Last week I attended a course with Action for employment (A4e), one of the agencies the Department of Work & Pensions (DWP) uses to try to help jobseekers into employment.
A4e had a torrid time in 2012; you can read all about that here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A4e . Despite this, it continues to run courses, particularly for those on Work Programme which shirkers like me, who have been signing on for Jobseekers Allowance for more than a year, have to attend.
This is my fourth brush with the organisation. I voluntarily attended two courses in London last year at different centres. Both were very good, the trainers were motivating and practical, the centres comfortable and accessible. For me, it was mostly just nice to chew the fat with other jobseekers; looking for work is a lonely business, whether you do it from home, an internet cafe or a local library, so it's a morale boost to communicate with folks in the same situation.
Still unable to find employment, my contact with A4e became formal (polite-speak for enforced) in November. That said, I waited five weeks for my first appointment, so busy are they in my local office. For those of you who haven't encountered me before, I recently 'bounced-back' from London to the village in Lincolnshire in which I grew up. The nearest point of civilisation is Grantham, a town in which jobs are pretty scarce in the current economic climate.
So, my first appointment was an interview in which the difficulty in getting me back to work, and the support I will need, was assessed. Despite suffering from depression and anxiety, which manifest themselves as and when they please, although much less since I haven't been living alone, I have been deemed pretty much ready to exit the employment starting blocks without too much help.
On attending a four-day course entitled 'Silver Event including the local labour market', it became evident why pretty quickly...
See A4e - Blogpost 2
Rosie the Mini, 2008
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Delia Smith's Moussaka
450-500g minced lamb
1 large aubergine sliced into half-moon shapes
225g onions, sliced
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
2 tbsps tomato puree
a splash of red or white wine
ground cinnamon
fresh parsley, or Herbes de Provence
salt & pepper
75g butter
75g plain flour
3/4 - 1 pt milk
50g Cheddar cheese
freshly ground nutmeg
2 eggs
Salt the aubergine, put in a colander, put a plate on top and weigh down with a tin of veg.
Rinse, then fry. Put onto kitchen paper to absorb excess o/o.
Fry the onion, add the garlic, then the lamb mince.
Add the tomato paste, wine, cinnamon and herbs.
Simmer for 20mins.
Melt the butter, stir in the flour gradually. Remove from the heat. Add the milk gradually (you may not need it all).
Add the cheese and grated nutmeg.
Whisk the eggs and then add them to the sauce. Whisk until thick and smooth.
Arrange the aubergines on the bottom of an ovenproof dish. Pour in the lamb mince mixture. (You may need to layer the aubergines and lamb alternately).
Pour the sauce over the aubergines and lamb mince.
Put in the oven for 40-60 mins on 160-180 degrees C.
Serve with salad, pilau rice, steamed vegetables or crusty bread (probably not all four or you'll probably explode!)
1 large aubergine sliced into half-moon shapes
225g onions, sliced
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
2 tbsps tomato puree
a splash of red or white wine
ground cinnamon
fresh parsley, or Herbes de Provence
salt & pepper
75g butter
75g plain flour
3/4 - 1 pt milk
50g Cheddar cheese
freshly ground nutmeg
2 eggs
Salt the aubergine, put in a colander, put a plate on top and weigh down with a tin of veg.
Rinse, then fry. Put onto kitchen paper to absorb excess o/o.
Fry the onion, add the garlic, then the lamb mince.
Add the tomato paste, wine, cinnamon and herbs.
Simmer for 20mins.
Melt the butter, stir in the flour gradually. Remove from the heat. Add the milk gradually (you may not need it all).
Add the cheese and grated nutmeg.
Whisk the eggs and then add them to the sauce. Whisk until thick and smooth.
Arrange the aubergines on the bottom of an ovenproof dish. Pour in the lamb mince mixture. (You may need to layer the aubergines and lamb alternately).
Pour the sauce over the aubergines and lamb mince.
Put in the oven for 40-60 mins on 160-180 degrees C.
Serve with salad, pilau rice, steamed vegetables or crusty bread (probably not all four or you'll probably explode!)
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Just A Quickie
Mea Culpa. It's been almost six months to the day since my last post. Gawd bless Richard Herring who has been blogging daily since 2002. I had planned to come here to record what's been happening over the past months, but I'm not in the mood so instead I'm going to post my new favourite soup recipe. I'm come back another time, maybe to spill my guts, maybe just to recount how my knitting and embroidery are going.
Parsnip & Ginger Soup
Ingredients: Parsnips, around 5, peeled and chopped
Carrot, peeled and chopped - mainly to improve the soup's colour
Onion, peeled and chopped
Cloves of garlic - 1 or 2 - peeled and finely chopped
Knob of ginger, peeled and finely chopped
Knob of butter, for frying vegetables
Pears; two small, peeled and chopped
Vegetable stock - about a pint
Powdered ginger and hot chilli sauce, optional
Coriander leaves, to garnish
Yoghurt, to stir in - optional
Cook the onions, parsnips and onion for a few minutes until soft.
Add the garlic and ginger, cook for another minute or two, then add the pear.
Add the hot vegetable stock slowly and simmer for 10-20 minutes.
Taste and add powdered ginger and/or chilli sauce.
Puree in a food processor when cool, then reheat to serve.
It's the easiest thing ever!
Parsnip & Ginger Soup
Ingredients: Parsnips, around 5, peeled and chopped
Carrot, peeled and chopped - mainly to improve the soup's colour
Onion, peeled and chopped
Cloves of garlic - 1 or 2 - peeled and finely chopped
Knob of ginger, peeled and finely chopped
Knob of butter, for frying vegetables
Pears; two small, peeled and chopped
Vegetable stock - about a pint
Powdered ginger and hot chilli sauce, optional
Coriander leaves, to garnish
Yoghurt, to stir in - optional
Cook the onions, parsnips and onion for a few minutes until soft.
Add the garlic and ginger, cook for another minute or two, then add the pear.
Add the hot vegetable stock slowly and simmer for 10-20 minutes.
Taste and add powdered ginger and/or chilli sauce.
Puree in a food processor when cool, then reheat to serve.
It's the easiest thing ever!
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Recipe for Tiffin
Soak 50g of seedless raisins in 2 tbsps of brandy or OJ for 30-60mins.
Line the base and sides of 15-20cm square shallow baking tine with edible rice paper (or grease tin well).
