First Pizza!

After the adobe oven had dried off for a few days, we removed the sandcastle former by scraping it away from the inside. We lit a fire in the centre of the oven, using scrap wood, newspaper and some barbecue fuel, and let it burn for a few hours.

A couple of days later, we fired it up again, this time using scrap wood and barbecue charcoal bricquets. After a couple of hours or so it had reached a temperature of 550F. The outside walls of the oven steamed as the water evaporated away, and some hairline cracks appeared around the door – this is normal (they closed up when the oven cooled).

After removing the larger pieces of wood, and making enough space to cook a pizza, we cleaned the oven floor’s surface using a damp towel nailed to a long stick. That created a lot of steam! We were careful to remove all the sand and ash from where we wanted to bake – nobody likes a sandy pizza. Then we used some of Trader Joe’s fresh dough to make a simple pizza, and placed it inside – it cooked in a few minutes, and we had to turn it a few times to stop it burning.

(Normally we make our own pizza dough, but for this first experiment we liked the convenience of pre-made.)

The taste was amazing – especially the crust, which had a characteristic aroma and taste particular to pizza from a good Italian restaurant. There must be some chemical change associated with the very high temperature, that you don’t get in a domestic oven.

We cooked a couple more pizzas, and then removed all the charcoal and wood by scraping them out into a metal container partly filled with water. Then we put a small loaf of bread dough in to cook, closed off the door of the oven. It was ready after about 40 minutes. This also turned out to be delicious … with a slight hint of smokiness in the crust.

Charcoal and wood fuel – temperature up to 550F

First pizza cooking – it’s only small

The finished pizza – yum!

First loaf cooked in the Adobe Oven

Making an Adobe Oven

This weekend we set about making an oven for bread and pizzas, using mud. We have a brick barbecue edifice on the patio, and so we used that as a platform.

First we bought and laid 21 red bricks on a 1/2″ layer of sand, making sure to get them even and with small gaps. We could have just used the existing brick oven base, but we wanted something very flat, which it wasn’t. There’s nothing worse than catching your peel on an uneven surface when trying to extract a pizza.

21 bricks laid flat on a bed of sand

Next we marked out on the bricks where the wall of the adobe oven would go: both the inside and the outside edges, using a sharpie. We had bought five 50lbs bags of medium sand, most for the oven wall mix, but some for the oven mould – basically a mound of wet sand like a sandcastle.

The mound needed to be 16″ high, so we first cut a stick to that length and positioned it in a small mound of sand at the centre of the oven bricks.

Then we started to build a sandcastle around the stick, trying to keep the sides of the sandcastle as vertical as possible, and making sure that the sides followed our outline of the inside adobe walls we had marked on the bricks.

Once we had our sandcastle made (in the shape of a dome, reaching the top of the stick), it was time to go digging in the garden for subsoil – the stuff under the topsoil that contains the most clay. We dug about a 3′ deep hole and then extracted a wheelbarrow full of soil.

The clay soil needed to be mixed in one part soil to two parts medium sand. To mix it, we made a ring of four buckets of sand, and put two buckets of the soil in the centre. Then we set about sprinkling it with water and treading it all in to mix it. In fact we found that we had too much sand, and ended up using six buckets of soil to the four buckets of sand.

We checked that the mixing was good when a golf ball sized piece of the mixture, when squeezed tight, and then dropped from shoulder height, didn’t crumble when hitting the ground, but rather just squashed to an oblate spheroid.

At this point we were ready to apply the mud to the sandcastle former. First we placed sheets of damp kitchen paper over the former – this is so that, when we come to remove the sand, after the mud had been applied and set, we could tell when we were at the edge.

16″ measuring stick

Building the sandcastle around the measuring stick

Preparing to mix the clay soil and sand, on a black plastic sheet

The well trodden sand and clay soil mixture

We made an oven door from a piece of old wood. Shaped like an arch, it had to be 12″ at the base and 10″ high. We folded a sheet of paper in half, drew half an arch against the folded edge, cut along the line with scissors, then unfolded the sheet to use as a template on the wood, which we marked around the paper’s edge. Then we cut the wood with a jigsaw.

