Saying Goodbye

For breakfast this morning I found myself still seated at the bar next to my long time foreman and right-hand man, Panto. The handle is short for Pantomime horse, an unfortunate moniker given to him by me due to his long nose, pricked ears, plus a constantly bemused and vacant expression. He has had this unfortunate name since we first met digging holes back in the early 80s, not once has he ever taken offence. In Glasgow, every man has a name, ugly or not, for his closest friends. Panto is a man of few words. He lives voluntarily in the old world where chivalry towards women starts with your ma and shirtless waiters never hold out for tips when they fetch you your hat after a hearty meal in a greasy spoon diner.

Somehow, a mildly spoken man in his sixties might appear incongruous mixing with stronger spoken, younger men of a different generation, but his juxtaposition at my side over the last thirty years or more has taught me that a man of few words can be Kryptonite to those who, to coin a phrase from my youngest son, "chat shite".  His loyalty has known no parameters throughout our friendship, life will be slightly uneven without being able to gaze upon his charismatic face.

Panto, never one to show any emotion other than a full fifteen minutes of relief after the great Guinness shortage was rescinded back in 2003, has never questioned my intentions to hand over the business reins during my forthcoming sabbatical, to my sons. Where most men would ask the age old question, 'what's in it for me?' Panto merely nodded his satisfaction after being confirmed that he will have a job in Glasgow for life.

Our last Friday night pint thinned out to just the two of us after the back of 3am, but still unable to express more than a few words on the subject of 'cheerio', he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and quoted to me the following words by James Orr.

The savage loves his native shore,
Though rude the soil and chill the air;
Well then may Erin's sons adore
Their isle, which nature formed so fair!
What flood reflects a shore so sweet,
As Shannon great, or past'ral Bann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet,
As generous as an Irishman.

A simple, honest and loyal companion, he evoked more from me with these 53 words than most men spit out in a lifetime. It's been a pleasure to have had him about me. This recipe is one that I have prepared for him on and off over the last decade. He would take himself off to a quiet corner and unwrap his wee treat from its greaseproof hiding place and munch them with his big oul green plastic mug of tea. He still firmly believes that it is Siobhan that stands behind the apron, especially as in Panto's world, men will always dig holes while women stay home and cook.

To the Panto's of this world, to my many gracious fellow bloggers across the globe, my loyal pals too numerous to list in Ireland, Germany, Canada, Australia and the grand oul shores of Amerikay. To the wee Glasgow girl fae Hercus Loan who melted my heart and then disappeared up the Thames on her very clever banana boat, the classy, delightful, wonderful Patricia herself, in the west of England who with her enigmatic smile constantly held back my opinion of the auld enemy, the English. The ever loyal little singing fella (who isn't actually little after all) who made me humble with his honesty and down to earth nature that I have treasured over the years and will never forget. A better friend will never be found. To all the genuinely smashing ladies and gents who have been pure dead brilliant, even the religiously misguided fools who have suffered my drunken ramblings, poor punctuation and pish-poor grammar over the years, I say thank you and cheerio for now.

Keep the faith. - JB


Almond Oatcakes

2 builders size handfuls of crushed and rolled almonds straight from the tree of Hope.                                           

1/2 cup rice flour

1/2 cup rolled Scottish oats                                                  

1 cup brown sugar or substitute                                                  

30 ml baking powder                      

1 pinch salt

1 teaspoon of natural honey , straight fae the hive if you have the pluck.

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract                                                  

2 free range eggs, for the love of all things holy do not use the fodder produced by those poor wee wretches they keep in cages.  Leave them well alone, as they are destined to end up in a bucket wrapped in the ominous letters of KFC.                                        

300 ml milk, full fat, you only live once, eh? 

1 single measure of Whyte & Mackay whisky. You may have to sample a wee swally or two during the preparation of course. Daisyfae will back this theory up by way of a tried and tested method of staying ever intoxicated on life. If you cannae find this brand of whisky then the dessert will be good, but not as good as it should be. Move to Scotland or sweet talk your local whisky supplier. If it should come to light that a Jack Daniels substitute has been used, then the divil himself will surely rise fae hell and punish you for your wickedness.                                                  

100 ml good vegetable oil / rapeseed oil. 

Blueberries / strawberries  / raspberries (for garnish)                                             

Mix together dry ingredients. Beat eggs. Add milk, honey, whisky and vanilla extract. Mix into dry ingredients. Bake in a preheated oven at 160 Celsius for 20-25 minutes until golden brown. Add fruit of choice, dust with icing sugar and add fresh cream and a raspberry compote. Add a sprig of mint to show off to your monster-in-law. Serve with iced tea, strong coffee or even a tall glass of cider.

Remember to bus your own plates when done, as this kitchen is now closed while I come to terms with a life that has been cruel and heart breakingly grief stricken at times. Humour, strength, good pals and the odd bottle of whisky has seen me through the hard times. I leave the rest to you. This one is on the house.

Watching

For breakfast this morning I am enjoying a large pot of coffee and a cinnamon bun delightfully laced with almonds, glazed cherries and a not insignificant splash of dark rum to bind it so very well together. I'm a creature of both comfort and habit. I have a morning ritual which has changed very little over the years. I eat light, I drink good coffee, I poop in my own private bathroom, I like it that way, why change now? This morning however, sees me raw-eyed and contemplative as I choose a somewhat quiet corner of the mock Piazza Navona seating area of the airport to ease myself into the day. I curse softly as the uneven feet of the metallic bistro table sends waves of hot coffee into the saucer. I brush away a tiny speck of sugar crust from my crisp white shirt sleeve as I lean dejectedly with my right hand supporting my weary head. Travel leaves me self conscious about a lack of dignity due to my size. I need to scratch sections of my appendage freely without creating attention for other people watchers hunched over laptops as I too disguise my movements behind my 17" screen. Size really does matter when it comes to scratching that itch! Departing and arriving is only one short stride away from other peoples comings and goings. I miss my wife, I miss my morning view from the upstairs windows, most of all I also miss my immaculately clean bathroom and toilet.