Break into pieces 175g plain chocolate and melt over pan filled with boiling water (bain marie) w. 125g unsalted butter and a pinch of salt. Turn off heat as soon as chocolate has melted.
Stir in raisins, 125g chopped candied peel, 150g digestive or shortbread biscuits, crushed and 75g hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped.
Turn the mixture into the prepared tin and press down evenly. Chill in the fridge for several hours or overnight until firm.
Break or cut into squares and store in an airtight container.
Fruit, nuts and biscuits can all be substituted with any other cakey ingredients you have to hand.
Line the base and sides of 15-20cm square shallow baking tine with edible rice paper (or grease tin well).
Break into pieces 175g plain chocolate and melt over pan filled with boiling water (bain marie) w. 125g unsalted butter and a pinch of salt. Turn off heat as soon as chocolate has melted.
Stir in raisins, 125g chopped candied peel, 150g digestive or shortbread biscuits, crushed and 75g hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped.
Turn the mixture into the prepared tin and press down evenly. Chill in the fridge for several hours or overnight until firm.
Break or cut into squares and store in an airtight container.
Fruit, nuts and biscuits can all be substituted with any other cakey ingredients you have to hand.
I don't know why this is called tiffin. Tiffin, a word originating in the days of the British Raj, is a light meal or snack, often eaten at lunchtime (a packed lunch, if you will). Mum always used to make this at Christmas; it's great because you can use whatever you have in your cupboard, it doesn't take any cooking and keeps for as long as you refrain from eating it!
The reason I'm including this today, is simply that I found it in an e-mail when I was clearing out my Hotmail account.
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Monday, 21 May 2012
Photo Upload
Such is the ridiculousness of my Sony Ericsson, the only way I can get photos from it onto computer is via Blogger. It's slow and tedious, but at least it works. They'll be Dropbox'd and removed in due course.
Then I can sit and try to figure out how to get photos off my even older handset that I had from around 2003 - 2010 and came with me to India. They're all saved in the handset, I believe and that phone didn't have internet capability. Expect curse words! But I do know the data cable isn't purely for decoration, like this one, so it might be a bit more straightforward. It couldn't be more Byzantine than what I've done these past two days.
Then I can sit and try to figure out how to get photos off my even older handset that I had from around 2003 - 2010 and came with me to India. They're all saved in the handset, I believe and that phone didn't have internet capability. Expect curse words! But I do know the data cable isn't purely for decoration, like this one, so it might be a bit more straightforward. It couldn't be more Byzantine than what I've done these past two days.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Monday, 7 May 2012
Silver surfing - Part 1
This post and the one that follows is inspired by @48Refugee who recounted in 3 Tweets helping her Baba (Dad) use his new Android phone. It made me laugh and reminded of my parents' forays into new technologies.
I'll add a disclaimer here. I don't have a smartphone yet, much less an iPad so the world of Apps and touchscreens is a mystery. I've never even had a Blackberry; communication in my previous world of work as a civil servant was totally encrypted and was personal device-free. (I know what you're thinking at this point; the answers are both no). We had to check our phone and/or MP3 player in at the door each morning and collect it in the evening. But I'm due an phone upgrade so, when I can be bothered to deal with the condescending cretins that work in the handset-flogging industry, I'll take the plunge.
My Dad had a Miami Vice-style car phone back in the 80s. It came with the company car, I seem to remember and was there for emergencies - I don't think it was used much - there was probably never much coverage. Then, in the early 90s, Mum got an enormous analogue 'brick', again in case of emergencies because Dad was abroad for work a great deal of the time and she had an elderly mother, said mother's ailing dog, two teenagers and any number of cats to marshall. When she upgraded it to a digital mobile some years later, it having done perfectly good service, the gelled, shiny suited oiks in Radio Rentals (remember them?) laughed at her.
In the Noughties they both had their bog standard mobile phones, although Dad seldom switched his on, had it with him outside work hours. I can't blame him, but it was rare to get a call from him on it, much less a text. He's always been a bit phone conversation-phobic, as now am I. He finally ditched it altogether recently although, now he's retired and having hurt himself falling off a ladder this time last year, you'd think having that link to the rest of the world would be a useful precaution. I digress. Mum is better. Hers is both switched on and charged and she texts with enthusiasm, although I know she's probably never seen the need to investigate her phone's camera or whether she can get internet access.
They are perfectly computer literate, at least with word processing, e-mailing and uploading digital photos and videos. They're not bad at the internet, although I suspect what they call their 'rubbish rural broadband' issues might be solved with some software upgrades. They'll both sit in the living room, laptops on their knees, being mildly insulted as I (yet again) refer to them as 'silver surfers'. Mum recently organised a 'Come and Sing Handel's Messiah' at a local village church and had live spreadlists...ok, lists, of sopranos, altos, tenors et al singing, their contact details and whether they needed sheet music, and the number of audience. I'm sure that Facebook and Twitter could have cut down the number of phone enquiries to their landline (although I wouldn't have had the delicious anticipation that someone might phone up asking if that was the Messiah - a reference that would have gone clean over both parental heads) but it worked for her.
They're finally coming round to the notion that, if you don't know something, you don't have to not know it for a minute longer. Forgotten the title of a poem? Put in a line or two and the whole thing will pop up - as well as title, poet and publisher, Can't finish the Guardian crossword? The solution's on the website - you don't have to wait until tomorrow's paper hits the doormat. Why is everyone making so much fuss about the moon this week? Well, you no longer have trusty Ceefax to consult, so ask the BBC, Huffington Post or the Australian Morning Herald. It's taken a while, but it's beginning to become second nature.
Social networking? That's a whole other bag of beans...tbc in Part 2.
I'll add a disclaimer here. I don't have a smartphone yet, much less an iPad so the world of Apps and touchscreens is a mystery. I've never even had a Blackberry; communication in my previous world of work as a civil servant was totally encrypted and was personal device-free. (I know what you're thinking at this point; the answers are both no). We had to check our phone and/or MP3 player in at the door each morning and collect it in the evening. But I'm due an phone upgrade so, when I can be bothered to deal with the condescending cretins that work in the handset-flogging industry, I'll take the plunge.
My Dad had a Miami Vice-style car phone back in the 80s. It came with the company car, I seem to remember and was there for emergencies - I don't think it was used much - there was probably never much coverage. Then, in the early 90s, Mum got an enormous analogue 'brick', again in case of emergencies because Dad was abroad for work a great deal of the time and she had an elderly mother, said mother's ailing dog, two teenagers and any number of cats to marshall. When she upgraded it to a digital mobile some years later, it having done perfectly good service, the gelled, shiny suited oiks in Radio Rentals (remember them?) laughed at her.
