Now I too can move and shake with the best of them.

Result!

All work and no play

2012-08-08T21:29:00.000+01:00

I'm in Provence for a four week job, and I've sworn that by the end of it I will have written my business plan (and the big, fat marketing plan that has to accompany it).

No bike rides, no markets, no lounging by the pool until it's done.

I've been busier than I expected, and the weather is unfeasibly hot, but a couple of days ago I was given an electric fan, and productivity has sky-rocketed since then.

Now the question is, how long is too long?

Admittedly I'm using the 'a-new-page-for-every-section' student technique of report writing, but I'm already up to 40 pages, and that's without any financial forecasts, or the aforementioned marketing plan.

Overkill, or attention to detail?

An Alan Sugar moment

2012-08-03T09:24:00.000+01:00

I had to fire my third designer option today because they just hadn't delivered within the time allowed (and to be fair, I had briefed them first, more than two months before the deadline).

I um-ed and ah-ed about my decision for about two weeks before I finally plucked up the courage to do it. It's never fun being the bad guy (and I was still curious about what they might come up with).

If I had gone to big design companies, I could have had a lot of work done for free, since the tender process is a pretty standard feature of buying design, but I thought that it would be really unfair to ask that of freelancers or one-man bands, and so I offered to pay each of my choices a day's rate for their initial response to my brief.

And that, ultimately, provided the impetus for wielding the axe.

I've never been more cost-conscious about a project, and I balked at the thought of spending my own hard-earned money on someone who isn't 100% behind my idea.

Working with small operators, or someone moonlighting on the side of their day job, comes with it's own complications. There's no such thing as a quick turnaround when you know they are juggling the 9-to-5 with family life and other demands, so I need to know that if I'm prepared to make concessions on that score, they are definitely committed. After all, I intend for this tiny acorn to grow into a mighty oak.

Being a bit of a girl, I felt bad about it before I did it, but I'm taking care of my business, and I definitely feel better now that it's done.

Shout out

2012-08-01T11:33:00.000+01:00

If there's a current trend amongst enlightened companies to apply a 'no assholes' rule to their recruitment drives, then surely it is just as valid to apply that rule to the suppliers one has to deal with for a start-up.

I've been searching for the most efficient and economic way to procure the pie press (and accompanying packaging), exploring eBay, refurbished equipment suppliers and considering buying it new, and have come across some incredibly helpful people in the process, and some really depressingly off-hand and uninterested ones.

So 'Boo!' to Brook Food Processing, who have made it perfectly plain, in person and on the phone, that they really couldn't give a rat's about helping a start-up.

And, 'Hurrah!' to

Spencer Cheetham at John Hunt, who has responded to all my tiresome questioning with extreme patience and good humour, critiquing possible eBay purchases for me, and sourcing suitable tin sizes.

Fred McKechnie at DMD-2000, who sent me lots of packaging samples the same day I asked for them, and offered to sell me part boxes from the ends of runs so that I don't have to commit more money than I need to.

Martin Plassey at Becketts Food Equipment, who spent at least 40 minutes on the phone to me right at the start, telling me all the kinds of equipment I might consider, the varying costs, and possible solutions to problems I didn't even know I had yet - all with no obvious prospect of a sale.

Getting ahead of myself

2012-07-25T20:55:00.000+01:00

I went to see a friend of a friend's catering unit yesterday to get an idea of size and cost and what's around in my desired neighbourhood.

They have a very neat operation making the most amazing ice cream in a unit that I used to think would be the right size for starting up. Standing in theirs, I realised it was probably a bit small, which means, inevitably, and painfully, that I'm going to need to up my budget figures!

But, as we were chatting about the rigours of business set-up and the challenges of an ice cream business, even one as awesome as theirs, in English weather, the centre manager came by and offered to show me another unit about to be vacated.

It was perfect. Room for walk in fridges and machinery, clear work space, some fittings already in place, and a neat little office partitioned off, with storage space above.

I was in a ferment of excitement imagining myself in there, even though I know it's premature - way premature! My excitement was only made harder to contain by receiving an information pack and contract with a dotted line to sign on this morning.

Fortunately I couldn't do anything rash as I was too busy working, and dinner with The Voice of Reason has talked me down from my silly fantasy. This is exactly how you end up spending money you don't have on an idea that is, literally, only half-baked.

But, oh, how frustrating that I am nowhere near being able to take one on.

Must work harder. Must work faster.

In the black

2012-07-24T09:32:00.000+01:00

Very excitingly, I got the details of my new bank account today. Glamour Puds Ltd is officially in the black, with a bank card, cheque book and everything.

There's something about financial paraphenalia that feels very solid and responsible.

The baby is growing up.

Glamour is my stock in trade

2012-07-18T10:35:00.000+01:00

Wowee! Check it out!

My second designer - a largely unknown quantity, but the spouse of a food blogger I 'know' from my own efforts in that line - has sent me this submission. Now that's upping the ante!

First impressions - mark II

2012-07-17T09:54:00.000+01:00

Here are the worked up versions of the designs I earmarked from my first designer. Not loving them quite so much anymore - a bit Pret, a bit blah. I need more GLAMOUR!

First impressions

2012-07-10T08:47:00.000+01:00

I've received the first of the design submissions. It's always so exciting to see visuals for a project, and somehow makes it feel more real.

I like options 3 and 5, and have asked to have these worked up a bit more, and applied to a piece of packaging.