The human traffic that haunts most airports at this nonchalant hour never ceases to amuse me. I am a self-confessed people watcher. I have whiled away many an hour amusing myself at others unaware displeasure's such as facial twitching, grimacing, blinking and the flicking of hair. I have found myself awarding imaginary points for involuntary noises, such as coughing, grunting, clearing the throat and sniffing. Wrinkled noses and the widening of eyes is a favourite trait of senior citizens during the consumption of hot beverages it would seem. Japanese ladies have a penchant for spitting into handkerchiefs, while German ladies pull lightly at the concealed wax from many a conical ear. I cast an inquisitive eye over the tall Italian looking woman in her early 30s who on several occasions has risen from her chair and wandered off in the general direction of a quiet corner near to the discount luggage store. Her expensive suit tells me that cheap luggage is not what holds her attention. I notice how she coyly glances behind her before possibly passing a gust of silent wind. Her elegant hands smooths her suit as she flicks her expensive bangs before returning once more to her seat. High above us, a small cluster of pigeons flap hectically away from my view. Coincidence maybe, who really knows but me and her and of course the birds.

I immediately award her double points, but feel somewhat sympathetic towards her plight as I also overindulged myself the previous evening when it came to the rather rich food on offer. At 3am I had precious little time to empty my own ballast tank between hotel reception and awaiting taxi at the kerb as the doorman advanced to assist with my luggage. The expression on his face as we drive away tells me he has suspicions by way of the street drainage and its reliability to function correctly. I'm a man, I rarely feel guilt. I do however feel strangely disappointed that for all these years my mother, my wife, sisters, aunties and female cousins have all lied to me. Women, it would seem, also need to toot in order to refine their early morning relief. We all do things when we believe that other people are not watching.

My attention turns to the latest arrival to the seating area. A tweedy looking gentleman, in what could only be described as English clothes, flops seemingly rather lackadaisically into a waiting chair. He seems red of cheek and appears to have left home in the middle of a frenzied shaving session with a cheap blunt disposable razor. I notice the long wispy strands of nasal hair as they converge scruffily a small distance from his top lip.  The bridge of his nose seems to have come out in sympathy with the intruders from his nostril, three wiry silver bursts of bristle tell me that he seldom spends much time in front of the mirror. Comically, his eyebrows in order not to be outdone by the explosion in a spaghetti factory lower down his face, thrust long tendrils of wayward hair skywards as if waving at pewfodders invisible ghod. I picture him saluting at magpies, picking his nose at traffic signals and wheeling an antique lawnmower around an allotment somewhere in deepest darkest Hampshire.

I am about to rise when a rotund guy in a cream khaki jumpsuit enters my vision. He jabbers constantly into an unfashionably large phone which must have been plucked from the Velcro pouch attached to his belt. I genuinely fear for his safety should he need to bend down. I mentally run through the procedure for administering oxygen to those large people who run the risk of passing out while wearing tight clothing. I am half way through my minds rehearsal when I catch sight of the rather visual pee stains that appear to have formed an outline of Jamaica in his general crotch area. My interest immediately wanes. I can only hope that in his current state he doesn't fall over and becomes akin to a large woodlice on its back, feet waving frantically in the air. As if from heaven a mysterious booming male voice announces that flight 371 to Glasgow is about to board. I fall into line a few steps away from a young lady whose shapely bottom appears to be lip syncing with her underwear, either that or it is an extremely clever human advertisement for taking in washing.

This evenings meal will consist of steak, I can already feel my red blood cells rising as I smile my best 5am smile at the pretty princess in the flight attendants uniform as she checks my seat number on the ticket. Our hands touch for a brief moment, just long enough for me to notice an ever-so-slight facial tic. Here we go again, the in flight entertainment is about to commence.

Chefs Steak Fix

When choosing a steak, sirloin is a fine choice due to its tasty, melt-in-the-mouth succulence. Good sirloin has just the right amount of fat and nice marbling. Rump steak is slightly cheaper than sirloin but it’s still a great steak for griddling or frying, with more flavour than sirloin. However, it does tend to be slightly chewier, especially if it has not been matured properly. The age of the steak is extremely important, as the hanging process develops the flavour and tenderises the meat. So ask your butcher how long the beef has been hung for. If need be take him for a drink and ensure that his glass never falls empty if you are to ensure a fine feast for the dinner. As a rule, 21 days as a minimum and 35 days as a maximum is a good range to go for. Hanging is important, especially if the meat is freshly poached acquired from a friend.

Good beef should be a deep red colour, check the beef has good marbling – little streaks of fat running through the meat is a given! This melts when heated, helping the steak to baste itself from within as it cooks. A good layer of creamy-white fat around the top of sirloin steaks is also essential.

Heat your griddle or frying pan over a high heat, until smoking hot. Lightly brush the steak with a little olive oil and season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. For the love of all things beefy, don’t griddle more than two steaks at a time, and keep them spaced well apart. If you add more than two steaks to the pan at once, the temperature will drop and the steak will stew, rather than fry.

