An Edinburgh Kiss

I'm not sure what an Edinburgh kiss is, but I'd like to think I've just had one. Unlike the Liverpolitan or Glaswegian variety, which basically involves a smart smack of the forehead onto the nose of an adversary, or maybe just a bloke who looks at you the wrong way in the chip shop at 11.30, this one is a bit more intricate.

I'd wandered out into Morningside after work to get a couple of things. I'd noticed a plethora of barbers in the area during our morning and evening trundles through on the way to and from the school. As my hair was getting in my eyes a bit, and at 5.45 "The Brothers" was still open, I decided to take advantage. I requested my usual "one and half". In Sheffield this indicates the clipper number to be used: in Edinburgh it seems to refer to the remaining length of hair in picometres. But that's bye the bye, or possibly by the by. The "brother" in question, a short, well-muscled and dark-haired Italian guy with a classic Roman nose, quickly clippered my head, tidied up the odds and ends, sprayed me with cologne, offered to cut my eyebrows (no thanks, its the start of the road to hell), and then (as I thought) went off to fetch me a towel. Instead of this however, he grabbed a 6 inch long taper with a cotton wad on the end, sprinkled it with lighter fuel, and lit it. At this point, being the last customer in the shop, I began to feel slightly worried as I could see him approaching me from behind in the mirror, the flame flickering wildly. My life flashed in front of my eyes. It consisted mainly of blank crosswords, real ale and waiting for Niku* to start up, I'm sad to report. He cupped my left ear, then wafted the burning taper into it three times. Before I could say "dermatological pro-vitamin" he'd repeated this in my right ear. It was kind of warm (yes, I know what you're thinking, it's a flame) and soft, like someone sticking their tongue in your ear, but before they realise how horrible it tastes. He smiled at me. I slowly de-braced myself. The ordeal seemed to be over. Clearly this was not some bizarre sacrificial ritual, but an Edinburgh, or possibly Italian, barbershop tradition. Quite what it achieved that a Hopi ear candle couldn't, I don't know, but it was a damned sight cheaper. I look forward to my first visit to the chiropractor, when The Wicker Man is re-enacted on the treatment table.

* a particularly irritating piece of software we used at HSBC

Time Planning Waits for No Man

Today's exercise was to prepare a time-planned meal, on time (the roast vegetable stack starter is shown on the right). Basically, this means being told what we are cooking, and what time it has to be ready, sitting down to plan in detail each task involved, write it all out as a line by line plan, then execute the plan.

Graham (big Graham, my partner for the week) and I got as far as the "what time it has to be ready" bit. Graham then scribbled down a couple of things on his own bit of paper (rather than our time-planner form), and set off to collect the ingredients. I hauled him back.
"Lets just take a minute to think about this."
"I've thought about it," replied Graham, setting off again.
"Well let's just write down what we're going to do," I said, hauling him back again.
"I know what we're going to do," he said, over his shoulder.
"But the exercise is all about time-planning," I pleaded.
A few minutes later Lizzie sidled over to see what the fuss was all about. Having already been collered by her by the bay tree, while she'd slipped out for a fag and I was snipping a few leaves off, she already knew what the fuss was all about.
"Is that a time-plan?" she said to Graham, pointing at his scrabby bit of paper.
"Its a kind of plan. And its got times on it," he replied bluntly, staring her in the eye.
Graham is of such a size that there comes a point where, rather like David Attenborough whispering with the gorillas, you think he might accidently kill you with a playful swipe. I decided to cut my losses, shrugged at Lizzie, and went off to gather together some vegetables.

So, compare and contrast with my previous role, in IT project management. Well, on the one hand, the correct way to plan a project is to consider everything that needs doing, think about all the risks, consult, discuss, bang it into a Gantt chart, agree it with everyone, then execute the plan. Until it all goes horribly wrong, when everyone goes into panic mode and runs off like headless chickens doing whatever they feel like. The only difference here is we cut out the first few stages and cut to the chase.