Object of desire

2012-06-30T11:14:00.000+01:00

I'm getting to the stage where I need to scale up my batch production and start testing my products under real conditions. I need to make a series of pastry shells, and this beautifully simple piece of machinery is the solution, and my current object of desire:

It's the John Hunt Champion pie press - completely manual, like a one-armed bandit, and with a hypothetical production of 400 shells per hour, though I've been told by a disinterested source that unless you have biceps like Popeye, you should probably lower your expectations to 200.

At around two thousand pounds for the press, a die and some baking tins, it's not exactly a chump change investment for me, so the next challenge is how to fund this acquisition ...

Shiny, pretty things

2012-06-25T21:47:00.000+01:00

I decided that it was time to go out to tender on some branding. At the very least it will give me an idea of where I might want to go, and be a useful addition to my business plan when pitching. (And, I really need a business card!)

I've contact three designers. One I've worked with on a couple of other start-up ideas I've had, so know her work and aesthetic quite well. Another, I don't know at all, but have had recommended, and the third has come to me via the wonderful world of food blogging.

I like the idea of working with a freelancer or one-man band. Having worked with lots of large design companies over the years, I know how quickly they get stale and lazy once the contract is in the bag, and I really want to find someone who will feel at least some personal investment in this concept.

Here's part of the brief I sent out:

Glamour Puds is a start-up looking to enter the gluten-free sector as a provider of a range of puddings, cakes and sweet snacks with a level of quality and innovation to match the higher end of the traditional wheat-based desserts market.

We are looking to create a distinctive and original visual identity for this line of products, one which will stand out both from competitor brands within the free-from market, but also, more significantly a visual identity which can hold its own and differentiate itself in the more mainstream (ie gluten) marketplace.

The choice of the name Glamour Puds is deliberately frivolous, in response to the more worthy/medicinal/homespun approaches of other brands within the free-from sector. However, although the name itself is quite female-oriented, the visual identity needs to appeal to both genders. (It can’t be ‘cute’ or ‘girly’.)

We are therefore looking to capture an idea of glamour which appeals to both sexes, and has a classic or ‘timeless’ quality. Preferred reference points come from mid-20^th century design across the board of film, fashion, graphics, furniture and architecture. All of these capture, convey or imply a time of dynamic change –energy, innovation and cutting edge technology blended with the restraint and elegance of earlier decades, and a tongue-in-cheek confidence. Films like the early Bond movies, Catch Me If You Can, Down with Love and the TV series Mad Men capture the preferred aesthetic well.

Can't wait to see what comes back!

Square peg, round hole

2012-06-12T21:23:00.000+01:00

The more I talk to people about packaging, ingredients, equipment etc, the more I realise how many balls I have to have up in the air at the same time.

It really isn't a case of 'here's a yummy recipe, let's go to market', much more a 'here's an idea, now how does that idea fit most economically with the off-the-shelf solutions I can source, and how do I need to change my idea to make it fit'.

I started with a good base recipe.

And I had an idea of a cute and delicious product to make from it.

I wanted it to be a certain size, in terms of diameter and thickness. I had an idea of how much to charge. I thought I knew what I wanted to put it in.

So I went looking for the packaging. Yeah right!

Every mainstream supplier Google could offer, every recommendation from other suppliers. Nothing. Variations on a theme made from bespoke cardboard engineering. Sure, if I want my entire profit margin landing in someone else's bank account. A bigger product? Can't justify the hike in price. A smaller product? Can't justify the minimum retail price I need to make a profit. Plus, not so cute.

Where does that leave me?

Making a new product, that's where.

(But actually, I think the new product is better, and it has a perfect sized tray to go in, an off-the-shelf die to cut it out, and a profit margin that might allow me to sleep at night. The devil is in these details.)

Thixotropic gels and other animals

2012-05-30T09:49:00.000+01:00

So, I never got to go to the lab, it proved too complicated to co-ordinate our schedules, but instead, the lovely men from CP Kelco came to me!

Sometimes the generosity of strangers can leave one speechless. After all, there was really nothing in this for them, except maybe the feel-good factor of helping out a novice.

The dosage for most of their products is around 0.1% of total mix weight, the minimum order is a 25kg bag, and the big boys buy 300 tons a year of some products. No matter how grand my plans, I am never going to be a serious customer for these guys.

Despite that, and imminent overseas travel, they came round to my house after work last week, bringing with them all of their demonstration paraphenalia, and for the the mediocre return of a drink and a snack, spent an hour teaching me about different gel states, applications for pectin, xanthan gum, guar gum, and some of the complications inherent in large scale production. Apparently a crash course in fluid dynamics is on the cards - I knew I should have been a chemical engineer!

Reassuringly though, they confirmed that with my intention to make the best quality product I can, many of their products are superfluous, since one of their primary uses is to replicate cheaply the texture, consistency and mouthfeel of more expensive ingredients. Where they do come into their own is in stabilising the product to give a commercially viable shelf life.

So much to learn, it's my favourite part of the job.

What I really, really want

2012-05-24T19:55:00.000+01:00

Today is my birthday, and a Dublin-based friend who travels regularly to San Francisco for work has brought me an unexpected birthday gift - a packet of Thomas Keller's new gluten-free flour blend, Cup4Cup.

She managed to scoop up the second last packet in San Fran, and with the dedication of the true believer, lugged 3lbs of flour mix back across the Atlantic, and then over the Irish Sea to me in London.

I've been agog with curiosity about this blend since I read about the launch a few weeks ago. Apparently TK gluten-free customers have wept with joy to be able to eat products devised with their special flour blend, and though I can't discern much that is different from other blends just from the ingredients list, I'll take all the magic I can inject into my own product development.

Time to fire up the ovens, TKOs are on the menu today!