Don’t turn the steaks until good seared markings are achieved, then turn them over and cook on the other side. You must let the steak rest for about 3 minutes before serving, to allow the juices that have been drawn to the surface to relax back into the meat. Serve with a good red wine or / and ice cold beer.

 

The Leaving Tree

For breakfast this morning I took an early morning drive through the remnants of the housing scheme that once spawned some of Glasgow's most frightening looking men. Of course, back in the day they were merely angelic wee monsters playing fitba and pavie with the fresh faced girls that seemed to spring up from every back street scheme in Glasgow. It would take many hardships and another twenty years before a handful of them would evolve into the Rubik's cube of characters that went on to become my life long friends.

Of course, the schemes have changed dramatically since my youth. No longer does poverty hang over this particular part of the city, the developers and prosperity long since moved in and forced the urban decay back across the brown bubbling waters of the Clyde. Where once stood crumbling brick and soot blackened buildings, elbowing each other for room to breathe amongst the dank tower blocks and high flats, now stands epic glass offices. The old entrances are festooned with gleaming luxury cars, exotic names and business suited drones faxing their way to another days wealth doing something superficial, but very beneficial to a rich man and his pockets.
Set in the heart of this Armani jungle is a small sandwich shop which has been trading since time began. It hasn't changed much on the inside other than renovate the warm walls with the same sandy red colour that was first introduced back in 1976. It was considered to be 'cosmopolitan' back then, the majority of eating establishments still favouring the dour lime and yellow walls that invaded the 70s with a psychedelic haze that certainly didn't enhance the limited choices of food on offer. Grease seemed to be the in-flavour, coated on everything from the plates to the walls and in some cases even the ceilings.

Glinting warmly in the thin sunshine of the day, four aluminium table sets are grouped cosily beneath a brightly green coloured tree that encapsulates the slowly rising Glasgow sun. I've watched that tree grow ever taller since I was a gangly wean. Two men about to enter their 50's sat at either side of the far table. A bottle of whisky before them, blatantly flaunting the public morals regarding the consumption of alcohol on a Saturday morning, but this is Glasgow after all. The slate grey stubble forming on the tallest ones chin indicated he hadn't been long in from the previous evening somewhere in the city. On seeing my vehicle arrive he nonchalantly poured me a glass without asking the question first. But then he could afford to prejudge my decision, he was my brother and knew my tastes well.
As we sat in our jacket attire, it would have been easy for passers-by to assume that we were part of the backwash of Glasgow's yesteryear. Three worn faced men with an accumulation of facial scars not dissimilar to a cross-radial tyre. Life hadn't so much been cruel to any of the three of us, merely reflexes and circumstances had not always gone to plan as situations in our youth had transpired. From those staring down from their office block kingdoms, an easy assumption would have been that we could well be discussing a green-lit scenario on someone who had gotten too big for their britches.

In reality, our deep conversation involved a more serious argument on something of an entirely different nature. Should the skin be left on the tender white flesh of a free range chicken as it enters the phase of a delicious sandwich in the making? How long must a Bavarian ham be left in the smoker before the flavour becomes full on and dances on the taste buds? Is it considered bad form to use anything other than crushed black pepper when preparing a mayonnaise fit for the menu of any decent restaurant? And so the conversation turned, all be it intrinsic enough for us to move on to smooth black coffee as the June weather increased its sunshine levels by just a wee tad. Life had moved on from the old days, but three happier men could not have been found on that street. Where once any of the small assembled group, hard set eyes and shoulders that began at our chins, could have parted the Red Sea without pausing for breath. We now excused ourselves as we briefly took phone calls regarding grand weans, garden clubs and at one point discussed the quality of a friends new leather shoes.

It is the end of my routine, a last chance glimpse of my daily Glasgow life as I prepare to begin again in my pastures new. It is not the culture or the weather that will be the hardest to loosen my grip upon. It is friendship and camaraderie that has engulfed me throughout my formative years and supported me through the thick and thin of my life to date. Acquaintances come and acquaintances go, akin to wallpaper on a bar room wall, the in's and outs of women's fashion, like leaves on a tree they fall only to be replaced by similar things aesthetic only to the eye, never the heart. Solid foundations are formed on the bedrock of routine, those around us, and the feelings that certain places carve in our souls. We cannot rake over our youth, but it is the maturity of our friendship that has forged a bond for our futures. Sadly, not all of us are present at that table as we each remember our past. Like leaves from the winter tree, some of us fall and are never seen again.


Darcy's Piece

150g roast chicken, shredded
6 rashers smoky streaky bacon
Thinly sliced Swiss or American cheese
1 gherkin, press gently to lessen the taste of the vinegar and chop
Small bunch tarragon – leaves removed, finely chopped
75g watercress leaves (thick stalks removed)
6 – 8 Tbsp mayonnaise
2 Slices thick sliced white bloomer or French stick
Salt & pepper to taste, small dod of butter

Method:
1. Place the chunks of chicken evenly along your piece
2. Layer the melted cheese along the top of the chicken
3. Crisp the skin from the chicken, using a fork, shred it.
4. Crisp the bacon lightly, combine with the chicken, mayonnaise & tarragon leaves.
5. Add salt & pepper to taste, adjust consistency of the sandwich filling mixture.
6. Spread the butter & on one side of both slices of bread. Place sandwich filling on one of the slices, add cress and season lightly. Wash down with cool Danish lager to enhance the full flavours.

Amuse-Bouche

 

For breakfast that morning we, along with a small ensemble of neighbours, assembled outside of the local magistrates court to await the news on a retired gentleman farmer who lives less than a mile from our property on the west coast of Scotland. At the back of eleven he emerged on the steps of the courthouse to be welcomed by a loud cheer and rapturous applause. He nodded briefly, grunted, then disappeared in the direction of our local bar.