In the Noughties they both had their bog standard mobile phones, although Dad seldom switched his on, had it with him outside work hours. I can't blame him, but it was rare to get a call from him on it, much less a text. He's always been a bit phone conversation-phobic, as now am I. He finally ditched it altogether recently although, now he's retired and having hurt himself falling off a ladder this time last year, you'd think having that link to the rest of the world would be a useful precaution. I digress. Mum is better. Hers is both switched on and charged and she texts with enthusiasm, although I know she's probably never seen the need to investigate her phone's camera or whether she can get internet access.
They are perfectly computer literate, at least with word processing, e-mailing and uploading digital photos and videos. They're not bad at the internet, although I suspect what they call their 'rubbish rural broadband' issues might be solved with some software upgrades. They'll both sit in the living room, laptops on their knees, being mildly insulted as I (yet again) refer to them as 'silver surfers'. Mum recently organised a 'Come and Sing Handel's Messiah' at a local village church and had live spreadlists...ok, lists, of sopranos, altos, tenors et al singing, their contact details and whether they needed sheet music, and the number of audience. I'm sure that Facebook and Twitter could have cut down the number of phone enquiries to their landline (although I wouldn't have had the delicious anticipation that someone might phone up asking if that was the Messiah - a reference that would have gone clean over both parental heads) but it worked for her.
They're finally coming round to the notion that, if you don't know something, you don't have to not know it for a minute longer. Forgotten the title of a poem? Put in a line or two and the whole thing will pop up - as well as title, poet and publisher, Can't finish the Guardian crossword? The solution's on the website - you don't have to wait until tomorrow's paper hits the doormat. Why is everyone making so much fuss about the moon this week? Well, you no longer have trusty Ceefax to consult, so ask the BBC, Huffington Post or the Australian Morning Herald. It's taken a while, but it's beginning to become second nature.
Social networking? That's a whole other bag of beans...tbc in Part 2.
Lemon Dipping Sauce
A mugful of vegetable stock (and hot water in the kettle to augment as necessary)
Juice of one lemon
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1 tsp cornflour mixed into 1 tsp cold water
Knob of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped or grated (optional)
Chilli flakes or powder (optional)
Heat stock, lemon juice, honey, vinegar, garlic salt and vegetable oil in small pan and bring to the boil. Add the ginger if using.
Reduce the heat.
Add the mixed water and cornflour and bring to the boil again, stirring continuously.
Allow to reduce and thicken before removing from the heat.
Leave to cool, then refridgerate.
(You may want to strain out the chilli flakes and pieces of ginger before use).
Tip: if you want to thicken your sauce further, mix cornflour and cold water together before adding to the pan - the cornflour may not dissolve if added directly. I learned this the hard way.
Use on tempura or kebabs, or add at the last minute to a stir-fry.
Juice of one lemon
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1 tsp cornflour mixed into 1 tsp cold water
Knob of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped or grated (optional)
Chilli flakes or powder (optional)
Heat stock, lemon juice, honey, vinegar, garlic salt and vegetable oil in small pan and bring to the boil. Add the ginger if using.
Reduce the heat.
Add the mixed water and cornflour and bring to the boil again, stirring continuously.
Allow to reduce and thicken before removing from the heat.
Leave to cool, then refridgerate.
(You may want to strain out the chilli flakes and pieces of ginger before use).
Tip: if you want to thicken your sauce further, mix cornflour and cold water together before adding to the pan - the cornflour may not dissolve if added directly. I learned this the hard way.
Use on tempura or kebabs, or add at the last minute to a stir-fry.
Sinistromanual or cack-handed?
My Mum's theory is that I 'made' myself left-handed by not crawling as a baby. Before learning to walk I'd put my right hand out on the floor and drag my padded behind towards it. Apparently I could get up quite a speed! Thus it was my left hand that was free to cram things into my mouth and wave my smiley, orange plastic spoon around. So it was only natural that when I started to crayon the walls or grab the cat, it would be with my left hand.
I've always been proud of being left-handed, despite the trials and tribulations. I was always dreadfully co-ordinated which is why I was sent to ballet lessons aged 5. Despite weekly dance classes, exams, shows and all kinds of performances, my co-ordination didn't really improve that much. I was always slow to pick up choreography because my feet and arms didn't naturally understand where they were supposed to go. To this day I have to be careful performing complicated manoeuvres with pans on the hob and things in the oven so I don't burn myself or set the kitchen on fire.
I was very slow to learn how to tie shoelaces; in fact for years I did it a different 'left-handed' way and only learned how to do it 'properly' in my late 20s. (I maintain that my left-handed bow is more symmetrical and harder to loosen than it's conventional cousin).
Anyway, a proud left-hander I, due to being a little bit different. One of 11% of the population. Using an inkpen was a trial - it's almost impossible not to smudge and, thank goodness I didn't become a teacher because my writing always sloped downhill. Although I quickly learned the alphabets, I have always been slow to read Arabic and Hebrew. My eyes just won't travel at speed across a page right to left, although when writing, deep joy, no smudging!
Back in 1997 I did a short work-sponsored course in sign language. A complete fiasco because I did everything backwards. Who knew what I was signing and finger-spelling! For this reason I was always careful not to make the 'L for Loser' sign on my forehead as, I would likely be the loser!
Then there's the discrimination. It's not intentional these days (my grandmother's generation would have had their left had tied behind their back had they tried to write with it and traditionally being left-handed was a sign of the devil), but it's there. Go and look in the mugs in your kitchen. How many of them have the design all the way round and how many on one side? The right side, I'll wager. At university, those seats with a little shelf where you balanced your notebook? Mostly fixed on the right side so I had to sit sideways to take notes.
The point of this blogpost is to question whether I can still call myself left-handed. I don't think I did any writing yesterday or the day before, not even my signature. Writing is an activity I do less and less. I use my laptop mouse and text with my right hand. I can use my left, but it's slow and uncomfortable. Typing is an activity shared equally by both as I can touchtype. So have I, through my use of technology, myself right-handed or ambidextrous? Or is there no such thing anymore? Is 'handedness' like gender and sexuality something that will become increasingly fluid? Are we 'post-handed'?