The door was placed against the front edge of the sandcastle, before we started placing the mud. Then we started packing mud around the sandcastle, being careful not to press inwards on the castle, and trying to maintain a mud thickness of 4″ all the way around. After we had surround the sandcastle with mud, we smoothed out all the bumps, and patted the surface down with a flat paddle made of wood, for an even finish.

Now we need to wait for the mud to dry – after which we will remove the door, and scoop out the sandcastle.

To be continued ….

Packing the mud around the sandcastle. Note the oven door.

Finishing the mud packing

Homemade Scotch Eggs

Tabernacle

Muffet had a singing engagement yesterday evening, for which she had to wear a skirt and this white t-shirt.

After the singing, which went very well, there was cake and home made biscuits et cetera. I’m afraid the Slavation Army led me into temptation, and I rather overdid it on the baked goods.

Voice Post

Background: you may remember my post about trying to find “bacon bits” at the supermarket, a few months back. The shop assistant didn’t understand me at all, and I had to resort to making pig noises, grunts and oinks, before I was understood.

Well, today I have had another bacon experience, this time in the canteen

I asked the pizza chap for a “pesto sauce, bacon and egg plant” pizza. He asked me to repeat it three or four times – clearly he couldn’t understand. I spoke slowly and loudly, carefully enunciating the word “bacon”. There was a big crowd at the pizza counter, and they all started huffing and puffing. Pizza guy didn’t get it at all. “Pesto, Pineapple?” he asked. “No, Pesto, Bacon, Eggplant” I said. How on Earth did he get “pineapple” from “bacon”?

Anyway, he *still* didn’t get it. So then a student standing next to me said, loudly, “BACON!”. No better: the guy still didn’t understand. Finally about four or five of us were bellowing at the poor chap: “BACON BACON!”.

Finally, he got it.

At least I didn’t have to resort to making pig noises this time.

The pizza guy was Spanish-speaking … and I’m wondering if the English pronunciation of bacon is especially difficult to the Spanish language ear?

EMERGENCY

Perhaps it was the ham in mandarin sauce I ate at lunchtime, but for whatever reason, the button has popped off my shorts, shock horror.

I have a stapler, but that is about it. I don’t carry my sewing kit around with me.

Any advice?

ColdStone Wickedness

I have just eaten a cookie dough batter ice cream mixed with cookie dough and banana, and I came. I am not a big fan of ice cream, in fact I don’t really care for it, but ColdStone is something altogether different: much more deliciously wicked. If they served it between two voluptuous breasts, I could not be more satisfied.

Two Cogshifter thumbs up.

Later, the freshly cleaned and turbulent waters of the jacuzzi beckon, if Muffet can be torn away from her Archie/Betty/Veronica comic book.

Gold Top – Something Strange About Milk

I remember the milkman used to deliver a silver top and a gold top to our doorstep. My Mum had to be quick to fetch them in, otherwise the tits would get at them.

The thing that is puzzling me about the Gold Top is that the cream was at the top of the bottle. It seems to me that cream is denser than the rest of the milk, so why was it at the top?

This has been bothering me for some time.

Inspirational Innuendo Influx Ignarbly Idiom I

S has zoomed off to Italy on a business trip, and so I am faced with the prospect of cooking for myself or ordering in for the the next week. As usual in such situations I am disinclined to don my chef’s hat and rustle up lobster thermidor or batches of delectable cheese ramequins, preferring instead the simple dozen fish fingers on a plate, or the bowl of Honey Nut Mini Shredded Wheats. I do have a couple of the famous “Hungry Man” frozen meals, in the freezer. Oh Joy!

Then there are the long evenings after Muffet has gone to bed. I will probably spend a lot of time dicking around with Guitar Hero, or repairing/cleaning bits of the TR6, or writing software, or surfing around teh interwebs looking at photos, nudge nudge wink wink know what I mean? What’s it like? Perhaps instead I should *build* something, like a conflabulating food generating cogitator?

I’m sure something will crop up.

Pancake Day!