Of course, we followed.

In December of last year, two days short of Hogmanay, our retired gentleman farmer friend was awoken by the sound of splintering wood coming from the area of his storage barn. He dressed, fetched his trusty side-by-side and went to investigate the noise that had awoken him from his slumber. Throwing open his barn door he was confronted by two Lithuanian travellers. One was happily defecating amongst our friends animal feeds, while the other was busy filling sacks of sugar beets and turnips as fast as his grubby little hands could muster. To ensure that he had their full attention, our gentleman friend fired one barrel into the night sky and made ready to let go the other in the general direction of his visitors. He shouted to his wife, who then rang his son. By the time his son had arrived, somewhat worst for wear after an evenings entertainment, his father had managed to corral Mr Turnip and Mr Shite into a milking pen. Mr Shite was minus his trews, while Mr Turnip was rather unhappily holding his stomach as he squatted on the ground surrounded by the remains of rotting veg.

Our retired gentleman farmer is nearly eighty years of age. He served his country well and was once a recognised face in Glasgow. He doesn't believe in involving the polis, neither does he welcome people of a certain ilk on his property. He is old school. He merely put into play (single handed) a wee bit of Glasgow justice to those who think they can ride roughshod over innocents who choose to live quiet and respectful lives within our community. He left Mr Shite to freeze his Lithuanian knackers off, while Mr Turnip was made to eat the rotting veg that is used to feed livestock. Fortunately, our gentleman friend's wife also called the polis as well as her son. After more than an hour, not to mention a lot of laughter on their part, a fair amount of consumed rotten veg and a small, shrivelled pair of jingle balls. The polis took away the trespassing Lithuanian duo, a sample of manky veg, two fecal stained grain sacks and our retired friend. The shotgun, mysteriously, had conveniently been misplaced in the ensuing stramash prior to the polis arrival. Our man was later summoned to appear before the honorary magistrates on the charges of false imprisonment, intimidation, possible cruelty and failing to register a shotgun (never found) on his property.

Strangely enough, the case against a member of our community was thrown out of court due to the non appearance of two key witnesses. The verdict was 'not proven'. No witnesses for the prosecution, no case against the accused, case dismissed. Joking aside, it could easily have been a tragic case had Mr Turnip and Mr Shite chosen the option to overpower our retired friend. Luckily, for them, they were thoroughly humiliated instead and given a sample of Scottish justice, Glaswegian style. I had to smile when he informed me that the drinks that he had just purchased for his supporters, were funded by the sale of the body and engine parts he had dismantled from their rather shiny getaway car that had been hidden behind his barn.

We are getting kind of fond of the oul fella, although his scowl would indicate otherwise.


Lowland Turnip Broth

3 green onion bulbs, minced
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
Crushed sea salt
1/2 cup white wine
6 cups vegetable stock
1/2 cup long-grain white basmati rice
Black pepper
3-4 medium turnips, cut into small bite-size cubes
3 small branches fresh rosemary – 2 whole and 1 chopped
Grated parmesan cheese


Add the olive oil to a heavy stockpot and warm over medium heat. Sauté the onion and garlic until slightly brown, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Pour in the wine and stock, and bring to a simmer.
Add the rice, and simmer for 10 minutes over medium-low. Add the turnips and two whole rosemary branches. Cook about 15 more minutes, stirring occasionally.
Season with more salt, if necessary. Discard the rosemary branches, and serve the soup into bowls. Top with grated parmesan, fresh-ground black pepper, and chopped rosemary. Lock the doors of your outbuildings, sit and enjoy.

Coming Out

For breakfast this morning we once again awoke to find our currently lingering house guest snoring loudly on the bathroom floor. Like the staccato bark of gunfire, as it followed the traitorous black and tans as they ran away from the Fianna guns, he chirruped his hoarse nocturnal cough of an alcoholic evening into my tastefully tiled Porcelanosa floor. Floating in a languid pool of what can only be described as a potent mixture of both Indian madras and his own warm tepid pish, he reminded me of an earlier time. Be that as may, my loyalty to him still resisted all attempts to waver. He was there when I decided to pop my cherry and finally come out... I like to cook, there, now the world knows my worst kept secret. Sadly, I received not a single comment (at this point in the current post I reserve the right to manipulate the truth on this subject, because I can!) from the last post suggesting a mode of transport for the wee man himself. Personally I take this as a direct sign from his Ghod that the little singing fella was born to walk. Who am I to intervene with the divine? Instead, we gave him a small gift to provide him with something even closer to his heart. Aye, shoe lifts and a dozen bottles of something warm and gold. Some leopards very rarely change their spots. At least he remembered to keep the receipt for the tax man.

At some point over the next few weeks before we finally say cheerio to the auld ways, I plan to sit down with the Map fella to pen a more intimate post about many unanswered questions. No time like the present for a wee snifter though, eh? I was toying with a few brief lines and a simple farewell to redemption, but then I havered on the edge and transcribed a rough manuscript that would choke a small donkey. No connection to any short singers in Limerick intended. In the end I shall keep my latest thoughts in the image of masel and my pal. Relatively easy going, if not a tad simple. For this first flinty wee increment I have changed no names, dates or places to benefit those who wish not to appear in person. No, I have merely chosen not to include any relevant information in the first place. There may be a wee smidgen of dust about on my kitchen counters that has gathered in the last few weeks, but the knives in the drawer are still nicely honed and sharp.

