Among the many items we are gradually amassing as a result of father-in-law WithaY's recent move into the nursing home is a bread machine.
One that bakes loaves of bread I mean, not something that prints money. Which would be very welcome, to be honest, if anyone has one they want rid of.
Anyhoo, we tried it out last night, and made a slightly odd-shaped loaf of dark bread, a sort of German rye affair. As a key part of a bacon sandwich this morning it was very good. Tasty, nice texture, not too floppity. I currently have a sunflower seed loaf in there, to see how it manages bread with bits in.
Is it just me, or does "A German Rye Affair" sound like the sort of book you buy in the airport on your way to your holiday? With a gold embossed picture on the front, and a list of all the other books by the same author in big letters?
Anyhoo.
We have several huge boxes in the kitchen, full of jars, cans, packets and bags of foodstuffs, some still in date, even. We have more olive oil than anyone other than a Turkish wrestler needs, and about fifty different types of dried vine fruit. Mr WithaY has cleared space in the garage; we plan to store all the mouse-proof stuff out there till we get round to finding a more permanent home for it.
If anyone wants about a thousand cans of peach halves, please do drop me a line.
Other news: Our mates with the mad spaniels are coming over later for dinner and (we decided over a sustaining lunch of home-made soup) cocktails. Mmmmmmmmmm. In fact, I need to go and put some ice cubes in to freeze so we can have proper posh cocktails and not just huge glasses of sticky warm mixtures of mad alcohol.
Am learning to play the riff from "Every Mother's Son" by the fab Lynyrd Skynyrd, which feels like a real achievement. Yay me. Makes me feel like a proper guitarist, being able to do little riffy bits.
Still bloody freezing here. Everything was covered in the most beautiful hoar frost yesterday and today, making the place look like a Christmas card. We will light the fire when our mates get here and talk bollocks all evening.
Marvellous.
Showing posts with label great soup. Show all posts
Showing posts with label great soup. Show all posts
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Joints
Mine, and those of a chicken.
Today we went shopping (noting that there were long queues at the petrol station at the supermarket, not a good sign), and bought a chicken. Not just a chicken, other stuff too, I mean. But the chicken is the star of today's show.
We got home, Mr WithaY carefully placed rat poison in the garden to hopefully see off the latest incursion of vermin, refilled the bird feeders to encourage a better class of wildlife, and then went into the garage to do terrible things.
While he was in there, I looked at the chicken and thought I'd tandoorify it. And then I thought, ahahahahaaaaaaa*, if I cut it up, it will fit better in the bowl to soak in the tandoori mixture. So I took it apart.
Properly.
All nicely jointed and sectioned, with the legs and wings in the marinade and a few lovely fillets in the fridge for another day. Then I boiled up the carcase for stock with celery, onion, bay leaves and pepper. And once that was all boiled up, I picked off all the nicely poached bits of meat from the carcase and put them in another bowl to use in soup.
It was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. But with no moral at the end. And fewer horses.
We went for a stroll this afternoon to return some loppers to a neighbour, who very kindly invited us in for a cup of tea. Then we sauntered through the village, scaled a fence** and went for a walk along the river, watching various ducks, swans, coots and a buzzard all going about their business. We found a trail of eggs, probably pheasant, all broken and emptied out, stolen from a nest by (I bet) a rat.
They really are bastards.
And then it was time to go and have a cream tea. They have a kind of open house thing every few weeks in the summer to raise money for charity. All very pleasant apart from the overwhelming stench of cowshit as we sat outside enjoying our scones and cream.
*I really did think that.
**A small one.
Today we went shopping (noting that there were long queues at the petrol station at the supermarket, not a good sign), and bought a chicken. Not just a chicken, other stuff too, I mean. But the chicken is the star of today's show.
We got home, Mr WithaY carefully placed rat poison in the garden to hopefully see off the latest incursion of vermin, refilled the bird feeders to encourage a better class of wildlife, and then went into the garage to do terrible things.