I am rather partial to pancakes. Not those great big thick “buttermilk” things, but the sort that are called here “Swedish” pancakes: thin, eggy and delicious. I do occasionally make a batch: sprinkled with lemon juice and a little sugar, and rolled up for easy insertion into the gob.

Normally, the polling place is literally over the road, at the Armenian church, but for the thing today they moved it elsewhere. I can’t be arsed driving off for that: it’s not worth the trouble. So Hillary will have to do without my vote today.

That Barack Osama chap … not sure about him, really. Seems a little too smooth, dapper and inexperienced. The advantage of Hillary is that she knows what it’s all about. Also, what this country needs is a woman in charge, as I said here a while back, but is worth repeating.

Celebrity Chef Cookoffs: Nigella Gags on Ramsay’s Spotted Dick

Newcastle, AP – An exciting evening here at the Celebrity Chefs Cookoff as the remaining finalists, Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay, sought to outdo one another in the “Desserts” round of the competition. Beforehand, Ramsey commented “This is a big night for me, yeh? I’m bound to win: I’ve chosen to give the judges my Spotted Dick! Can I just say that I’ve never, ever, in all my years as a chef, cooked with such a bunch of tossers, wankers, bastards and cunts.” (The rest of his remarks are unprintable.) Oliver was similarly confident: “I’ll be cooking a Bombe Surprise, packed with Smarties and McNuggets. The kids love it: I just know the judges will, too.”

The chefs had an hour in which to prepare their dishes. They were only allowed to dirty one saucepan, one spoon, and a teacup, and were not permitted to clatter any items of cookware, slam any drawers, or otherwise “exaggerate their activity”.

The completed dishes were tasted and judged by the Celebrity Panel – Julia Child, Nigella Lawson and Emeril. Unhappily for Ramsay, Nigella choked on his Dick. “Where I come from, Dick is supposed to be sweet, not salty. This one is far too salty, and not nearly sweet enough. It’s also too tough. It should be as sweet, soft and satisfying as my Summer Puddings.” she explained. The other judges were in agreement: Emeril described Ramsay’s Dick as “a fuckin’ monstrosity.” and Julia Child dismissed it as “not very nice”.

A disappointed Ramsay said afterwards “Nigella’s Avocado and Bacon Encrusted Sweet Honey Pot is a secret weakness of mine, so this a major blow.”

Next round of the competition: “Stuffing”

(Also at The Spoof)

On Mange Bien Chez Cogshifter

I present Croute au Fromage, a la façon de Cogshifter, avec son garnis de Persil. A delicious but simple affair, based on a regular croute au fromage, but replacing the Kirsch with Calvados, the ham by smoked turkey, and the cheese by anything you happen to have in the ‘fridge.

Take a couple of slices of wholewheat bread, lay them in an oven dish, and soak in Calvados: just enough that the bread becomes soggy. Sprinkle a smattering of shredded cheese on top. Lay slices of turkey on top of the cheese. Cover with a generous load of more shredded cheese. Crunch some fresh pepper and salt over the top, “to taste”. Bake in the oven at 375F until the cheese starts to crisp on the top. Remove from the oven, form a depression in the top of the cheese, and crack an egg into it. Return to the oven until the egg yolk begins to solidify. Remove, sprinkle a few leaves of parsley on the egg, and scarf the lot in record time. Burp.

(You can drink a glass of young, but precocious, Beaujolais with this, if you like.)

Mince Pies

Would you like to sink your teeth into one of my mince pies?

The pastry is not bad … not Mr. Kipling’s, but quite good, especially as it has a hint of oranges due to the zest that is in the pastry recipe, which also includes ground almonds, interestingly.

The pies have been booby-trapped with powdered sugar.

Cogshifter’s Catalogue of Comely Comestibles #23; The Discreet Charm of the Pain au Chocolat

I have just been over to the cafe and purloined a nice little Pain au Chocolat. Unassuming, yet exquisitely delicious, the fine combination of buttery pastry concealing two modest strips of soft chocolate. Not too much, not too little. This one had a “drizzling” of chocolate sauce on its upper crust, which wouldn’t happen in Europe. There is too much “drizzling” going on in the States: are you with me? I find the Pain au Chocolat to be the most satisfying of the breakfast-related pastries, and I nominate it for office in 2008.