It's very interesting seeing how people behave in the environment we've been thrown into. There are people who don't know how to work in teams (Click being prime among that category, I'm sad to say), people who are used to getting their own way (several names spring to mind), and people who have never made a plan in their life. I guess the disciplines and formal training people in IT receive and work to are very different to those you get in catering, butchery, prep school, Kenyan farms, reflexology and the various other backgrounds the students have come from. For those of you who know TDF, there is a good proportion of big D behaviour (I'm a big F), or for Myers Briggs fans, there's more E's than I's (I'm an I - albeit a socially skilled one, according to Margaret - I've still not worked out whether that is an insult or a compliment).

We cooked a three course meal, ate it at 1.30, bang on, and were unable to move for the rest of the afternoon. The gorgeous Alana, from the garage, who had come to pick us up (no, I've not struck lucky, my car had been back in the dealers for a minor fix) was unimpressed when I told her we'd been cooking roast chicken.
"Isn't that quite straightforward?" she asked, slightly sneeringly. I thought about going into a prolonged explanation of how it had all been about time-planning, and detail, and coordination, but in the end I just smiled weakly, drooled a bit more, and let it go.

PRAWN AND LENTIL SALAD

Tea tonight. All ingredients bought from Waitrose, but it looks good, doesn't it?

100g cooked peeled prawns
Mixed salad leaves (spinach, watercress and rocket)
1 hard-boiled egg
diddy tomatoes
lentils with roast vegetables
dressing
chilli sauce
croutons (optional)

1. Layer everything up as shown in the photo, and eat.

Wild in the City

Walking back from my sad, bachelor-like evening's entertainment the other night (2 pints of Deuchars, approx 1/4 of the Guardian crossword completed) I heard a strange, melancholy sound up ahead, a cross between a demented duck and a homesick parrot. As I got closer, it appeared to be coming from the garden of one of the few houses in the area which does not have 12 foot walls and an automatically operated, wrought iron gate, so I crossed over the road to see what I could see. Peering over into the garden, I saw not the duck family I'd expected, but a couple of foxes, not 5 yards away from me. One was larger than the other, and the one doing all the moaning was in a slightly contorted, semi-crouching position. I figured they were probably male and female, going through the ritual early stages of "Ey love, d'yer fancy some?" Bathed in the overhead street lamp's light, they looked just wonderful: thick glossy coats and bright eyes, and completely unaware of me.

Now I'm not a great expert on the love lives of foxes, but the one thing I do know for a fact is that, due to a series of spines being involved (I can't remember who the lucky owner of these is, I'm guessing the female) the docking procedure is so technical it was first put into practice on Apollo 11. The outcome is that the male often has his tackle embedded for several hours, while the female has a fag then drags him round Tesco and half a dozen clothes shops. To be honest, I didn't really want to see things get to that stage, my eyes were already watering from the sharp Edinburgh winter air, so as they trotted off into the grounds of the nearby hospital, presumably to pick up a morning after pill, I turned and continued my solitary way home.

A Tale of Two Grahams

We had a real treat this morning. Chris, a member of staff at the school who seems to flit in and out whenever he feels like it, and an ex-network engineer, which isn't really relevant, was preparing a smoked salmon for a wine tasting evening at the school on Saturday, and Lizzie asked him to demonstrate the process to us. Thing is, you pay £33.99 for a couple of slices of smoked salmon laid on a piece of cardboard at Sainsbury's, or you can buy a whole fish for £20 and do it yourself very easily, apparently. Fascinating stuff: Chris descaled, cleaned and filleted the fish, then put it in a cure of salt and sugar, in which it sits for 24 hours, wrapped tightly in clingfilm in the fridge (curing is a process whereby the salt kills the bad bacteria in the fish or meat, and the sugar feeds the good bacteria, which are then sufficiently muscled up to take care of the bad bacteria on their own henceforth). Tomorrow he is going to wash the curing mixture off, and smoke it for a couple of minutes over pine shavings - job done!