Complicity is a mask that eventually distorts your face. I've turned left a few times when I should have turned right, but I've never been a man that took anything from anyone that didn't deserve to lose it. As a misguided youth, I believed in taking only from the criminally rich, who had extorted it, usually through violence, from the innocent hard working man, and then repatriating it back to those who deserved a leg up back in the day. Yes, I do mean me. There are many men who once purchased anything that they wanted with their wealth, but sadly, could never afford the high cost of looking a working class man full in the face. They paid my wages until I discovered the love of a good woman. Many healing experts, divination magicians, shaman, catholic human spirit restorers, not to mention religious sorcerers, do-gooders and other devout black crows straight out of the seminary in Rome have attempted to relieve me of my blackened soul by beating the divil from within me. The truth is, I need to keep the pain of my deeds inside of me to remind me why the smell of freshly shovelled earth, honestly toiled, always smells better than the cloying stench of piles of 'acquired' bank notes. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, but that is pure shite, I have shovelled my share of earth on more than just a few.

The old adage is true, behind every successful man is a strong woman. I found mine at the age of eight when herself ridiculed me as I reached out my hand for her brothers lunch money. Hell hath no fury like a belle fae Belfast! I have never loved another woman like it since. The lady herself educated me to the fact that there is no greater taste than that savoured on a Friday night after a hard week amongst those who earned it honestly. The joy of books and culture followed and was soon to be my secret passion, just behind a rather nice peaty forty year old single malt.With that said, the weight of guilt is sometimes far out-weighed by the feel of a large, heavy sports bag full of illicit cash nicely tucked away from a certain adventure in the 1980's. Eventually I found that breaking hearts and hard reputations exceeded the daily grind of breaking bones. Over the last 35 years I have unfortunately suffered the pain of both gunshot and blade. The blood on my own hands often made it increasingly difficult to clean up my past. No greater pain ever befell me more than seeing the hurt lines etched on my good lady's face as I occasionally meandered from my own genuine path of redemption during the final years of my youth. I was never one to heed advice from those riding in Mercedes, when in realty they were more suited to riding the all night bus.

Between us we have raised our children to be both moral and correct. Bad seeds do not always grow to be bad crops. They have escaped the curse of a net, snare, or any other thing that entrapped and entangled simply by being shown the values of not disappointing their father who himself set such poor standards. No infernos or fiery lakes will consume them, nor will they turn to pillars of salt or have their eyes plucked out by Ghod's ravenous ravens sent from the kingdom of heaven. Thankfully they will never have to tap keys to signal the end of a redemption period, nor will they have to bear the burden of bursting into flames when they pass a nun in the street. Hallelujah, eh? It's not always been easy to inculcate into them that what is for them will not go by them, especially as life in your twenties is easier to enjoy with a few notes tucked into your pocket. Life is never going to be a bowl of cherries, that much we can all be sure. It is only when you look back on a life half lived that you realise that redemption, like guilt, is merely a quicksand to the feet for those who spent a happy childhood without shoes.

Chefs Cherry Pie & Cream


For the Cream:
250ml single cream
1 tablespoon caster sugar
The noyau from the centre of two dozen or so cherry stones (see below)

For the pastry:
340g plain flour or "00" type flour from Italy is nice
A pinch of salt
A smidgen of caster sugar
170g very cold unsalted butter cut into 1cm cubes
100ml ice water
egg, lightly whisked with a splash of milk for brushing

For the filling:
500g stoned sour cherries (stones reserved)
150g caster sugar
2 Tbsp corn or potato flour
A pinch of sea salt
1 tsp kirsch (optional)
The noyau from the centre of a dozen cherry stones

For the Chef:
At least a good bottle of malt, poured naked into the glass, absolutely no ice or additives, unless you are born outside of wedlock or outside of Glasgow.

Method:
Butter a 9" pie plate and set aside.
Begin by getting your beautiful sour cherries from a friend or supplier you have found on the west coast of Scotland, taking them home, and quickly pitting or stoning them as they have a very short shelf life. The little hand-held contraptions I prefer, are the German-made cast aluminium ones with a coating that keeps the metal from reacting. They are sturdy and easy to use. Once you have stoned all of the cherries, you can freeze the fruit or use it right away. If you are lucky enough to have a glut of them, use what you need to make a pie, and freeze the rest.

Lay the cherry stones on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and place them in a 180°C oven for a few minutes to just dry them out. The main purpose of this is so that your hammer or mallet doesn't slip while you are pounding them open. Place the dried stones in a neat row three inches from the edge of a tea towel. Fold the 3" length down over the stones and use a hammer or mallet to give each stone a swift blow. If you have ever mastered the art of swinging a lead pipe in a dark alley, then you will find your skill will finally come in handy once again. Find a rhythm and get cracking. When you have finished, lift the cloth back and carefully select the noyau from the crushed shells. Set about 12 aside for the pie. Take about 24 of them and place in a bowl. Add a tablespoon of fine sugar and crush them up a bit with the back of a spoon. Pour the single cream over this and cover and chill for at least 6 hours. Take the time to enjoy yet another half bottle of the gold.

Now, after your wee nap, make your pastry. Place the flour, salt, sugar and butter cubes into a mixing bowl with the paddle attachment and knock it around for a few minutes to break up the butter. A pie pastry should be shorter than the pastry for a galette, so the butter can be mixed in until it resembles a coarse meal. While the mixer is on, drizzle in the cold water and immediately turn it off when the pastry starts to come together into a ball. You must move quickly at this point, as though the polis are urgently chapping your door. Gather the dough together and then divide it into two. Wrap each ball in cling film and them chill for at least 30 minutes. Meanwhile you can make your cherry filling. Combine all of your ingredients except the noyau and let this sit for a couple of minutes to leech out all the juice from the cherries. Finely chop the noyau.