(edit: explain the difference between “discrete” charm, and “discreet” charm)

No Pancakes For YOU

Yesterday we met elusis for lunch in Old Pasadena. She’s even more lovely in person than in her LJ … who knew? We had planned to go to the excellent French restaurant that specialises in filled crepes, and I had been especially looking forward to their creamy mushroom and steak morsels offering. I had visions of elusis being overcome with orgasmic reaction to the fare, and baring her boobs in unbridled delight. But, alas, it was not to be, as the place had a burned oven, and was shut. So we ended up in an odd place that was OK, cuisine wise, although my portobello mushroom burger was less than scintillating. We drank sangria that was supposed to be alcoholic, but had absolutely no punch to it.

Then the four of us, sarahparah, elusis, Muffet and I, wandered around an art fair, which was fun. Muffet had a lovely broach bought for her by elusis, which she was mightily pleased with.

Hungry Man

Since I knew I would be alone tonight, while sarahparah is off doing the ocho with swarthy Latin chaps, I took to perusing the frozen meal section in Vons, with the intent of buying something easy and delicious for my supper.

I must say, the choice was enormous. When I was a bachelor (“Son, you are a bachelor boy, and that’s the way to stay-eee–ooo”) there were no such things available in England. At least I don’t remember there being any. But now there is this vast selection to choose from. It’s really quite a Good Thing.

My eye was caught by a series of “Hungry Man” boxes – a title which fitted the bill. In particular I was attracted to a meal containing meatloaf, corn and mashed potato, complete with chocolate brownie, which boasted “A full 1lb of food!”, in big red letters.

It cost me $2.50.

Back home, I followed the instructions, first giving Poopsie the brownie, which I did in the microwave (I dislike brownies), and setting it in the oven for 35 minutes. When it came out, it didn’t look like a pound of food, but, not discouraged, I dished it up onto a plate, and took a photo, for your delectation.

It looks pretty gross, doesn’t it?

Roasties

I have posted a photo of my roast potatoes in show_your_roast. Beware: extreme crispiness lurks therein.

1993

September 11th 1993 was the first and only time I have flown Business Class transAtlantic. It was with American Airlines, on my way to Colorado Springs. I remember eating a very good steak on board, and being offered an excellent St. Emilion Grand Cru Classée. Good grief, that was 13 years ago!

Chopsticks

Chopsticks. Hmmmm.

Don’t know if I understand why they are so widely used, when there are much better eating implements available.

I can use chopsticks, but not very well. They are useless for anything saucy, obviously. They are useless for cutting anything, obviously. They are useless for spearing anything, like you would with a fork. Given a choice between a spoon and a fork, and a pair of chopsticks, I would always choose the former, for a more satisfying dining experience. After all, I’m interested in getting the food in my mouth, rather than on the tablecloth.

So why do people persist in using chopsticks? What am I missing? Often you see tables of Westerners in a Chinese restaurant, and they are all struggling with chopsticks, and making fools of themselves. Me, I just ask for a spoon and fork.

But what about you?

Handi Pasinda

It’s infrequently that I don the chef’s hat in the cogshifter household, but I was motivated by shaluvk‘s recent post, and the gift of an Indian/Pakistan cookery book by a student, to have a bash yesterday evening.

The recipe I chose was “Handi Pasinda” which, as I said to sarahparah, sounded like it should be useful. I assembled all the ingredients in little bowls:

because having all the ingredients ready to go before starting to cook makes it so much more fun. There were cloves, bay leaves, coriander, cardamon, poppy seeds, pepper, cinnamon, onions, ginger, lots of garlic, and yoghourt. Oh, and strips of beef (instead of the authentic lamb). It came out of the oven smelling wonderful, and was quite tasty. The most pleasing aspect of it was that it tasted very authentic.