While he was in there, I looked at the chicken and thought I'd tandoorify it. And then I thought, ahahahahaaaaaaa*, if I cut it up, it will fit better in the bowl to soak in the tandoori mixture. So I took it apart.
Properly.
All nicely jointed and sectioned, with the legs and wings in the marinade and a few lovely fillets in the fridge for another day. Then I boiled up the carcase for stock with celery, onion, bay leaves and pepper. And once that was all boiled up, I picked off all the nicely poached bits of meat from the carcase and put them in another bowl to use in soup.
It was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. But with no moral at the end. And fewer horses.
We went for a stroll this afternoon to return some loppers to a neighbour, who very kindly invited us in for a cup of tea. Then we sauntered through the village, scaled a fence** and went for a walk along the river, watching various ducks, swans, coots and a buzzard all going about their business. We found a trail of eggs, probably pheasant, all broken and emptied out, stolen from a nest by (I bet) a rat.
They really are bastards.
And then it was time to go and have a cream tea. They have a kind of open house thing every few weeks in the summer to raise money for charity. All very pleasant apart from the overwhelming stench of cowshit as we sat outside enjoying our scones and cream.
*I really did think that.
**A small one.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Recipe corner
I made the nicest soup ever this week.
You take the cold, gnawed remains of a roast duck, and boil it in water. Then simmer for an hour with a little bag of herbs and stuff. Add lots of black pepper but no salt.
Then, chop up a big onion and cook it in olive oil till soft and a bit burnt (assuming you answer the phone during this phase of cooking). Add a load of peeled, cubed sweet potatoes and cook them in the onions and oil for a minute or two. Then pour the duck stock over it.
You need to ensure that all the bones and bits of herbs are no longer in the stock.
I recommend using a sieve for that. Unless you want to play "bobbing for bones" in a kind of gruesome Halloween party game way.
Bring to the boil, then simmer for 20 minutes, until the sweet potato is cooked. It's cooked when you can poke a fork through it with little effort.
Then, add some chopped fresh red pepper and simmer a bit longer.
Once the red pepper is soft, turn off the heat and stick in your handheld blender gadget. If you don't have one, get one. They are superb for making soup.
Whizz it all up till there are no lumps. Taste, add salt and more pepper, and it's ready to go.
Bloody lovely.
I added a dollop of fresh yoghurt to mine, Mr WithaY chose to adorn his bowl with grated cheese. Both options worked.
Mmmm. Soup.
You take the cold, gnawed remains of a roast duck, and boil it in water. Then simmer for an hour with a little bag of herbs and stuff. Add lots of black pepper but no salt.
Then, chop up a big onion and cook it in olive oil till soft and a bit burnt (assuming you answer the phone during this phase of cooking). Add a load of peeled, cubed sweet potatoes and cook them in the onions and oil for a minute or two. Then pour the duck stock over it.
You need to ensure that all the bones and bits of herbs are no longer in the stock.
I recommend using a sieve for that. Unless you want to play "bobbing for bones" in a kind of gruesome Halloween party game way.
Bring to the boil, then simmer for 20 minutes, until the sweet potato is cooked. It's cooked when you can poke a fork through it with little effort.
Then, add some chopped fresh red pepper and simmer a bit longer.
Once the red pepper is soft, turn off the heat and stick in your handheld blender gadget. If you don't have one, get one. They are superb for making soup.
Whizz it all up till there are no lumps. Taste, add salt and more pepper, and it's ready to go.
Bloody lovely.
I added a dollop of fresh yoghurt to mine, Mr WithaY chose to adorn his bowl with grated cheese. Both options worked.
Mmmm. Soup.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Crab tragedy
Forgot to mention the crab. Mr WithaY went scuba diving on Sunday, and brought home a big crab.
To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.
He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.
"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."
He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.
We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.
Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.
Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.
With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.
He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.
A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.
Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.
Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.
To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.
He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.
"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."
He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.
We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.
Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.
Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.
With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.
He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.
A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.
Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.
Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.
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