Preheat your oven to 200° C. The pastry should be ready to roll, so lightly flour a surface and roll to about two - two-and-a-half millimetres thick. Line the pie pan, sprinkle with your chopped noyau, and pour in the filling. Set this in the fridge to chill while you roll out the top half of the pastry. Roll out as above, but using a paring knife, cut one-and-a-half centimetre wide strips. Pull the pie out of the fridge, and arrange in a lattice. Brush with the egg wash, and place in the oven. Bake for about an hour, or until the pastry is golden and the filling is thickly bubbling up through the lattice.
To serve, strain the cream into a jug and pour over hot slices of pie. I always serve mine with a bottle of something fruity and red and most definitely with good friends.

The Little Singing Fella

For breakfast this morning I had the little singing fella firmly on my mind. "An unusual choice of topic around food, Jimmy" you might well be thinking. Aye, you would be right. Thinking back, I suppose it was akin to watching a bucket of pigs being liquidised in glorious Technicolor while sitting down to lunch with the family priest. The piggy's being slightly easier to stomach than the wee man and his gravy moustache, I assure you.

I digress...

As you may or may not be aware, our wee pal had to cut short his midweek tryst to Galway City with his good lady, due to a vehicular meltdown 60 kms away fae the camp site of which he frequents often. Now wee Mháirtín is a kindly oul sowl, a hard working man from good breeding stock, the six fingers on each hand merely emphasis just what a friendly family he is originally fae. He deserves a break away fae all his woes on occasion. He was crestfallen the other night in O'Malleys, so much so he accidentally forgot to slip off his stool and head for the toilet when it was his round. To cheer up the little fella I have decided to put my hand in my pocket and treat him to a new mode of transport. The only dilemma I have is although he is closer to me than some of my brothers, I haven't a wee scoobie as to what sort of transportation I am to buy him.

Ideas please, tell me, what in your opinion would suit him best, keeping in mind his many, many annoying faults and drunken wee ways. The winner will get to meet him in person and hand over the keys. On second thoughts, a better prize would probably be the bucket of liquidised piggy's!

No fancy recipes this time around, for some reason I haven't felt right since breakfast. Instead, a working mans lunch for the ladies to supply to their men this very day.

Worky Mans Grub

Pickled onion
Boiled egg
Pork Pie
Slab of cheddar
Huge dod of bread

Throw the lot in greaseproof paper, sling it in a brown paper bag, leave it on the kitchen table before you go to your beds at night. Job done, on with the daytime soaps that all the ladies enjoy so much.


To be continued on my return......

Revelations, Revamps and Ragu

For breakfast this morning we all sat around a skillet of bacon rashers, square sausage, ripened tomatoes and huge black mushrooms sizzling evenly in the salty goodness of which the bacon had originally arrived. We each tore great white dods of fluffy bread apart as we dipped it into the auld copper pan and tasted the full flavour of the rashers. Nothing follows bacon better than a good strong pot of tea. We indulged ourselves with tea and the family about us as we chatted and turned over the current excitement that has filled our abode rapidly over the last few months. Our task for the morning was to make a list of all the things that we are to bring along for the new place in the sun and the items that would not be suitable and might look out of place. For those that are unaware, it may come as a bit of an oul shock to discover that a devout atheist such as myself would choose to live in a converted chapel. There now, you might possibly know something personal about me at last. I have done for many years since. You do not have to believe in an entity to appreciate fine architecture, vaulted ceilings and solid green oak beams about your head. I'm sure that even Jaysus would appreciate the way in which we have put down the odd rug and thrown a bit of paint about the walls. At this point we should pause for reflection and allow Mr Pewfodder to wipe up the spilled coffee that he has just spat onto his keyboard. Strangely enough my feet are beginning to stiffen, perhaps it is the beginning of me turning into a pillar of salt. Blasphemer Chef! Aye, I'd probably go along with that.

The thing is though, solid oak furniture and the usual customary décor that befits our chapel home does not fit well with open plan Spanish white walls and clean lines, not to mention glass viewing windows facing the Med. Dilemma. Actually no. Siobhan and my daughters have offered to step in and save the day. The list was a waste of time. Everything will remain in situ at this end for our return at Christmas and Hogmanay. Why cart furniture halfway around Europe when you have women in the house prepared to go on ahead and shop till they drop? Aye, that'll be right! Even someone who has taken as many blows to the head as masel is no going to agree with that, eh? No, we are going to go revisit our past. When we moved into our tiny first home as newlyweds we had very little, but we found infinite pleasure hunting for bargains of cast off furniture and hand-me-down knick knacks. Money was extremely hard to come by and there wasn't such a vast array of beautiful items available as there is today. We were happy just being together and sharing the sofa which had been previously owned by my family (since 1756 if the stains were anything to go by) and watching the damp grow mushrooms on the window sill brought us closer together. Lean times they might have been, but happy times indeed, without question. We intend to enjoy many more happy days while we are still fit and able. Meanwhile, here is something enjoyable and tasty to keep yourselves busy in your kitchen as I go about arranging rescue for the little singing fella. It would appear that his VW camper has broken down 30km this side of Galway City and herself is busting for the loo.

He should never have sold his pushbike.