I was thinking about other activities. You wouldn't want me using a knife in my right hand, but there's something about scissors in my left - the blades don't connect. I can't cut the fingernails on my right hand. My handbag won't stay on my right shoulder and I can't successfully get a spoon to my mouth in my right hand, but were I to have a golf or guitar lesson, I would be right. Also jars and bottles; jars - right, bottles - left. Where did that come from? Ironing, not that I ever do any these days, but when I did I was equally comfortable using either. Oh, and driving. Whoever decided that we should drive on the left and have the gear stick on the left should be sainted and feted. You're the reason I passed my test first time. I'd probably still be learning to drive now, were it not for you!
I'm sure none of these things matter. I'm quite certain no-one is doing doctoral research into this subject. Most people probably never consider it. I think, though, because of the serious little girl with pink NHS specs who always started her 'e's in the wrong place and has her own way of tying a bow, I will continue to be a proud southpaw. Mancino, smoleet, sinestra. Whatever you care to call it.
I've always been proud of being left-handed, despite the trials and tribulations. I was always dreadfully co-ordinated which is why I was sent to ballet lessons aged 5. Despite weekly dance classes, exams, shows and all kinds of performances, my co-ordination didn't really improve that much. I was always slow to pick up choreography because my feet and arms didn't naturally understand where they were supposed to go. To this day I have to be careful performing complicated manoeuvres with pans on the hob and things in the oven so I don't burn myself or set the kitchen on fire.
I was very slow to learn how to tie shoelaces; in fact for years I did it a different 'left-handed' way and only learned how to do it 'properly' in my late 20s. (I maintain that my left-handed bow is more symmetrical and harder to loosen than it's conventional cousin).
Anyway, a proud left-hander I, due to being a little bit different. One of 11% of the population. Using an inkpen was a trial - it's almost impossible not to smudge and, thank goodness I didn't become a teacher because my writing always sloped downhill. Although I quickly learned the alphabets, I have always been slow to read Arabic and Hebrew. My eyes just won't travel at speed across a page right to left, although when writing, deep joy, no smudging!
Back in 1997 I did a short work-sponsored course in sign language. A complete fiasco because I did everything backwards. Who knew what I was signing and finger-spelling! For this reason I was always careful not to make the 'L for Loser' sign on my forehead as, I would likely be the loser!
Then there's the discrimination. It's not intentional these days (my grandmother's generation would have had their left had tied behind their back had they tried to write with it and traditionally being left-handed was a sign of the devil), but it's there. Go and look in the mugs in your kitchen. How many of them have the design all the way round and how many on one side? The right side, I'll wager. At university, those seats with a little shelf where you balanced your notebook? Mostly fixed on the right side so I had to sit sideways to take notes.
The point of this blogpost is to question whether I can still call myself left-handed. I don't think I did any writing yesterday or the day before, not even my signature. Writing is an activity I do less and less. I use my laptop mouse and text with my right hand. I can use my left, but it's slow and uncomfortable. Typing is an activity shared equally by both as I can touchtype. So have I, through my use of technology, myself right-handed or ambidextrous? Or is there no such thing anymore? Is 'handedness' like gender and sexuality something that will become increasingly fluid? Are we 'post-handed'?
I was thinking about other activities. You wouldn't want me using a knife in my right hand, but there's something about scissors in my left - the blades don't connect. I can't cut the fingernails on my right hand. My handbag won't stay on my right shoulder and I can't successfully get a spoon to my mouth in my right hand, but were I to have a golf or guitar lesson, I would be right. Also jars and bottles; jars - right, bottles - left. Where did that come from? Ironing, not that I ever do any these days, but when I did I was equally comfortable using either. Oh, and driving. Whoever decided that we should drive on the left and have the gear stick on the left should be sainted and feted. You're the reason I passed my test first time. I'd probably still be learning to drive now, were it not for you!
I'm sure none of these things matter. I'm quite certain no-one is doing doctoral research into this subject. Most people probably never consider it. I think, though, because of the serious little girl with pink NHS specs who always started her 'e's in the wrong place and has her own way of tying a bow, I will continue to be a proud southpaw. Mancino, smoleet, sinestra. Whatever you care to call it.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Choose your battles
A friend of mine in Baltimore is passionate about the Occupy movement and urged me to join in. I applaud the movement and am in silent support. There are many just causes; Free Tibet, stop whaling, save endangered languages to name but three.
For my part, I have decided, at the moment to concentrate on just two. The first is very small scale. Save a little Jewish deli on Charing Cross Road from being taken over and redeveloped by a grey, homogenous chain. Gaby's Deli was established some 45 years ago by an Iranian-born Israeli, Gaby Elayahou and serves felafel, salt beef and Mediterranean salads. A few doors down from Wyndham's Theatre, it has been a thesps haunt for decades; signed photos on the walls attest to this. I can't claim to be a faithful customer; I went once for felafel and promised myself I'd go back. I didn't, and I am poster girl for 'use it or you'll lose it'. Actually, in this case, that's not true. Gaby's thrives; it's the landlord, the Marquis of Salisbury, his eye on the £££s redevelopment might bring in, that threatens this luvverly London eaterie. That's why my small Twitter/Facebook weight is thrown behind Gaby's Deli. Currently unemployed, the idea of going to central London, let alone eating there, sends me scurrying to count my change, but I can add my small, belligerent voice.
The second is very much larger and oh, so much more complicated. It's Palestine. I could write for pages, but my simple take is that the people of Palestine, be they in Gaza, the West Bank or the Palestinian diaspora are monstrously discriminated against. Their very existence has recently been denied by Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney and our own BBC. While my American friend, whose family are East European in origin and was born in Philly, whose family never set a foot there until the late 80s, could emigrate, study and get a great job there in 1999, my friend Atef's father, from Jabaliyeh, Gaza's, who was born in Jaffa in the 40s, could never even get to the town of his birth after his family was forced to flee in 1948. Atef's family are told they can go to any Arab country, but aren't welcome in Israel/Palestine. My American friend was welcomed 'home'. Over-simplification, I know. I could go on for days, cite a myriad of sources, but to my simple brain, that crystallizes the situation for me; my white, blonde, Jewish friend has access all-areas, my brown, Palestinan, Muslim friend struggles to leave Gaza (and faces hassle from dreadful, corrupt, enemy-within Hamas should he speak 'out of turn'). For the record, I have lived in Israel and I speak a bit of Hebrew and Arabic. I'm atheist of CofE/Methodist heritage.