We then got on with the day's scheduled activities: beef in various stews and casseroles (4 different ones, 1 per team), soda bread, parsnip and potato mash, roasties, tarte tatin and tarte fine. By the time we'd finished doing all that it was 2.30, so lunch was a little late, but very welcome. By the time we'd polished that off and tried everyone else's efforts, it was 3, and then it takes more or less an hour to wash up, tidy, put everything away and sweep the place. Its usually about 4 when we knock off and head back up the M8.

There couldn't be a greater contrast between the two Grahams. Graham 1 is a gentle giant. Jovial, rugby-playing, and quietly-spoken, the son of a local butcher. He is doing the course to add to the butchery skills he's been learning. When he kneads bread it is as if he's carelessly folding a sheet of paper a few times, while the rest of us have to put our full weight behind every push and stretch. The other day he brought in a bag of unrecognisable chicken parts and slapped them onto the demonstration table, at which point Hervé gleefully rubbed two fingers together with a twinkle in his eye: "Is ve-ry chip stock today!".

Graham 2 on the other hand is one of three students who I shall label the Irritating and Noisy Gang, the others being the American megaphone on legs Katherine who I mentioned earlier (OK, so first impressions aren't always correct), and Jacqui, who I think is mainly just led along by the other two. Graham spent much of his childhood in Kenya, his father ran a large farm of some sort "but he sold it when he bought the airline". Graham goes shootin' and fishin' a lot, which is bad enough (especially as he can't eat fish because of some life-threatening allergic reaction). But the thing that really gets me is that he is one of those people who has a story about absolutely everything, and always knows a better way of doing something. He is also familiar with every kind of plant and animal in the world, has done every possible activity, been everywhere, and I'm surprised he is still alive. Not because of the dangerous activities, I'm just surprised nobody has murdered him yet. He (and the other I.N.G. members) always talk through demonstrations, to the point where yesterday Lizzie said to two of them, in her best schoolteacher voice "I'm going to have to split you up if you carry on like that". Children, children.

MONKFISH WITH PANCETTA AND CREAM

I cooked this for myself and Click for tea last night. It is a modified version of a Keith Floyd recipe, but none the worse for it.

1 monkfish fillet per person (or to put it another way 1 fish between 2)
Pancetta cubes (or 1 rasher unsmoked bacon, chopped)
shallots and leeks, finely sliced
cream, butter and oil
1/2 glass white wine (the best way to get this bit accurate is to pour a whole glass and drink half)
1 egg yolk
1/2 tsp mustard

Make sure all the skin and membrane is removed from the monkfish, as if left it will distort the shape of the fish when cooked.

1. Cut the monkfish into chunky chunks - about 6 per fillet.
2. In a large frying pan gently fry the pancetta/bacon, shallots and leeks in a little butter and oil for 5-10 minutes until pancetta is starting to brown
3. Throw in the wine and cook for 2 minutes
3. Add the fish and cook for 5- 10 minutes, ensuring it cooked on all sides
4. Mix the egg yolk and 1/2 teaspoon mustard, and stir in
5. Pour in a little cream, and mix through. Don't overboil.

Serve with plain rice (we had brown basmati and wild rice).

The egg yolk can be omitted. Its purpose is to colour the sauce, and bind it a little, but it can make it a little sickly. Do not use turmeric or saffron instead as it spoils the flavour.

Click Goes Walkabout

We want to know more about Click, you all cry (well, Caroline does anyway). Here she is dressed for glamour having spotted the Sky News camera (did that item ever appear on the telly?).

I arrived back in Edinburgh after a flying weekend visit home to Sheffield with a missed call from Click/Clarissa on my phone and a set of house keys on the kitchen table. They don't call me Frank "Hawking-Einstein" Boddy for nothing, and I quickly figured out that Click had probably locked herself out, so I phoned her. There was a plaintive little voice at the other end of the phone confirming my suspicions. It was about 6pm by this time, and she had locked herself out at 3, whilst (I guess) going for a fag (I know, and so well brought up too!). First call had been to her parents. Not sure why, but in any case Daddy had been unable to scramble the Range Rover. She had tried banging on the front door, but our landlord Neil was out, or indisposed. So after 3 coffees at a local café she had gone round to Livvy's - another student who lives 15 minutes walk away, and who we collect on our way every morning. Livvy is also very posh - more of that later.