Ragu alla Contadina

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (45 ml)
2 ounces/60g pancetta, finely chopped
1 medium red onion, diced
1 medium stalk celery with leaves, diced
1 small carrot, diced
1 large handful of sweetcorn
4 ounces/125g boneless veal shoulder or round
4 ounces/125g pork loin, trimmed of fat, or 4 ounces/125g mild Italian sausage (made without fennel)
8 ounces/250g beef skirt steak, hanging tender, or boneless chuck blade or chuck centre cut (in order of preference)
1 ounce/30g thinly sliced Prosciutto di Parma
2/3 cup (5 ounces/160ml) dry red wine
1 & 1/2 cups (12 ounces/375ml) chicken or beef stock (homemade if possible)
2 cups (16 ounces/500ml) semi skimmed milk
3 tins plum tomatoes, drained
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Heat the olive oil in a 12 inch (30cm) skillet (frying pan) over medium-high heat. Have a large saucepan handy to use once browning is complete. Add the pancetta and minced vegetables and sauté, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon, 10 minutes, or until the onions barely begin to colour. Coarsely grind all the meats together, including the prosciutto, in a food processor or meat grinder. Stir into the pan and slowly brown over medium heat. First the meats will give off a liquid and turn dull grey but, as the liquid evaporates, browning will begin. Stir often, scooping under the meats with the wooden spatula. Protect the brown glaze forming on the bottom of the pan by turning the heat down. Cook 15 minutes, or until the meats are a deep brown. Turn the contents of the skillet into a strainer and shake out the fat. Turn them into the saucepan and set over medium heat.

Add the wine to the skillet, lowering the heat so the sauce bubbles quietly. Stir occasionally until the wine has reduced by half, about 3 minutes. Scrape up the brown glaze as the wine bubbles. Then pour the reduced wine into the saucepan and set the skillet aside. At this point myself and the delightful daisyfae usually open the second bottle and swally the contents before continuing.
Stir ½ cup stock into the saucepan and let it bubble slowly, 10 minutes, or until totally evaporated. Repeat with another ½ cup stock. Stir in the last 1/2 cup stock along with the milk. Adjust heat so the liquid bubbles very slowly. Partially cover the pot, and cook 1 hour. Stir frequently to check for sticking. Add the tomatoes, crushing them as they go into the pot. Cook uncovered, at a very slow bubble for another 45 minutes, or until the sauce resembles a thick, meaty stew. Season with sea salt and white pepper. Hopefully, it should look like this.

Divining the Divine

For breakfast this morning we enjoyed fresh sage eggs with smoked salmon, purple onion, capers and cream cheese on a date and oat muffin. The beverage was of course a rather smooth African roast bean coffee we found in a charming wee village in Rockingham. It's Siobhan's favourite, but tends to be limited to special occasions or when I find myself in the dog house. Today however, wasn't a special occasion... say no more, eh? At the end of his rather expensive feng shui tour of our home he had finally concluded and was in the process of returning his incense sticks, divining rods, magnetic compasses and wax paper equations back to the rather neat little velvet lined case laying open on my table. As I escorted him through to the hallway I clasped him firmly by the hand and pumped it professionally until I could hear the bones crack in his greedy huckster fingers.

His pain was most probably profuse, but the real damage was done in the cold unsmiling stare I gave him as my eyes informed him that the surname etched upon the name plate at the front entrance to my gates wasn't just similar to the man he had at some point read about in the newspapers. I walked him courteously to his rented Mercedes parked outside on the gravel of my driveway. He hadn't even bothered to remove the tiny giveaway red dot sticker at the top of the windscreen that signified that the true owner of his rather flash chariot was in fact AVIS rather than Confucius. A small detail, but one that was to cost him not only his fee, but also the ability to fasten his tie or button his jacket with such easy dexterity for at least the next couple of months. His neatly written individual invoice was photocopied with just a blank space for his 'most valued client' name to be inserted at the top for his services.

I gifted him with a dozen of my best hens eggs and discreetly whispered into his rather oddly shaped oriental ear that if he ever contacted my wife again in my absence it would most definitely be done by way of a séance. It was a tough choice, but if pushed I would have to say that he evacuated his bowels a hairs breadth ahead of him clearing the two stone pillars that stand either side of my gateway. For a rental car it was surprisingly pokey.
I smiled graciously up at my wife as she gazed down at me through the first floor window. The warmth in her own smile beamed back at me at the way in which her husband had so warmly accepted this latest stranger into our home without quibble. Since her early retirement from her career wearing a black gown and an extremely expensive array of horse hair wigs, she has embarked upon a journey trying to fill the time enriched void which had appeared suddenly upon her horizon.

A feast of amateur theatre liaisons with the local women's guild had failed to satisfy her need for direction. Too young and far too sensible for arranging Gods flowers in the village church had seen the weekly pastime go to her older, rather tweedy, acquaintance of Mrs McFadden from her chosen charity group. Well, Siobhan calls it her charity group, me, let's just say that the witches of Eastwick are still alive and relocated to the west coast of Scotland in my own humble opinion. Charity begins at home with the distribution of love and maternal instincts to those who need a helping hand in life. Not saving spotted leopards in fly ridden jungles half way around the globe so that some Nigerian prince can wear real animal skinned shoes upon his dirty feet as he spends the hard-conned cash from vulnerable people in Europe. My biggest problem? I voice my opinions sometimes when it would be wiser just to think!

Top tips when dealing with the dark side that is known as faux feng shui, make sure your house has a toilet. This can be placed wherever the feng shui approved plumber says is best. If you're lucky you may already find one in the smaller room of your house. This is good for Chi in the lower intestine and colon. In China they squat over a hole in the dirt, but that's for enlightened people only. Best start slow eh? Tip number two, a bed is good for sleeping in. Chi is strongest in the midnight hours so a bed is essential! A bed can also be used for reading, intimate relations and arguing with your spouse in.  Interestingly enough, feng shui in Scottish Gaelic actually translates to: Put your wife's unused hobby crap in the garage. We start the clear out tomorrow after breakfast, shortly before the little singing fella will call me and tell me that my presence is required and that I must leave immediately. If all goes well, Siobhan should be finished in time to cook my dinner...