Them's my battles. (A Tesco Metro in my locality may become a third).
See you on the other side.
For my part, I have decided, at the moment to concentrate on just two. The first is very small scale. Save a little Jewish deli on Charing Cross Road from being taken over and redeveloped by a grey, homogenous chain. Gaby's Deli was established some 45 years ago by an Iranian-born Israeli, Gaby Elayahou and serves felafel, salt beef and Mediterranean salads. A few doors down from Wyndham's Theatre, it has been a thesps haunt for decades; signed photos on the walls attest to this. I can't claim to be a faithful customer; I went once for felafel and promised myself I'd go back. I didn't, and I am poster girl for 'use it or you'll lose it'. Actually, in this case, that's not true. Gaby's thrives; it's the landlord, the Marquis of Salisbury, his eye on the £££s redevelopment might bring in, that threatens this luvverly London eaterie. That's why my small Twitter/Facebook weight is thrown behind Gaby's Deli. Currently unemployed, the idea of going to central London, let alone eating there, sends me scurrying to count my change, but I can add my small, belligerent voice.
The second is very much larger and oh, so much more complicated. It's Palestine. I could write for pages, but my simple take is that the people of Palestine, be they in Gaza, the West Bank or the Palestinian diaspora are monstrously discriminated against. Their very existence has recently been denied by Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney and our own BBC. While my American friend, whose family are East European in origin and was born in Philly, whose family never set a foot there until the late 80s, could emigrate, study and get a great job there in 1999, my friend Atef's father, from Jabaliyeh, Gaza's, who was born in Jaffa in the 40s, could never even get to the town of his birth after his family was forced to flee in 1948. Atef's family are told they can go to any Arab country, but aren't welcome in Israel/Palestine. My American friend was welcomed 'home'. Over-simplification, I know. I could go on for days, cite a myriad of sources, but to my simple brain, that crystallizes the situation for me; my white, blonde, Jewish friend has access all-areas, my brown, Palestinan, Muslim friend struggles to leave Gaza (and faces hassle from dreadful, corrupt, enemy-within Hamas should he speak 'out of turn'). For the record, I have lived in Israel and I speak a bit of Hebrew and Arabic. I'm atheist of CofE/Methodist heritage.
Them's my battles. (A Tesco Metro in my locality may become a third).
See you on the other side.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Writing
I don't need permission to write. I don't need permission to write. I don't need permission to write.
Repeat 1000 times (or until I believe it). I have as much entitlement to write as anyone else in the Twitter/blogosphere, so why am I struggling to believe that what comes out of my head and into words on a page is as valid as that of anyone else?
Fear of criticism? Yes, certainly, but so what? Why is my opinion and my expression of it any less valid than that of any of the few souls who may read this? It's not, and it's time I stopped saying it and started believing it. Or growing enough of a shell not to care. I usually manage it on Twitter, where I'm much more visible, so why not here?
Une crise de confiance? Most definitely. My self-confidence has taken a real bashing over the past few years. I was asked to leave my job in the Civil Service after 10 years in April 2011. I'd been struggling to cope with the work for about 3 years, not to mention battling depression and anxiety which caused what it would be overegging it to call a breakdown in February 2009. (They were perfectly entitled to do this; I'd been on a performance improvement plan for about nine months - which in itself I found incredibly stressful and reduce my confidence even further. It was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy that I would fail to achieve the expected standard). So I've made a few half-hearted attempts to find a job these past two months, after giving myself a clear six months off, but I'm started to believe I'm unemployable.
So I have very low self-esteem, to the point where I'm not keen to go out and socialise and, when I do, am profoundly glad to come back to the house in which I'm currently taking refuge.
It's not just that. The past few years have made me question my intellect and my ability to think and express myself coherently and with clarity. Depression is different for everyone; for me it's made my thought process feel like trying to see through porridge. My brain has become porridgey.
And that's before I come to the actual process of writing. At primary school I was always singled out for my creative writing to the point that my peers were sick of my stories being read out in class and taunted me for it. At secondary school there was none of that business; creativity was stifled - we had to read and analyse other people's writing. Writing stories and poems was just not a part of the curriculum and it frankly didn't occur to me to do it in my own time. Homework, dance classes, my part-time jobs and the usual teenage preoccupations left little time. My best friend and I began to write a diary, aged about thirteen, but neither of us stuck to it and I ended up putting the contents of mine on the fire.
GCSE's, A levels, university; essays were all about formulating an argument and back that up with facts, both in literature and history. Then I began full-time work and, as I have worked for 'brands' (albeit most of them public sector) since 1997, I have been obliged to learn and use a corporate style wherein freedom of expression and creativity win you frowns not friends.
I must speak to my friend Tom for a bit of how to/inspiration. An English graduate, he works compressed hours at the MoD in order to have one day a week for writing. He's disciplined enough to have been doing just that for eight years and has a manuscript with a publisher. The wheels seem to have slowed down of late, but getting someone to represent you, but when every other person professes to be writing a book or a script, is no mean feat.
That's another thing. These days everyone's at it. How do you know if you're any good or not? I've always been worried by the existence of creative writing classes. How do you get better by practising? I can't comprehend that at all. Practising music, dancing or painting I can, to some extent, see the benefit of, but I still subscribe to the mantra that 'you either got it or you ain't' and no amount of practice will lift you from competent to outstanding and effortless.
But actually, it doesn't matter if I'm incoherent and, frankly, just crap. I'm doing this for catharsis (although I know I'm not going to be brutally honest, I don't have it in me - the very idea makes my skin crawl) and to see if I can.
See you on the other side.
Repeat 1000 times (or until I believe it). I have as much entitlement to write as anyone else in the Twitter/blogosphere, so why am I struggling to believe that what comes out of my head and into words on a page is as valid as that of anyone else?
Fear of criticism? Yes, certainly, but so what? Why is my opinion and my expression of it any less valid than that of any of the few souls who may read this? It's not, and it's time I stopped saying it and started believing it. Or growing enough of a shell not to care. I usually manage it on Twitter, where I'm much more visible, so why not here?
Une crise de confiance? Most definitely. My self-confidence has taken a real bashing over the past few years. I was asked to leave my job in the Civil Service after 10 years in April 2011. I'd been struggling to cope with the work for about 3 years, not to mention battling depression and anxiety which caused what it would be overegging it to call a breakdown in February 2009. (They were perfectly entitled to do this; I'd been on a performance improvement plan for about nine months - which in itself I found incredibly stressful and reduce my confidence even further. It was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy that I would fail to achieve the expected standard). So I've made a few half-hearted attempts to find a job these past two months, after giving myself a clear six months off, but I'm started to believe I'm unemployable.