Fast Cuisine

When sarahparah is away (like now), I eat oddly. That’s not to say I adopt a funny position, and use a skewer, but rather that the *stuff* I eat is odd. Last night, for example, I ate fifteen chicken nuggets covered in Parsley Sauce. And I have already documented my meatloaf which, while a tad boring in name, actually contained some weird ingredients (e.g. half a jar of tomato pesto sauce and some grated raclette cheese). I’m not complaining: I find it all delicious, but it’s “instant gratification” type stuff, slightly distant from a boil-in-the-bag thing, but not far.

Anyway, now I am ready for a proper home cooked meal.

My youngest daughter is funny about her clothes. I select some for her in the morning, put them out, and she promptly takes them back to the drawer, and selects something completely different. However, if I ask her to choose her clothes right from the outset, she declares that she likes me to do it.

The whole getting dressed in the morning palaver is monstrously long-winded. I walk through the living room and she has one leg of her jarmie jinks off, and is staring intently at Archie’s Mysteries on the TV. I remind her to keep going. A few minutes later, I walk through the living room again. The other leg of her jarmie jinks is halfway down. Another reminder. I take a shower. When I emerge I notice she has now removed her jarmie jink trousers, and is sitting bare-bummed, still intent on Archie. Another reminder to keep going. I get dressed, and emerge from the bedroom. Now one arm of her jarmie jink top is off. More reminders. It’s like chivvying a snail along a racecourse. The putting on of the socks would drive you crazy … each sock is inched up the foot an inch at a time. So it goes on, an incremental process of glacial, geological timescales. Finally, of course, sharp words are had, and there is a flurry of activity with the desired result.

It takes me less than 5 minutes to get dressed. If it took me 30 to 45 minutes like that I would go crazy.

Leonardo da Turkey

The office next to mine has been empty for a few months, and I got tired of it. So I put a big name sticker on the door, saying Leonardo da Vinci. Will I get into trouble?

How neat it would be to have Leonardo in the next office! One could nip in for a discussion about helicopters, and loan him some shampoo. He’d be all hunched up over his scrolls, dipping his nib in ink, and writing backwards using a mirror. He’d probably be glad of a bacon, stewed apple and Gorgonzola pizza, brought over from the canteen. And one could borrow one of his hats.

Thanksgiving doesn’t do it for me. I can’t get excited. All this “what are you thankful for” stuff makes me cringe. Besides, big Turkey meals are for Christmas, with a flaming pudding, a concealed sixpence, and a bunch of crackers over port, with daft little plastic moustaches flying around the room. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the excellent turkey meal we had at the bovriotic’s place, because I did. But Christmas is my thing. I guess I’m just old-fashioned that way (I mean .gt. 300 years old fashioned).

My curve tracer has a weird problem that the combined intellect of the Tekscopes group cannot fathom. The trace is dim. At serious risk to life and limb I have been making measurements of the HV over the weekend. I need to write a Last Will and Testament, just in case.

A Prandial Orgy in Seattle

Did I mention that I had a very pleasant evening dining with gfrancie and reenigne on my last day in Seattle? I remember being impressed with gfrancie‘s Milanese yellow leather gloves, and a very impolite Italian Rosé, which slipped down a real treat, despite its arrogance. I began with a Clam Chowder that defies a choice of adjective, it was so good. Then my round of bacon-wrapped beef arrived, sitting atop a mound of delicately flavoured mashed potatoes, in which several Brussels Sprouts lay patiently waiting for orthodontic mastication. There was also some sort of rich sauce that nappéd the ensemble, so heightening the intensity of flavours to a level that meant I had to quietly announce “I’m sorry, I’ve just come”. This went unremarked, however, as my dining partners were obviously engaged and fully distracted by orgasms themselves.

Le Menu Chez Cogshifter

While sarahparah is away in Aspen, I am contemplating what I shall be cooking myself every evening for the next week or so. Poopsie is no problem: she has certain dishes she likes, and the cupboard is stocked with the necessary ingredients. Although I believe there are a few sausages and other items in the fridge, awaiting my hot griddle, they wont keep me going for more than a couple of evenings.