Like the gentleman I am, I volunteered to go and collect Click, despite having just laboriously parked the car in the drive behind the giant wooden gates which take 10 minutes to open and close and which allow me approx. 2 millimetres either side of the car when reversing it in. To say she was grateful is an understatement. Did I mention Daddy is High Sheriff of Yorkshire? Anyway, I am now Lord Boddy of Wetwang.

Most pleasing however, was the burbling all the way home, which went along the lines of how Livvy had offered her a place in her house (5 of them share) from the start of next month, but Click is very happy in our house, because it doesn't smell, and its nice and tidy, and its quiet, and... well, basically she's getting looked after by yours truly. Very touching anyway. I thought she'd be off like a shot given half a chance.

Talking of cars, mine has now been confirmed as having been written off in the accident when Margeret, Simon and Fiona were returning to Sheffield just after Christmas (but were fortunately unhurt, which is all that matters), so I have had to sort out a replacement. I had a Clio hire car for a few days, which I liked, so decided to buy one. The nice lady at Evans Halshaw (Alana) who I dealt with was an absolute GODDESS, and to be honest I would have bought a rusty Austin Princess from her but no matter, I think I got a good deal. I picked the car up on Thursday night and drove down the A68 towards home on Friday evening. At Otterburn a very dense object (I think probably a solid piece of metal, like a wheel nut) smacked the windscreen so hard I thought the roof was caving in and ducked behind the wheel. There is now a 6 inch round crack on the windscreen of my shiny new car. As Click said drily "You're not having much luck car-wise, are you?".

Pastry as a Metaphor for Life

Things are hotting up, literally. For the last 3 days we have been pushed much harder, and my pleasant vegetable chopping days seem far behind me. We've been focussing on bread and pastry this week, but a day's work isn't just singing a little song rolling out a shortcrust. Oh no. Today we made mushroom soup, bread, lemon tart, profiteroles (started yesterday), apple crumble, chocolate roulade (shown below) and pizza. Lunch was somewhat overwhelming! And at 2.30!

I had my first culinery disaster yesterday. Stepan and I made a Victoria sponge, which looked fantastic as it emerged from the oven, and the application of the skewer led us to believe all was OK. However when we sliced into it some time later, it resembled a giant Werther's Original, sticky goo oozing out all over the place from the centre. Mortified! However, the profiteroles soon put a smile back on my face. They came out perfect, unlike other people's whose efforts looked like a cross between a designer naan bread and a bit of old shoe leather.

Because we are baking a lot, the ovens are on more or less all the time. We switch them on as soon as we come in. So that's 4 double ovens going full blast, plus the Aga, which is on all the time. And we are wearing full clown outfits, with a compulsory hat, don't forget. What is it they say? If you can't stand the heat... Now I know why.

Hervé has been imparting more of his wisdom. "When you walk on pastry, if your fingerprints are very 'ot..." he tells us, then shrugs, "...is problem." Meat, apparently, must be killed in the laboratory. And once you are an experienced chef "you get to know ze gymnastics in your 'ed".

The gymnastics in my head are performing triple somersaults at the moment. Tomorrow we have our first pressure test. At least 3 dishes to be made in a time-boxed period. Presumably we then have to eat the resultant cack for lunch, as usual. That's an incentive. Given the volume of perspiration we've produced over the last few days, by tomorrow evening I should weigh about 7 stone.

We had Sky News in the other day, interviewing the school owner Iain about his change of career (he used to work for a major financial organisation - sound familiar?) as part of an item on how people are coping with the recession. They filmed us eating lunch, gathered round Lizzie as she demonstrated to us, and even mixing dough at our stations. Five o'clock today it will be on, we were promised. No sign of it as yet...