So I have very low self-esteem, to the point where I'm not keen to go out and socialise and, when I do, am profoundly glad to come back to the house in which I'm currently taking refuge.
It's not just that. The past few years have made me question my intellect and my ability to think and express myself coherently and with clarity. Depression is different for everyone; for me it's made my thought process feel like trying to see through porridge. My brain has become porridgey.
And that's before I come to the actual process of writing. At primary school I was always singled out for my creative writing to the point that my peers were sick of my stories being read out in class and taunted me for it. At secondary school there was none of that business; creativity was stifled - we had to read and analyse other people's writing. Writing stories and poems was just not a part of the curriculum and it frankly didn't occur to me to do it in my own time. Homework, dance classes, my part-time jobs and the usual teenage preoccupations left little time. My best friend and I began to write a diary, aged about thirteen, but neither of us stuck to it and I ended up putting the contents of mine on the fire.
GCSE's, A levels, university; essays were all about formulating an argument and back that up with facts, both in literature and history. Then I began full-time work and, as I have worked for 'brands' (albeit most of them public sector) since 1997, I have been obliged to learn and use a corporate style wherein freedom of expression and creativity win you frowns not friends.
I must speak to my friend Tom for a bit of how to/inspiration. An English graduate, he works compressed hours at the MoD in order to have one day a week for writing. He's disciplined enough to have been doing just that for eight years and has a manuscript with a publisher. The wheels seem to have slowed down of late, but getting someone to represent you, but when every other person professes to be writing a book or a script, is no mean feat.
That's another thing. These days everyone's at it. How do you know if you're any good or not? I've always been worried by the existence of creative writing classes. How do you get better by practising? I can't comprehend that at all. Practising music, dancing or painting I can, to some extent, see the benefit of, but I still subscribe to the mantra that 'you either got it or you ain't' and no amount of practice will lift you from competent to outstanding and effortless.
But actually, it doesn't matter if I'm incoherent and, frankly, just crap. I'm doing this for catharsis (although I know I'm not going to be brutally honest, I don't have it in me - the very idea makes my skin crawl) and to see if I can.
See you on the other side.
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Surprising Food Combinations
This week (10-14 October 2011) is both British Curry Week anc Chocolate Week 2011. Yesterday was also Mental Health Day. Busy!
Chocolate. Curry. Chocolate AND curry? Much to my US Twitter friend @Malooka65 I found that a restaurant in Glasgow, Scotland (her husband's hometown) serves King Prawn and Chocolate Curry. He'll be making that himself, then.
I also found this: http://www.monicabhide.com/2011/05/chocolate-chicken-curry.html
While I have to say that the combination doesn't particularly appeal, I am going to make it. I would have already but I lacked cocoa powder. I've got some cherry hot chocolate, but I think I need to make the recipe 'properly' before I experiment. I went to a wedding a few years ago where we had chocolate tasting at the reception. The happy couple had bought lots of posh choc from places like Hotel du Chocolat, smashed them up, put them on plates, labelled them and handed them round. Fennel chocolate, chilli chocolate, cardomom chocolate etc. It was a great icebreaker (as well as being dessert). I should say at this point that I had managed to get myself sitting next to a gorgeous eligible bachelor at this point, asked him for a date at the end of the evening and went out with him for 18 months! And I don't have a sweet tooth...
Another dish/sauce/seasoning I have never tried is Mexican mole (pronounced moley) which often, but not always, as far as I can tell, involves chocolate. If it works in one spicy cuisine, why not in another?
Anyway, I have long been a fan of 'strange' combinations. I can't remember whether it began in Israel or Turkey, but some American hippy who'd lived in Hawaii introduced me to watermelon and salt. The best way to eat it is with seasalty hands sitting in the sea. It gives just enough saltiness to bring out the flavour.
Strawberries and pepper is a well-known classic that I hadn't tried until recently. The next combination came to me in Fortnum & Mason. Mum and I had some Royal Academy/Fortnum exhibition/meal deal through the Sunday Times. Ridiculously cheap. About £15. Daft. For 'pudding' I had the cheese plate. The Stilton was presented with stem ginger. It was a revelation and I doff my Baker Boy to whomsoever discovered that taste sensation! It may work with other cheeses too. I know that apricot is often paired with both white Stilton and goats cheese. The latter makes perfect sense in Greek and Turkish cuisine.
My favourite food comes from the Middle East and North Africa. Fruit is often included in savoury/main dishes. I like this. Prunes, plums, apricots, figs and raisins are wonderful additions, I find. Many people feel that fruit (except tomatoes) has no place other than in dessert. I disagree because I'm not great at eating sweet food, so to include it in a savoury dish means that I get towards my five a day.
I like this site: http://www.lovefoodhatewaste.com/recipes The menu on the right of the homepage 'What Food Needs Using Up?' is great for ideas on how to not waste that cauli you bought with every good intention but languishes in the fridge days later. And the rest. A single householder, like me, may well waste far too much money on food that goes off, unless he or she buys microwave meals each day. Supermarkets are still not geared towards the single householder and it's all too easy to overbuy unless you have a) a will of iron, b) a menu plan or c) shop in butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. Which we should do more.
That was off topic, but something I may come back to. My final combination came about because I had some lamb and peaches that needed eating. 'Lamb peaches recipe' I Googled. I can't remember how I cooked the lamb, but I did make a salad with skinned peaches, cherry tomatoes, fresh mint, chilli pepper, spring onion diced small and a little olive oil and lemon juice. Brush the peach with lemon juice so it doesn't go brown.
If you have any combinations to share, please do. I'd be fascinated to read them. Even if they involve my food nemesiis (sp?) prawns and gammon.
See you on the other side.
Chocolate. Curry. Chocolate AND curry? Much to my US Twitter friend @Malooka65 I found that a restaurant in Glasgow, Scotland (her husband's hometown) serves King Prawn and Chocolate Curry. He'll be making that himself, then.
