Le petit mort

Slithers of fig, fresh mint and crushed pistachio nuts encased in a buttery shortcrust pastry filled with the lightest, creamiest, melt-in-your-mouth honeyed cream cheese filling. Words simply cannot describe just how divine this tart is. It's astounding, captivating. I think my entire body is in shock right now. My senses are paralysed with pleasure. A little part of me winces every time I break into the tart with my fork - it's so exquisitely beautiful and lovely. But, how can I resist this sinfulness? It's everything that I love to eat in perfect harmony with one another.

I'm having an I-love-myself moment. Although, I have to give credit to Lorraine Pascale who's recipe I adapted (essentially, I used the shortcrust pastry recipe given in Ottolenghi and made a miniature version of the tart). In the words of my impossible-to-please mother, 'she is perfection' (thanks to her pristine kitchen and meticulous cooking methods). Having devoured lorraine's tart, I can hardly argue with her.

Poached eggs a la Fran

It has come to attention recently that my blog might be giving you lovely readers the mistaken impression that I'm quite 'hot stuff' in the kitchen, a bit of a pro if you will. Some people have even gone as far to say that I am intimidating! I'm uncertain as to how and why this has happened. I can only assume that I have done a poor job of telling you about my many culinary mishaps and grossly exagerrated all the good bits. Believe me, I'm just like you - a person with a healthy appetite for all that is tasty and good in the world, daring and challenging myself to take my cooking to the next level and swallowing my pride (and, ignoring my taste buds) when it all goes wrong.

Tonight, I have the perfect example for you: I attempted to poach an egg for the first time in my life. The first time - surely, that is proof enough?! In fact, I only just ate a poached egg for the first time in my life a couple of weeks ago. Cooked for me by an experienced egg-poacher, it was perfection in the form of an egg, everything that I could want - healthy, mess-free (there being no shell to peel) and deliciously runny. I even liked the way that it wobbled in a suggestively breast-like manner...

Alas, my egg neither wobbled nor ran. The yoke was hard (clearly over-cooked) and the white bit looked like a bit of froth coughed up by sea. It was as if the yoke had decided to grow a frizzy afro - not a good look if you're a poached egg. Don't get me wrong, it was edible and tasted reasonably good. But, it was far from the perfect poached egg I had eaten just weeks before. I have no idea what I've done wrong since it is so simple to cook - you drop the egg into boiling water with a splash of vinegar and then simmer for about 5 minutes with a lid on. It's a no-brainer! But, I will definitely give it another try and I'm confident that I will master this. Any tips would be most welcome!

So, there you have it - poached eggs a la Fran! You can all rest well in the knowledge that you have nothing to fear from me. Well, unless I've served you poached eggs...

Red bean flavoured soy milk

Winter's coming and as much as I hate the cold and wet weather, there's a big part of me that is very excited because it's (drum roll, please)...hot chocolate season! A little drop of sunshine during an otherwise bleak season. I have recently started walking to and from work and my route conveniently takes me perilously (in the calorific sense) close to Amorino, which serves the best hot chocolate in London that I've come across. I can't wait to walk home with a steaming cup of that sticky, sweet nectar - it's pure pleasure. For now, I'm being a good girl and making myself wait until it's just that little bit colder (can it really get colder than this?!). Good things come to those who wait and I can't wait for the things that I'm waiting for!

In the meantime, Jessie and I have made a promising alternative - red bean flavoured soy milk. It looks like chocolate milk and kind of tastes like hot chocolate (the milky variety) but it's not as sweet (a good thing in my opinion, surprisingly!) and doesn't come with the requisite side dish of guilt. Note here that I have made an unfounded presumption that the red bean paste we mixed into the milk is healthy since it contains beans. At least, I think it contains beans...it's probably packed with sugar and goodness knows what other preservatives, which the Chinese seem to be particularly fond of using. I'm in denial.

Now, I am eagerly looking forward to the next bout of miserable, autumnal weather (most likely tomorrow) so that I can make myself a big, steaming mug of comforting red bean flavoured soy milk, snuggle up on my armchair wrapped in a cosy blanket and contentedly listen to the rain as it pounds the streets of London. I'm looking on the rainy side of life...and it's looking rather good!

A quick message

Thank you for checking up on me! You'll be (hopefully) glad to know that I'm still alive. I haven't given myself food poisoning quite yet...I promise I will be back with more - I have a post up my sleeve and lots of lovely pictures for you. So, don't give up!

By the way, I'm eating plain chocolate coated ginger (from Holland and Barrett) - utterly divine if you love ginger as much as I do. I like to pretend that it's healthy...but, it's not...

A Fran-tastic day

6 hours of cooking! 6 straight hours of cooking and I made my own vegetable stock - from scratch! Phew, I am ex-haus-ted. But, feeling pretty exultant and euphoric. This must be what it's like to go through 6 hours of labour and give birth to a baby. It was sweaty, I was breathless, there were painful moments, my back ached and I just wanted to throw in the tea towel at times. But, I persisted and was rewarded at the end of it all with a veritable feast that bordered on ludicrous given the sheer amount of food that I produced (for no particular reason other than I felt like spending the whole day cooking).