Katherine is a very nice American lady, living in Edinburgh and one of the students on the course. Being American, from Boston, she is loud, brash, louder, bold, and loudest. She is also very funny, it has to be said. Heading home from a friend's on Monday night, she called in for a Chinese takeaway. She then spent the next 2 days in bed unable to move, other than heading for whatever the American for bathroom is at frequent intervals. A cautionary tale, especially in relation to the hygiene course last week. Good to have you back Katherine.

Bread of Heaven

Today we made bread. With all due respect to Mr. Warburton and Mr. Hovis, there is nothing like fresh bread straight out of the oven. Why can we buy it anywhere else in Europe, but not in Britain? I've tried my hand at bread-making before, and only really been successful with the all-in-one variety from Tesco, where you just empty the bag into a bowl and start from there.

But today, we made bread! Proper bread. Edible bread. Bread that didn't a) completely fail to get off the ground b) spread itself as a sticky goo all over the baking tray or c) promote itself straight to the top of Moh's scale of hardness. Loaves, buns, flat breads, sticks. Plain, glazed, with sun-dried tomatoes, olives, rosemary, bacon and onion. Fantastic! There's no secret, except a bit of hard work, and sticking to the specified quantities (yes, Margaret, even I had to measure things out for this one). That's my bread you're looking at, right there, topped with sun-dried tomatoes and rosemary.


Hervé showed us how, again. Apparently instead of using a teaspoon of sugar to get the yeast going, you can use something called runee-unnee. Runee-unnee is a substance produced by the common or garden bee, so I believe.

I think we've had our first drop-out. I feel quite pleased with myself because I predicted he wouldn't last the first week. George (the person in question) turned up on the Tuesday last week, meandered round for a couple of days, then didn't turn up again on Friday (for the Hygiene exam). His mother had paid for him to do the course, I think basically to get him out of the house. An expensive way of doing it. Assuming he doesn't come back, well over £1,000 a day. Nice one George!

GARLIC MUSHROOM SALAD (serves 1, or 4 as a starter)
Possibly the best salad I've ever eaten. The mixture of mild and rich, smooth and crunchy, fresh and fried just works so well.

shredded lettuce
cubed celery, cucumber and radish
1 hard-boiled egg, quartered
half a ripe avocado, chopped
satsuma, segmented
oyster mushrooms, in manageable sized pieces
bread, cubed into croutons
lemon juice, dressing, butter and olive oil
garlic, crushed and chopped

1. Mix salad ingredients, dressed with lemon juice and dressing. Arrange on plate.
2. Fry mushrooms and croutons together in garlic, butter and oil until browned.
3. Throw the mushroom mixture over the salad and tuck in.

That's the no frills version - you could serve as a starter by splitting into 4 and arranging nicely.

Edinburgh in a Nutshell / First Aid Course

Here's a few things I have discovered about Edinburgh in my first few days:

1. There are more English people than Scots people in Edinburgh
2. There are more Japanese/Chinese in Edinburgh than Scots and English put together
3. There are exactly the same number of cameras as Japanese/Chinese people
4. All hot taps have to run for at least 10 minutes before a trace of warmth appears
5. All taps are designed so that nothing happens for the first 3 turns, then the water suddenly gushes out at full force
6. Any beer containing the word "heavy" or "shilling" is an artificial luminous red colour

Today was First Aid training day, and I'm glad to say we all passed the stringent test, set by our ex-RAF, ramrod straight, shiny shoed tutor, Vince, wearing a pale pink shirt (too pale, in my view). To be fair, Vince was very engaging and amusing, and kept us wide awake all day (a feat in itself). To break things up, he regularly asked us whether we had personally suffered any of the many conditions he was describing: broken arms, pencils in eyes, dislocated shoulders, heart attacks. The best response to this question came from (naturally) Alex, who I introduced in the last blog. Here he is describing the time he fell and hurt himself. "Yeah, I was climbing a tree and fell out, and sort of, I should have been taken to hospital, but somehow I ended up in a Chinese massage parlour". This had everyone falling about laughing so much (you had to be there), that Lizzie, the course tutor, had to leave the room for several minutes to calm down. For the record, at this point 3 people also suffered cracked ribs with laughing, 2 were taken to hospital after over-dabbing their eyes, and 4 choked to death.