I also found this: http://www.monicabhide.com/2011/05/chocolate-chicken-curry.html
While I have to say that the combination doesn't particularly appeal, I am going to make it. I would have already but I lacked cocoa powder. I've got some cherry hot chocolate, but I think I need to make the recipe 'properly' before I experiment. I went to a wedding a few years ago where we had chocolate tasting at the reception. The happy couple had bought lots of posh choc from places like Hotel du Chocolat, smashed them up, put them on plates, labelled them and handed them round. Fennel chocolate, chilli chocolate, cardomom chocolate etc. It was a great icebreaker (as well as being dessert). I should say at this point that I had managed to get myself sitting next to a gorgeous eligible bachelor at this point, asked him for a date at the end of the evening and went out with him for 18 months! And I don't have a sweet tooth...
Another dish/sauce/seasoning I have never tried is Mexican mole (pronounced moley) which often, but not always, as far as I can tell, involves chocolate. If it works in one spicy cuisine, why not in another?
Anyway, I have long been a fan of 'strange' combinations. I can't remember whether it began in Israel or Turkey, but some American hippy who'd lived in Hawaii introduced me to watermelon and salt. The best way to eat it is with seasalty hands sitting in the sea. It gives just enough saltiness to bring out the flavour.
Strawberries and pepper is a well-known classic that I hadn't tried until recently. The next combination came to me in Fortnum & Mason. Mum and I had some Royal Academy/Fortnum exhibition/meal deal through the Sunday Times. Ridiculously cheap. About £15. Daft. For 'pudding' I had the cheese plate. The Stilton was presented with stem ginger. It was a revelation and I doff my Baker Boy to whomsoever discovered that taste sensation! It may work with other cheeses too. I know that apricot is often paired with both white Stilton and goats cheese. The latter makes perfect sense in Greek and Turkish cuisine.
My favourite food comes from the Middle East and North Africa. Fruit is often included in savoury/main dishes. I like this. Prunes, plums, apricots, figs and raisins are wonderful additions, I find. Many people feel that fruit (except tomatoes) has no place other than in dessert. I disagree because I'm not great at eating sweet food, so to include it in a savoury dish means that I get towards my five a day.
I like this site: http://www.lovefoodhatewaste.com/recipes The menu on the right of the homepage 'What Food Needs Using Up?' is great for ideas on how to not waste that cauli you bought with every good intention but languishes in the fridge days later. And the rest. A single householder, like me, may well waste far too much money on food that goes off, unless he or she buys microwave meals each day. Supermarkets are still not geared towards the single householder and it's all too easy to overbuy unless you have a) a will of iron, b) a menu plan or c) shop in butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. Which we should do more.
That was off topic, but something I may come back to. My final combination came about because I had some lamb and peaches that needed eating. 'Lamb peaches recipe' I Googled. I can't remember how I cooked the lamb, but I did make a salad with skinned peaches, cherry tomatoes, fresh mint, chilli pepper, spring onion diced small and a little olive oil and lemon juice. Brush the peach with lemon juice so it doesn't go brown.
If you have any combinations to share, please do. I'd be fascinated to read them. Even if they involve my food nemesiis (sp?) prawns and gammon.
See you on the other side.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Learning to Link with Lincs
This is where I'm was born and brought up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire
My parents still live in a small village in the Vale of Belvoir. The posh squash is made nearby: http://www.belvoirfruitfarms.co.uk/about-us/our-history as is Stilton cheese, over the county border in Leicestershire. Most will pronounce Belvoir with a French accent 'bel-voir'. Locally it's pronounced 'beaver'. I have no idea if this was originally intentionally smutty.
Another local delicacy is Grantham gingerbread, which is made to rise and hollow using baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. I usually make a ancient, handwritten recipe of my Mum's which I don't have to hand at the moment and I haven't tried this one out, but I'm sure it's as good as any: http://greatbritishkitchen.co.uk/recipebook/index.php?option=com_rapidrecipe&page=viewrecipe&recipe_id=521&Itemid=28
When I find the family recipe, I'll post it. Grantham Gingerbread, which hasn't been made commercially for a number of years, is to be baked and sold again locally. Properly made, it melts in your mouth.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grantham Less of a delicacy to many, Margaret Thatcher was born in Grantham. We both went to the same grammar school some 50 years apart. I'm old enough to remember free school milk and was one of the few children in my class who liked it.
http://sedgebrook-village.co.uk/
http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/hampson/
Although always appreciative of the beauty of the area, growing up, there was very little to do. Sedgebrook, the village in which I lived from age 11 had 4-5 buses into town and back per day, The latest being around 6pm and it was too far to walk and to expensive, as a teenager, to get a taxi. The village has neither a shop nor a pub nor a school; the next village, which did, was a cycle ride away. We were taken to school by school bus, but any after school activities involved one of my parents driving to town to pick us up.
There are currently 280 adults in Sedgebrook; as you can imagine in a village that size there weren't many children. There were probably 10-15 of the same age or within 3 years of my age. Still it was safe, pretty, crime-free (my Dad has been known to leave car windows open at night accidentally) and everyone knows everyone (and their business). Aged 14, I got the plum local job, that of collectiving weekly milk money door-to-door for the local milkman. I did that job every Monday night for four years, racing round to collect the money (which could take ages as I know everyone), racing home, putting my leotard on and being driven in for my acrobatic class). After class, I'd tot up the money, take it over the road to the milkman and have a cuppa with the family. Homework rarely got done on a Monday!
On the back of this, I also had a bit of a babysitting racket going on. I was the go-to girl in the village for that, which I was very happy about. Alarmingly for me, several of the children I babysat now have children of their own.
My first boyfriend, with whom I am still in touch, while not literally the boy next door, did live around the corner. If we wanted to 'go out' in the evening one of our parents had to take us to town and bring us back. Neither of us had much money so we didn't even do that very often. In the village, apart from the village hall, which had a bar, there was nowhere to go except each others house. We ended up agreeing to going back to being mates after a few months. A 'relationship' was pointless. I made sure my next boyfriend had a car!
In September 1992 I flew to Tel Aviv to begin my gap year. I didn't live there again until 2000 when I was working in Nottingham and applying for jobs in London. I go back three or four times a year to see my parents, but after a few days peace and quiet, this Londoner needs her metropolis!
See you on the other side
My parents still live in a small village in the Vale of Belvoir. The posh squash is made nearby: http://www.belvoirfruitfarms.co.uk/about-us/our-history as is Stilton cheese, over the county border in Leicestershire. Most will pronounce Belvoir with a French accent 'bel-voir'. Locally it's pronounced 'beaver'. I have no idea if this was originally intentionally smutty.