This baby was a big baby. Seriously, I feel like Jesus feeding the five thousand except that there's just me...possibly with the appetite of five thousand. And, exactly as I have been told, the moment the labour ended and this precious little being was placed in my arms (or, dished up on a plate in my case), I forgot everything...whatever happened, it was completely and utterly worth it.

Chargrilled asparagus, courgette and halloumi - you were worth it. Chickpea, tomato and bread soup - you were worth it. Herb couscous with pistachios and rocket - you were worth it. Grilled aubergine, pepper and tomato soup - you were worth it. Slow-roasted lemon chicken - you were worth it. French bean and mange tout with hazelnut and orange - you were worth it. Sweet potato gratin - you were worth it. Roasted plums, nectarines and blueberries with honey cream - you were worth it.

With food like this in the world, who needs alcohol? Drugs? Men? Ok, I might take back that last one. Still, I could wish for nothing more at this moment, blissfully contented as I am. Well, there is one thing - I wish I had more room in my stomach so that I could eat more food. I have quite literally reached full capacity. The spirit is wanting but the body is incapable of complying.

There is a sort of unfair balance to all of this - 6 hours of tiring cooking followed by 6 minutes of gratifying gorging. Not that I didn't enjoy the cooking part. I seem to slip into some kind of meditative trance when I cook. My mind completely focuses on the task at hand and I forget about every care and worry. Nothing exists in the world except me, the food and the kitchen. I love losing myself in that happy place.

It's over now. The sun is setting quite spectacularly in a myriad of pinks across the sky. No more cooking for the day. No more cooking for the week I have so much food. But, it's going to be a hell of a lot of fun eating it...

Late-night lustings...

They say it's the first sign of madness when you start talking to yourself. But, what does it mean when you start having full-blown conversations with your stomach? Call me crazy but I'm convinced that mine has a mind of it's own and we're currently not quite on speaking terms. Why? Well, I refuse to give in to it's greedy desire for a second dinner. I've just returned from a very satisfactory first dinner at Leong's Legends - the shredded chicken fried rice with toasted pine kernels had the wholesome simplicity of homecooked comfort food, the steamy soup-filled xiao long bau were the perfect remedy to this rainy day and the deep fried shredded turnip, wrapped in a nest of pastry layers, reached light and flavourful heights well-beyond one's expectations of the humble turnip. Naturally, I waddled home with a full belly following that meal. It never even crossed my mind that I might be in dangerous territory if I were to diligently prepare my lunch for the following day - egg stir fried rice with chillies, toasted cashew nuts and dessicated coconut, pak choi and green beans. But, as I stood there over the wok, inhaling the beautiful aromas and delighting in the vibrant colours, I felt lustiness in the pit of my stomach. It didn't help that I'd somehow managed to cook too much food for one lunch portion. Even now, I find myself dreamily gazing in the direction of the kitchen. 'Just one spoonful...' my stomach rumbles. I've brushed my teeth in self-defense!

Why don't you come on over, Patisserie Valerie

One has to wonder if there is something deeply soul-destroying about working at Patisserie Valerie. I have considered it myself - working at Patisserie Valerie that is, not destroying my soul - and have always imagined that it would be a rather delightful place to earn a little bit of extra cash. Just as some men (no names mentioned!) like to surround themselves with attractive women, I quite like the thought of spending a whole day surrounded by deliciously tantalising cakes and pastries. Some of them are so beautiful that they look like they belong on plinths in an art gallery. Mostly, they look like they belong on a plate, being devoured by a very happy and satisfied person (I love it when that person is me!).

Yet, the staff at every Patisserie Valerie that I have been to behave as if they are manning some sort of barge of the dead. Their eyes appear glazed over and their gait betrays an undeniable wish to be anywhere but where they are. It's as if the very life is being sucked out of them. I would know, I've been there before! I try to make eye contact and find myself avoided, ignored - it's as if they don't want to sell the cakes. Perhaps, they are allowed to take away any leftover cakes at the end of the day...yes, that would make sense. I can imagine myself being tempted to selfishly deter customers if that were the case, in desperate need of my next sugar-fix.

Nonetheless, this sort of service really takes the fun out of treating oneself to a naughty slice of cake and cup of tea in the mid-afternoon - such 'sinful' acts should be nothing but pleasurable. Alas, the whole experience becomes so drawn out that my conscience is left with far too much time to make me feel quite guilty and I can no longer enjoy my raspberry tart without contemplating every calorie that passes my lips. And so, I have decided to mutiny! Tonight, I made my own dessert (plum crumble with extra thick cream) and did an exemplary job of serving myself. I even gave myself a second helping, just because I deserve it.