Now, I could resort to the sort of stuff I used to cook when in digs in Sheffield and Manchester, namely lots of mashed potato, gravy, beans and pork chops, bacon, sausages and so forth. I could drum up a shrimp curry, a timeless classic. Perhaps also a couple of cheese quesadillas with hot chipotle pepper jam. A nice Boeuf Stroganoff, or a creamy Spaghetti Carbonara. An Alton Brown meatloaf. There’s a Fray Bentos pie in the cupboard, together with a couple of mini treacle sponge puddings, the spoils of the England holiday. They wont last long. Alternatively I could go the fruit-route … lots of grapes, peaches, plums, bananas, blueberries et cetera which I could combine with some sort of Bran flakes. That doesn’t sound so bad.

But what I am really looking for is something easily and quickly cooked or obtained, delicious, freshly made and at least temporarily satisfying. And I think I have the solution: McDonald’s!

Am I crazy?

Cogshifter Pet Peeve #497: The Juice/Milk Carton

A great invention, the carton for liquids:

Even better invention: the little twisty cap that allows you to re-seal the contents once the carton is opened.

Problem: to open the carton for the first time, one removes the twisty cap, revealing a small plastic ring pull. One inserts a finger through the ring pull, and yanks. The plastic seal comes away, and your hand gets spattered with droplets of the liquid in the carton.

Spattered with orange juice, milk, lemonade, whatever.

It is impossible to remove the seal without spraying droplets of liquid about. OK, so one could wear a glove, or cover the carton with a teatowel, et cetera, but who has time for that shit?!

Nibbles, Girls and Magazine Photos

Your starter for ten: Which magazine’s May edition features a photo of something made by Cogshifter on its front cover?

A bonus for 10: if you are female, would you appreciate being oggled by about 100 male physicists at a wine and cheese reception at a collaboration meeting, or not?

A further bonus for 10: Do you object to being given a small saucer-sized plate on which to place large slices of melon, large hunks of cheese, crackers, and 12″ long teriyaki beef skewers, at a wine and cheese party, or do you think it is fair enough, and a reasonable way to stop people from gorging themselves in an unseemly fashion?

To go to the next round, answer the following question: do you like to be sprayed with particulate matter from someone else’s mouth, as they speak in a loud obnoxious voice at a wine and cheese party?

Addendum: lest you feel I am too critical of said wine and cheese party, I must say that the smoked salmon was EXCELLENT

Vertical Food

So it’s pissing down with rain, which means that all the outside food stalls, that have been erected because the main canteen is closed for repairs, are shut down. This means that there is nowhere convenient to eat. When I want lunch, I want it NOW. So I fetch out my brolly, and trek over to the Athenaeum, and make for the Rathskellar where you can get a hot meal from a limited menu. I pay my dues to the Faculty club, so I’m not relishing having to join a long queue for food in the Rathskellar, since they have opened it up to all the riff-raff (read students) while the main canteen is being refurbished. Surprisingly there is nobody else in the queue except one guy ahead of me who promptly chooses the VERY LAST piece of beef brisket in gravy, the BASTARD, leaving me with the sandwich menu. I selected a “club” sandwich, which was duly constructed for me out of 3/4″ thick slices of bread and voluminous pieces of lettuce and tomato. When it was handed to me I realised how much I hate vertical food: the thing was about 6″ high, cut in two halves with a skewer through each. I knew that as soon as each skewer was removed the thing would topple over, jettisoning bits of lettuce, bacon,tomato all over my plate, in disarray. And so it was. Thus I ended up with all the ingredients of this club sandwich dotted about the plate. She might as well have ladelled me my sandwich ingredients out. To make matters worse, much worse, I erroneously selected fizz water from the fountain, took a major gulp not realising my mistake, then spent the rest of the meal dealing with my stomach’s lurching and constricting as it attempted to deal with a volume of gas larger than itself.

Overall: 1/10

Tax Returns and Articles for Publication

The tax returns are ready to sign and post. A matter of a couple of large to pay, but that was expected. What a relief when the taxes are done for the year.

Audio Express accepted my article on the Acoustic Triangulators for publication. They had done a nice job of editing the manuscript, and sent me a copy for correction, in double line spaced mono font, in the time honoured tradition. I’m not sure when it will appear.

