Off the Scale

One of the biggest issues I’ve encountered moving out as a first time buyer is maintaining our successful, gastronomically interesting lives whilst having a less than desirably equipped kitchen.

 Rather than recede into the culinary wasteland I took this bull by the horns; using only my own powerful visual assessment. And if I do say so myself, I think it was quite a success. Recipes such as msmarmitelover's munchkin soufflé (above) and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstal's Welsh Rarebit (below used as a topping for a smoked haddock tart) didn’t suffer for having to eyeball 50g of flour or however much cheddar I decided was sufficient to satisfy my cheesy craving. 

In fact the imposition has been a blessing in disguise. It’s forced me to have patience and do things more carefully. Any idiot can blindly follow a recipe and bludgeon their way through. Mixing ingredients together slowly, dutifully stirring and tasting until you reach the desired result takes a lot more skill and technique. I for one have really enjoyed it.

That said, Christmas isn’t far away and I’m always awkward to shop for.

The First Roast

A 17 hour night shift, returning a neurotic dog to it’s owners, cleaning the house from top to bottom to rid it of the previously mentioned dog’s hair. Like many a pondered exam question I ask, what is the next step in the pattern? The answer, obviously, is attempt to cook my first roast dinner since moving in.

This may not sound that much of a challenge (the first roast bit anyway, not the rest) but using a unfamiliar oven and new roasting tin to make what is more or less my first full roast dinner ever felt pretty daunting. I had high standards to maintain as well, the better half’s mum’s roast are of legendary proportions both in quality and quantity and are, easily, restaurant standard (in fact I’ve eaten more than a few restaurants that she’d beat, and I get lashing of red wine gratis at Chez Gillie).

I was nervous to say the least. Could I keep the pork moist but get some decent crackling? Would the potatoes crisp up having already boiled them to the consistency of smash? I spent so much time watching the Yorkshires, willing them to rise, that the pattern of our kitchen flooring is permanently marked upon my knees. 

Rise they did. Although not a faultless success (some of the yorkies stuck a bit and the pork was slightly over done to my own, hypercritical, taste) there was plentiful crackling and I was given the imperious thumbs up from the better half. A Sunday roast dinner, especially now the weather is worsening and with the days getting shorter and shorter, is a sacred event; the warmth of the kitchen steaming up every window in the house, drinks shared by loved ones, with a chance to put the weeks events into perspective over comforting, unchallenging food. For me, this first roast will always be a success because it gave me that inner feeling of warmth and cosyness that a good roast should.