Stephan is from the Czech Republic, and supports Slavia Prague ("Slavia Prague iss crep", Czech fuutball iss crep" he says). He, unlike most of us, has some professional cheffing experience, albeit in a chain restaurant in Manchester ("Manchester iss crep"). He is here at the school to learn to cook properly. At the moment he can cook FAST. He had his leeks chopped faster than I could say Gordon F Ramsey. He must learn to slow down and put quality first, he says. I deeply insulted him by suggesting we might be able to watch the odd match together, and asked him if he liked beer. He gave me a a look of distain. "Off course I like beer, I am from Czech Republic. We haff best beer in vorld!" he shrugged. Nuff said.

Change of Perspective

It's OK, I'm not dropping out yet!

But already I can see a different way of looking at, and treating, food. We've had 2 days of tuition now, one with Hervé (Thanks Pat, for explaining how to do an acute accent) and one with Lizzie. In both cases, their attitude towards the ingredients, however simple, has really opened my eyes. My current style of cooking is what might be called in cricketing terms "hit and hope". They, on the other hand, treat every ingredient with utmost respect, admiring, stroking, caressing and working out the best treatment in every case, depending on look, feel, flavour, usage, and required outcome. It's less science, more a sort of culinary love-in.

Yesterday we spent a happy 4 hours chopping vegetables. You might think this is a bit of a doss, but I now know 26 ways more than you to chop leeks. I can also cube an onion without tears, and sweat a perfect carrot. Not only that, but today I learned how to chop parsley at lightning speed, without incorporating any of my fingers. Its all about the action.

Today was roux sauces. I thought I was already quite decent at this, and to be honest I wasn't bad. But apparently disappearing to watch the telly for 10 minutes while it bubbles away isn't the best way of looking after it, as I'd previously thought.

The course has its characters, I'll introduce a few as we go along from the bunch shown (eating our lunch in the school, with Hervé at the back with the glasses). Lets start with Alex, the guy from Malaysia (in the black top, next to Hervé). He turned up 20 minutes late today due to "problems with buses". There is already a theory going round that Alex is some sort of underworld hit-man, and this was confirmed when he said goodbye to me at the end of the day by karate chopping me in the small of the back with both hands, much to my surprise. He alternates between talking very quietly, and suddenly bursting into life with an outburst such as "I need to know which oils to use for the dressing because I don't want my cooking to be CRAP!" (this to the chef).

So inspired by the day's work, I set off for Waitrose to buy some proper ingredients to cook at home (more than one of you I note has commented on my consumption of ready meals since I arrived here - give us a chance!). I put together a rather good stew, which even my toast-eating flatmate Click was tempted to try (and enjoyed).

STEAK AND KIDNEY STEW
Serves 2

1lb steak and kidney (3 parts steak to 1 kidney, usually sold together)
a few pancetta cubes
1/2 onion, finely chopped
1 carrot
1/2 parsnip
1/2 leek (all other veg cut into 1/4 inch cubes)
8 small new potatoes
1 pint stock (which should start with "first kill your cow..." but I used a nice stock cube and a few gravy granules, half a teaspoon of pesto and a squirt of tomato puree)

1. in a large pan brown the steak and pancetta in a little oil, remove from pan
2. brown onions, reduce heat and sweat all vegetables
3. add meat (including kidneys) and stock
4. Bring to boil then simmer for 1 1/2 hours
5. Thicken/reduce sauce as necessary 6. Serve on its own, or with chunks of bread to mop up

I have to say, it was delicious!

First Day at School

I keep saying to myself:- this is my life now, I need to concentrate and learn and work hard... but it's difficult to take it all seriously, because its so different to what I'm used to being my "job", in other words my primary work focus. It will be hard, I know, and there will be traumas and stresses and fallouts and long nights, but at the end of it all I'm going to be cooking for a living! How good is that!