I think I will need to replace the Firebird. Want a cabriolet of some sort, but cheap. Perhaps an old Le Baron or a Sebring. Needs to have a back seat (which rules out some of the more sexy options).

Beard is revised. Still not sure about it. I seem to be in a permanent state of mild disatisfaction with my facial fungus these days. What’s a chap to do?

sarahparah made a delicious roast chicken supper last night for our Oscar night TV watching. Our tradition is to make our picks, and then tick them off as we watch. Whoever gets the fewer number correct has to pay for dinner at a good restaurant, but with the sweetener that s/he gets to pick the restaurant. Of course S is a dab hand at Oscar picks, so I usually end up with the food bill. This year was no exception. I think the last time I won was the year Titanic walked away with so many awards.

So … ::taps teeth like gfrancie:: where should we go for dinner?

Ascot Pie

I crave a piece of Ascot Pie.

Incredibly, the Web has failed me. I can find no pictures of Ascot Pie. The best I can find is an Ascot Pie plate:

which doesn’t really give you an idea of what I’m talking about: a rectangular cross-section pork pie with hard boiled eggs in the middle. A slice of that, some Branston Pickle, and a few pickled onions, would go down very nicely, thanyouverymuch.

Filled Croissants

Update: it’s level-pegging and even-stevens between the chocolate filled and the plain unadulterated. Give the ham and cheese a chance! To sway future voting I would like to offer this:

Shepherd’s Pie

I made a shepherd’s pie last night. The shepherds were on special at Vons, so we bought a dozen.

But seriously, folks, I have a problem with my shepherd’s pie. It’s not a dish I’m comfortable serving to people other than close family. This is because it looks like it has gone wrong. But it hasn’t.

The dish is very simple: you fry a few onions and sliced carrots in a little butter, then you add a bunch of minced beef, and cook that for a while, and then you add a tin of baked beans, a tin of peas and a few dashes of Worcester Sauce. Then you let it bubble for a while. In the meantime you cook and mash a load of spuds, adding quite a lot of cheddar cheese to the mash, and making it as creamy as possible by adding milk/cream/butter etc.. Finally you take a big pie dish, pour the minced beef mixture in the bottom, and then cover that with a thick layer of mashed potato. Then you sprinkle more cheese on the top and bake for an hour or so.

When it comes out the cheese and potato should be browned on the top, and some of the juice should have bubbled up from the bottom and onto the surface.

Then you slop it out in portions into dishes. It looks like a stew gone wrong. It is the antithesis of vertical food. But it is mighty good.

Tortuga Caribbean Rum Cake

The delicious and spiffing ratphooey sent us a rum cake all the way from the Caribbean, and it arrived this evening.

“Oh!”, says I, “it looks like a rhum bhabha.” It was delicious: S and I snarfled it in approximately 5 picoseconds.

Hoorah for Haggis!

I think that honeydust and bovril may share my excitement
at the news of a company that is starting production of haggis in the USA!

Incredibly, a poll mentioned in the article reveals that 33% of Americans believe the Haggis is a small animal that is hunted by men in kilts. How ridiculous! The haggis is in fact a large animal hunted by men in kilts.

Yes, it’s Pizza Night!

Yes, and welcome to “Pizza Night”, with this week’s host …. cogshiftingman!

Also starring (in alphabetical order) … sarahparah!

This week’s episode: “Dead men don’t eat Pizza!”

(This program brought to you by Trader Joe’s tomato marscapone sauce, Canadian bacon slices, and other bits and pizzas.)

But first it’s assemble the ingredients time! So turn your ovens to 450F, sit back, and watch while we create all sorts of delicious smells in your living room. Don’t go away, folks!