Chefs Apology Breakfast

4 large brown hens eggs
4 large brown hens egg whites
1 pinch of ground black pepper
4 scallions, tops only, thinly sliced
1 purple onion
Capers
Fresh sage
Sage
Philly cheese in a tub
2 thick slices of breaded ham
2 ounces quality thinly sliced Scottish smoked salmon (please... not the cheap supermarket stuff, it is not authentic. Ask for salmon taken from the waters of Loch Fyne, no where else.)

       - 1 ounce ounce smoked salmon, thinly sliced      

Added To Shopping List!

Combine eggs, egg whites and pepper in a small bowl. Stir briskly with a fork until well blended.  Heat oil in a non stick skillet over medium-low heat. Add scallions and cook, stirring, until softened, about 30 seconds. Pour the eggs into the pan and cook until they just begin to set, about 10 seconds; stir in salmon. Cook, stirring gently from time to time, until the eggs have thickened into soft, creamy curds, 3 to 5 minutes. Serve immediately onto oven warmed date and oat muffins with crisp, cool purple onion, a slice of ham and a splosh of Philly cheese.

Tilting At Windmills

For breakfast that morning we sat and took in the delicious aroma of freshly fallen rain drying on sun warmed pebbles in a magnificently cobbled presidio square.  With no time constraints, we languidly enjoyed the morning sunshine, a seemingly endless stream of delicious espresso's and perfectly poached eggs in a pleasantly quaint stramash of interestingly ordinary people. I would casually avert my gaze from my now compulsory habit of people watching just long enough to spread rich sunflower butter on to Siobhan's wheat toast. Apart fae the charmingly tall Italian lady with the somewhat alarming Adams apple and the rather manly hands, I could not detect even the slightest soupçon of an anomaly oozing discreetly from the other early morning diners sitting at the tables around us. The fast flowing Spanish accent is on occasion smoother than an exquisite brandy, at times drawing a man in like the all powerful delectable female flower, before erupting vociferously into a bubbling sequence of small volcanic shudders of delightful Mediterranean melee. The female Balearic vowel trickles warmly down a mans back, it leaves his nape damp with lust and an excitable muskiness that protrudes his guilt and forms a veritable ruddiness upon his cheeks.

I chuckled aloud as we took in the somewhat risqué real life metatheatre melodrama between two nearby octogenarians as they sparred playfully with their colourful linguistic tryst. It would seem that the romance begins beneath the morning sun, with the gift of laughter, intelligent conversation and a spot of playful patter over a sumptuous breakfast and then rapidly gathers speed towards a late candlelight supper. My own culture's special skill is sadly subliminal, conquering the smoking ban in public houses with little thought to smudged lipstick and in many cases embracing the coquette's scorn. Encouraging the purchase of wee black cocktail dresses from late night supermarkets and shamelessly embracing the glossy princesses in the TV guide. As a result, Glasgow now has more unromantic men per square mile than your average licensed bookie has leg men. Romance does exist it would seem, but only between the working man and his beloved Friday night pints. It is a romance that will never end in divorce, an intrepid voyage of burnt hops and Dublin's finest water as it cascades down many a torn-faced Glaswegian gullet. A true love lasts, while lust merely exists as long as the beery froth on the inside of a warm glass.

Don't get me wrong here, It's not that I am bitter about the fact that my own loveless culture is pure shite. No, merely a small glimmer of cultural cringe seeping through my brandy-addled pores as I perspire pure alcohol and attempt to practise my woo face before Siobhan glides ever gracefully towards our marital bed. Glasgow people don't as a rule need to advertise our heritage for the same reason Pavarotti didn't need to wear a name tag. We look exactly what we are... Heavies! Unscrupled villains, cattle meat literally hot on the hoof, with the knotty limb of an enormous oak announcing our arrival. Somewhat pale, prone to looking forever fervent, there is something distinctly suspect about the way in which Mother Nature gifted her Celtic men with Rottweiler good looks and physiques large enough to draw green-eyed pangs from a gaggle of Californian youths. How could she omit the one gene that offers up red and white roses, opens doors and allows us to cuddle up with the desirable women folk in our hearts? The tango is a sensual ballroom gallopade, rhythmically significant, that sadly is far too intricate for my large scaffolders feet to indulge, but at the very core of my rhinoceros reel beats the heart of a simple romantic Glaswegian fool.

 If only everything in life was as easy as an 8am poached egg, eh?

Alpaca Case & Be Gone

For breakfast this morning we had toasted teacakes with wild honey and blueberry muffins with gooseberry jam. It was to be a full Scottish fry, however, it would seem that my current squatter house sitter, the little singing fella, was a wee bit peckish in the night. What's a man to do, eh?

No posts for a couple of weeks during my time away, but I do have a favour to ask... I have been given a wee unwanted alpaca to go with the others that we have, but as no one knows her name it is high time we came up with a suitable handle. Perhaps you can come up with a few ideas in my absence? There will be a rather nice prize for the winner!

All I can tell you is that she is bright ginger in colour and lovably dopey. For some reason she also has a dirty patch on her rear end that looks as though she needs a good wash. I'm sure you can guess which name I thought of first, eh Miss Flibbertigibbet?

Back in a few weeks, cheery bye the noo.