There was a surprisingly mixed bunch of students getting to know each other at the school today. 12 of us in all. Contrary to yesterday's reports, one American, a Malaysian, a guy from Czech Republic, and the rest mainly English and Scottish. 6 girls and 6 guys. Ages from late teens to... well, OK, I'm probably (definitely, Frank) the oldest. But a good mix. Many people who have, like me, packed in whatever they were doing because they decided they just want to cook. Fantastic.

We met our chefs, and the new school manager. Herve (pronounced Her-vey, probably has an acute accent but I don't know how to do one), is our French chef who will be with us 3 days a week. He told us he originally moved to the UK to "improve ze Onglish". He lives in Pibbles and once cooked at St. Ondrews, we learned. He impressed us all by burning his nose whilst showing us how to smell the soup. Lizzie is the other main tutor, and the lady who has put the course together. Seems incredibly comprehensive, and varied. This Thursday and Friday we have two initial exams: food hygiene and First Aid (the last time I did a First Aid course within two weeks I was dealing with a colleague having a massive epileptic fit - thanks Alan). Between now and then we spend 2 days doing breadmaking. Iain is the new school manager, just getting his head round everything, as was everyone as it was the first day back after the two week Christmas break. Absolutely freezing in the building, but I'm sure things will warm up very quickly.

We were introduced to our chef's clothes, and our knife set. The clothing appears to consist of a variety of ex-clown's items: baggy trousers, silly hat, and of course the outsize shoes. My fingers started spontaneously bleeding before I'd even opened the knife set (they didn't really). Herve says he prefers ze Japanese knives, but ours are Sabatier.

Herve showed us how to make bread, which we ate, along with his excellent tomato soup, for lunch. Very simple, very tasty.

Got to know my housemate Clarissa a little better over tea. She made the mistake of asking me which sport I liked best. Anyway, I learned a few things about football I hadn't previously known. Apparently Bradford and Leeds aren't allowed to play each other, at all, and Liverpool recently beat Newcastle 22-0.

IMPROMPTU CALZONE
(today's tea)

1 Sainsbury's frozen pizza

1. Unwrap pizza
2. Look for oven, fail to find one
3. Stare at pizza for a few minutes, until sufficiently hungry
4. Oil a large frying pan, cut edges off pizza until fits
5. Cook over a medium heat until smoke seeps from bottom of pizza
6. Fold over pizza, reduce heat until health and safety give the all clear

Serve with a nice salad, preferably a couple of days old and out of a bag.

Arriving in Edinburgh

It was strange leaving home to drive up to Edinburgh this morning to start a new phase of my life. Nothing I could really prepare myself for. But it feels good, it really does. Odd to leave everything behind of course, and I wonder how it will feel after a few days.

I arrived to find my new housemate, Clarissa (know as Click) moving in, accompanied by her parents. Seems nice, if only slightly older than my daughter. Her mother (very posh, and clearly a little nervous about leaving her daughter in a strange city) immediately enquired whether I'd mind if Clarissa bunked up with me. A bit premature, I thought, I've only just met the girl. It turns out this is a posh way of asking if I could give her a lift to and from the cookery school.

I was given "the tour" by Neil, the house owner. He's a lovely guy, if slightly eccentrically OCD. Having filled in several spreadsheets of information, and been given very specific instructions on how to close the gates, Neil finally went up to print off several reams of information that "probably won't be very useful" and left me to unpack.

So, I'm sitting in the communal living room having had a horrible Tesco healthy ready meal (there won't be any more of those if I can help it), and waiting for it all to start tomorrow. Click tells me there are 12 on the course (a full house, apparently), including 3 Americans and someone from Taiwan. Bring it on.

