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.

The no-bread-diet

The time has come to say my farewells to bread...for now. We've had a jolly good time this past week - no holding back, abundant indulgence, slices and rolls with every meal and between them too! But, to continue in this vain would require a whole new wardrobe to accompany the inevitable weight gain that would ensue. And so, the no-bread-diet must commence upon my setting foot on the streets of London. This kind of bread gorging is reserved for France and France only. Now, I understand why the word for bread in French is 'pain' - I can't think of anything more fitting considering the pleasurable pain that it has induced multiple times this week.

So, goodbye brioche, farewell croissants, so long baguettes and au revoir pain au chocolat! I miss you already...

Feasting in the Pyrenees

It occurs to me that an addendum is required to my previous post. Indulgent breakfast? You're probably thinking - Fran, you're pathetically lightweight! And, I would be inclined to agree with you since I eat that kind of breakfast - fruit, cereal and bread - pretty much every single day. So, I feel I must explain myself before I completely lose my reputation as a woman with a reasonable appetite.

The reason why I called it an indulgent breakfast is that I had no right being hungry or in any state fit for food consumption since I dined on a rather large and sumptuous feast the previous evening at Ann's. By the way, Ann is an English lady who lives with her husband, Malcolm, up the road from where I'm staying, living the very good life here in the Pyrenees. I have no idea how the French do it but Ann and Malcolm sure know how to eat. It was an uncompromising assault on the stomach. My mind and body battled it out. 'I don't need any more food' moaned my stomach as I took yet another roll of French bread and greedily smothered it in homemade pork pate. 'I don't give a fig what you need, this I want!' my mind responded voraciously. My mind won, it always does.

And so, I ate my way through every course, only declining a second helping of dessert, which actually consisted of three desserts (roasted home grown plums, ice cream and homemade lemon cake), such that one might say I effectively declined a fourth, fifth and sixth helping of dessert! I guess my body does have some control...I mean, it was lemon cake for the love of all that is delicious - one of my greatest weaknesses!

Ann and Malcolm have a flourishing vegetable and herb garden that induced pangs of desire in me, akin to how broody women must feel when they see a pregnant woman. The simple salad of tomatoes, rocket leaves, peppers and celery was alive with flavour in the way that only fresh vegetables can be. I consumed copious amounts of bread and homemade pork pate, made all the more precious knowing that it was the last jar of the year. Oh, how it broke my heart to learn that I couldn't buy ten jars of the stuff from a local shop. The slithers of roasted lamb, which had been procured from a neighbour in the village, were tender and juicy. I delighted in knowing that it had had a happy, albeit short, life here gambolling on the verdant hills. This was accompanied by a rustic casserole of carrots and lentil beans and followed by a course of cheese! Only in France.

The wine flowed, the bread basket seemed to replenish itself and I was rendered comatised. I didn't think that I would be able to eat this morning but as you know, I did! Now, I am in a state of excitement and anticipation. Something very good is going to happen - Ann has been busy preparing a feast of what sounded like an eternity of courses for the jazz musicians who will be performing in tonight's show. I can't even hum a tune in key but I've got a place at the table and I sure know how to eat with pleasure. I'm not even hungry yet but I know that my stomach has already lost the battle...

A blissfully indulgent breakfast

I am in recovery from a blissfully indulgent breakfast. It's holding me prisoner in a dream-like happy limbo. I don't want to move on from this moment. It's sort of like when you wake up from a really great sleep but you refuse to open your eyes because you're not quite ready to get up and face the world. So, I sit in this beautiful spot that I've claimed as my own - perched on a hillside, over-looking a luscious valley of trees and tumbling hills, with the morning sunshine caressing my face and a symphony of birdsong filling me with joyful energy...recovering. It feels like time is holding its breath and I have been rendered helpless in its palm. My breakfast is simple yet captivating - the way some women look when they just wake up, I imagine. Plums, melon, banana and grapes, refreshingly juicy and sweet. Warm crusty French bread with butter and honey oozing through the cracks. I like eating messy food - it makes me feel like a child as I happily lick my fingers. And, muesli with hot, frothy milk, spreading warmth to the very tips of me. I can't think of a better way to start the day. I want to wrap this moment up in a handkerchief and carry it around with me for emergency moments, such as rush hour on the Victoria Line. But, I think all I need do is re-create my simple breakfast, close my eyes and eat, allowing my mind to take me where I want to be...

Roasted courgette and apricot salad

I'm going to share something with you that might seem a bit lame but I'm quite proud and pleased with myself so laugh away if you will because I won't mind one bit! I've been doing a little bit of experimenting with food, a pinch really. Current circumstances have cornered me and made it quite necessary that I improvise and use some initiative. I'm a staunch follower of recipes, rules in fact. I like having instructions, a formulation, knowing that something is going to turn out well (or, at the very least that it will turn out the way the recipe intended, for good or for bad!). So, it's quite liberating for me to take a chance and say 'hey, I could fail, this could turn out completely unpalatable and inedible, but so what?!' That's my new thing - looking Failure in the eye and not blinking or turning away. I can see him quaking in his boots slightly...

Ok, enough of the build-up. What exactly did I do? Well, I replaced roasted butternut squash with roasted courgettes in my couscous salad. I told you this might be lame. I'll give you a moment to laugh at me...OK, done? The thing is that this was originally an Ottolenghi recipe and anyone who knows me well will know that I positively and unquestionably revere Ottolenghi. So, to modify one of their recipes was quite courageous for me. Whats more, I actually preferred the salad with the courgettes - they were juicier, which added an uplifting moistness to the dish, and the slightly sour flavour better complemented the tart apricots. Who would have thought?! Every bite brought me delight and wonder. This is good. This is really good. I had an I-love-myself moment.

Naturally, this success has instilled me with an even greater desire to divert from the well-trodden path to good food and find my own way there. I anticipate many failures and disasters along the way but I'm ok with that. Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say. Now, what I really need are some brave and hungry guinea pigs to tag along for the ride. And, I promise this will get more exciting than a mere switching of one type of squash to another. So, any volunteers..?

Roasted Courgette and apricot couscous salad (modified from Ottolenghi)

Preheat oven to 230c. Roughly chop courgette into 2cm cubed pieces, place into a roasting dish and mix with 1-2 tbsp olive oil and a pinch of salt. Roast in oven for approximately 20 mins. Chop one medium onion and gently saute in 1-2 tbsp olive oil until soft and golden. Place to one side and allow to cool. Soak a handful of dried apricots in hot water for 5-10 mins. Then, finely dice in 5mm cubes (this can be done quite roughly). Rub 1 tbsp olive oil into 150g couscous (the finer the better) and pour 180ml chicken stock over. Cover and leave the couscous to soak for about 5-10 mins. Fluff up the cooked couscous with a fork and gently mix in the onions. Then, add the apricots, 1-2 tbsp chopped mint and the zest of one lemon. Finally, add the roasted courgettes and season the couscous with salt and pepper to taste.

Et voila! You're done. I've written this recipe in a pretty rough and fluid way so as to encourage you to change it as you wish. Have some fun - toasted hazlenuts, rocket leaves, cinnamon, the sky's the limit with what you can do! And, if you hit upon something good, I want to know!