Another local delicacy is Grantham gingerbread, which is made to rise and hollow using baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. I usually make a ancient, handwritten recipe of my Mum's which I don't have to hand at the moment and I haven't tried this one out, but I'm sure it's as good as any: http://greatbritishkitchen.co.uk/recipebook/index.php?option=com_rapidrecipe&page=viewrecipe&recipe_id=521&Itemid=28
When I find the family recipe, I'll post it. Grantham Gingerbread, which hasn't been made commercially for a number of years, is to be baked and sold again locally. Properly made, it melts in your mouth.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grantham Less of a delicacy to many, Margaret Thatcher was born in Grantham. We both went to the same grammar school some 50 years apart. I'm old enough to remember free school milk and was one of the few children in my class who liked it.
http://sedgebrook-village.co.uk/
http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/hampson/
Although always appreciative of the beauty of the area, growing up, there was very little to do. Sedgebrook, the village in which I lived from age 11 had 4-5 buses into town and back per day, The latest being around 6pm and it was too far to walk and to expensive, as a teenager, to get a taxi. The village has neither a shop nor a pub nor a school; the next village, which did, was a cycle ride away. We were taken to school by school bus, but any after school activities involved one of my parents driving to town to pick us up.
There are currently 280 adults in Sedgebrook; as you can imagine in a village that size there weren't many children. There were probably 10-15 of the same age or within 3 years of my age. Still it was safe, pretty, crime-free (my Dad has been known to leave car windows open at night accidentally) and everyone knows everyone (and their business). Aged 14, I got the plum local job, that of collectiving weekly milk money door-to-door for the local milkman. I did that job every Monday night for four years, racing round to collect the money (which could take ages as I know everyone), racing home, putting my leotard on and being driven in for my acrobatic class). After class, I'd tot up the money, take it over the road to the milkman and have a cuppa with the family. Homework rarely got done on a Monday!
On the back of this, I also had a bit of a babysitting racket going on. I was the go-to girl in the village for that, which I was very happy about. Alarmingly for me, several of the children I babysat now have children of their own.
My first boyfriend, with whom I am still in touch, while not literally the boy next door, did live around the corner. If we wanted to 'go out' in the evening one of our parents had to take us to town and bring us back. Neither of us had much money so we didn't even do that very often. In the village, apart from the village hall, which had a bar, there was nowhere to go except each others house. We ended up agreeing to going back to being mates after a few months. A 'relationship' was pointless. I made sure my next boyfriend had a car!
In September 1992 I flew to Tel Aviv to begin my gap year. I didn't live there again until 2000 when I was working in Nottingham and applying for jobs in London. I go back three or four times a year to see my parents, but after a few days peace and quiet, this Londoner needs her metropolis!
See you on the other side
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
Greek Lemon Chicken
I'd always thought that this dish, which I found in an Australian Woman's Weekly cookery book, would be the one I'd post on my blog first. It's light, full of flavour and soupy enough to be comfort food. I can't find the book, but luckily I have committed the recipe to memory having made it many times. The drawback to committing this to the page is that I can't remember the quantities, generally cook by eye (or the slack 'andful as Mum would say), rather than weight and measure and almost always only for myself. The 'usual' Greek lemon chicken dishes that come up on searches are nothing like this one, and I've never seen anything similar in a restaurant, so I can't vouch for its authenticity. I can vouch for its being heavenly.
The recipe:
1 skinless, chicken breast cut into small pieces per person
2-3 carrots, cut into julienne strips
3-4 sticks of celery, cut into strips
1/2 onion, chopped fine
a few celery leaves
1 lemon
hot stock
cayenne pepper
whole garlic cloves (optional)
olive oil
1. Cook the chicken in olive oil in a heavy-based pan or casserole dish.
2. When it has coloured remove it with a slotted spoon and wrap in kitchn paper to absorb some of the oil.
3. Add the onion to the pan. Once softened, add the carrot and when that too is softening, add the celery. If the ingredients start to stick, add some of the stock.
4. Carefully pare the peel from the lemon into thin strips, then add to the stock to infuse.
5. Juice the lemon and add to the stock You might not need all the juice, depending on your taste. Add a few pinches of cayenne pepper.
6. Slowly add stock to the pan, then add the chicken.
7. Although it's not in the original recipe, I like to soften whole, peeled cloves of garlic in the stock.
8. Cover for a few minutes until all the ingredients are softening but not soggy. You may need to add more water.
9. Serve on top of rice or couscous. Sprinkle a few celery leaves on top of each plate or bowl to garnish.
I'm the slowest cook in the world so I won't even hazard a guess at how long this takes to make. After doing the prep, putting it together doesn't take long at all. And how long you leave it to simmer is down to taste. This dish is even better the next day when all the flavours have melded together.
I have made this without the chicken. I may try it with mushrooms (which go well with lemon) or lamb (which might be too heavy) for a change.
Kali oreksi!
The recipe:
1 skinless, chicken breast cut into small pieces per person
2-3 carrots, cut into julienne strips
3-4 sticks of celery, cut into strips
1/2 onion, chopped fine
a few celery leaves
1 lemon
hot stock
cayenne pepper
whole garlic cloves (optional)
olive oil
1. Cook the chicken in olive oil in a heavy-based pan or casserole dish.
2. When it has coloured remove it with a slotted spoon and wrap in kitchn paper to absorb some of the oil.
3. Add the onion to the pan. Once softened, add the carrot and when that too is softening, add the celery. If the ingredients start to stick, add some of the stock.
4. Carefully pare the peel from the lemon into thin strips, then add to the stock to infuse.
5. Juice the lemon and add to the stock You might not need all the juice, depending on your taste. Add a few pinches of cayenne pepper.
6. Slowly add stock to the pan, then add the chicken.
7. Although it's not in the original recipe, I like to soften whole, peeled cloves of garlic in the stock.
8. Cover for a few minutes until all the ingredients are softening but not soggy. You may need to add more water.
9. Serve on top of rice or couscous. Sprinkle a few celery leaves on top of each plate or bowl to garnish.
I'm the slowest cook in the world so I won't even hazard a guess at how long this takes to make. After doing the prep, putting it together doesn't take long at all. And how long you leave it to simmer is down to taste. This dish is even better the next day when all the flavours have melded together.
I have made this without the chicken. I may try it with mushrooms (which go well with lemon) or lamb (which might be too heavy) for a change.
Kali oreksi!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)