ROAST CHICKEN AND FENNEL RISOTTO

Arborio rice, 2-3 oz per person
chicken stock
1 head fennel, thinly sliced
1 stick celery, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed and chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped
butter, turmeric, dried basil, chilli (marinade mix)
chicken fillets (1 per person)
frozen peas
olive oil
1 glass white wine
chicken stock, 1/2 pint per person

1. Cut each fillet into 4-6 pieces and marinate in mix for at least 30 minutes
2. Heat oven to gas 7.
3. Gently fry shallot, garlic, celery in oil
4. Add rice, stir for 30s, turn heat to minimum then add glass of wine, stirring, then start to add stock a little at a time
5. Meanwhile, arrange chicken in a roasting tin, top with sliced fennel coated in a little oil, and roast uncovered for 30 minutes
6. When all liquid absorbed into risotto (approx 30-40 minutes), remove from heat, stir in peas and a little of the roasting liquid. Stir then stand for 5 minutes to allow peas to cook.
7. Serve risotto into bowls, top with chicken and fennel.

FA Cup 3rd Round: Middlesbrough 2 Barrow 1

Worth a post on its own I think. What a great day out, great result, and a great way to share my last day with family and friends before heading up North.

We were (all 4 of us) picked up from Sheffield by Dave (my nephew), Charlie and Ollie (my great nephews), and met up with John (Dave's brother) and his family (Diane, Jake and Max) at The Spread Eagle in Stokesley for lunch (not very good) and real ale (had better). Then we headed down to park near the famous transporter bridge in Middlesbrough, and a freezing walk to the ground. The Riverside is an impressive stadium: modern, good facilities, good views all round. The really impressive thing though, was the stadium's biggest ever away following - seven thousand Barrow fans had made the journey across for our biggest match since, well, Wembley in 1990 I suppose. The noise was tremendous, the support non-stop, the singing of "If Downing plays for England so can I" hilarious.

We went a goal down after 20 minutes, but then Walker put a glorious chance wide and Pearson hit the post. 1-0 at half time. Second half, playing towards our end, Barrow struggled and if our keeper hadn't been on top form we could have leaked 5 or 6. As it was, a second goal for Boro came around the hour. I began to hope that we could just get a shot on target, or even a corner.

But then the unbelievable happened. We won a corner. Boyd swung it over, McNulty headed back across, and Jason Walker leaped like a horny salmon to head home by the post. We had scored, we had actually scored against a premier league club! The last 10 minutes were one way traffic towards the Boro goal, and we had a couple of half chances to equalise. But it wasn't to be. Still, we exceeded my wildest expectations, and can hold our heads high.

Back home in plenty of time to see the highlights on the TV. Ahh, a great day!

Last Night I Swore a Lot

I have a confession, and an apology. We had our good friends Caroline and Pat round to celebrate New Year, with their two lovely daughters Livvy and Rachel, and I used the "f" word more than once. So - sorry! I put it down to a release of emotions, the letting go of what was a truly awful year (significant time off work with stress, personal, work and domestic turbulence, my Mum's condition deteriorating significantly from September onwards, and to cap it all Margaret, Simon and Fiona being involved in a multiple pile-up on the A1 just a couple of days ago [all unhurt, I'm happy to say]).

There were good things as well: my 50th birthday party, with lots of friends and family; the skydive from Flookburgh (fantastic feeling, breathtaking views over the Lakes); Barrow winning the Blue Square North playoffs and being on the telly (more than once); and to cap things off nicely getting redundancy from HSBC.

But all in all not a good year. Lets put it behind us and move on. On top of using the "f" word a lot, I also apparently threatened to ransack Zavvi, and fell asleep on the couch until 5am. So I guess I wasn't very creative, but at least I was passionate.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

BAKED POTATOES WITH CHEESE

We had baked potatoes with our beef in red wine and nut roast last night, and there were some leftover ones thoughtfully stacked in the fridge when I eventually got up (for the second time) this afternoon.

1 baked potato, halved
butter
cheese

1. Warm through the potato halves in the microwave or oven
2. Scoop out the middles, and mix with the butter and cheese
3. Pop under the grill until the cheese has melted

For variation, add sautéed onions, branston, brinjal pickle or smokey bacon (or all of the above).