Update: This is a demonstration of what happens to your bottom if you comment on one of my entries with a “heh”:

Returning to the show: the pizza, ready to be subjected to a hot oven…

Curried Prawns

It has come to my attention that certain folks have developed a curiosity about my curried prawns, since I described that I planned to have them this weekend, in respect for sarahparah, who dislikes their smell, and will not be present. In particular, kristenlou professed an interest in the recipe, which is reproduced below:

Curried Prawns à la façon de “Cogshifter”

Equip yourself with the following utensils:

• A stove
• A saucepan
• Another saucepan
• A sieve
• A wooden spoon
• A spoon
• A fork
• A table and chair

Purloin the following ingredients from a supermarket where the workers are not on strike:

• A pound of the smallest, freshest, shelled, juicy shrimp you can find, thoroughly rinsed in cold water
• A quarter pound of button mushrooms
• A large juicy onion
• Four level tablespoons of plain flour
• A UK standard “knob” of butter (UK knobs are larger than US knobs, so plan accordingly)
• Half a pint of whole milk
• A cup of whipping cream (if you can’t get whipping cream, try paddling cream)
• Two level tablespoons of Madras curry powder
• Sufficient Basmati rice
• Salt and Pepper

This is a quick dish to make, so fill one of the saucepans with water for the rice, and start heating it to boiling.

Melt the butter in the other saucepan over a moderate heat until frothy. Add the onion, chopped finely. Toss and stir until translucent.

Add the mushrooms, sliced thinly, and toss the mixture some more.

When the mushrooms lose their firmness, add the prawns, and mix them in.

Now sprinkle the curry powder over the mixture, stir again, then sprinkle the flour over the mixture. Let cook for a minute or two, stirring frequently.

Add the milk in one go, and mix. Bring the curry to a very slight boil, (it will thicken somewhat) and keep your eye on it.

Look at the water saucepan. Is it boiling? If so, add the rice. Wait about 10 minutes while the rice cooks, stirring the curry occasionally.

A couple of minutes before the rice is done, pour the cream into the curry, stir it in, and remove the heat source from the curry. The curry is now done.

To serve: drain the rice in the sieve, and dump it on a large plate, forming it into an annulus. Spoon the curry into the centre of the annulus. Take your seat at the table, and, using the spoon and fork, gorge yourself.

Note: it is tempting to add more curry powder, but the risk is that it overpowers the prawns.

Migros

First, a creme brulee for gfrancie and ratphooey

Then, a visit to the Migros, Val Thoiry, in France. The cheese, charcuterie, meat and fish counters. These pictures are primarily for kissmyassets, but other food lovers may enjoy them:

Protein Potions

Tonight I nipped out to buy the ingredients for ratphooey‘s protein shake recipe. I got a bunch af bananas, which are too green to use yet, a packet of Quaker rolled oats, and a tin of soy protein powder. The protein powder was fifteen bucks! So I hope it lasts for a few shakes.

Now I just need to wait until the bananas have ripened a little, and then I will zizz up the frothy beverage. Maybe tomorrow.

Very exciting!

COGshifter’s Guide to Wine, Part Two

Warning: Opinionated stuff about wine follows!

Part Two

In Part One, I wittered on mainly about red wine. In this part I’ll quickly cover the process of sniffing, tasting and drinking wine. In Part Three I’ll talk about whites, exotics and desert wines.

First, how to tell if a wine is “corked”. This is very easy: it smells bad, like vinegar. If you take a sip notwithstanding, it tastes awful, too. Don’t make the mistake, like my friend Mick did, of calling the waiter over in a poncey restaurant, and complaining the wine is “corked” if the wine itself is fine, but has bits of the cork floating in it due to an inexpert cork extrication. This was possibly one of the most humiliating incidents I have observed in a restaurant.

Which brings me to tasting wine at the beginning of the meal. Once you have selected your bottle, and the waiter has beetled off to the cellar, and brought it back to the table to examine, you need to check the label. Is it really the same wine you ordered? It’s easy just to look at the label thinking “Hmmm, nice label!” without checking. Given that it’s the wine you ordered, and the year is as specified in the menu, then the waiter opens it and pours a little in the bottom of your glass. There are at least four possible ways to proceed:

• Drink the wine in one swig, then wave the waiter away with the bottle, explaining that you can’t drink because you’re driving. This technique of getting to taste extremely expensive bottles of wine without paying for them is admirably portrayed in a Mr. Bean episode.
• Suck up a little of the wine, swish it around in the mouth, gargle a little, and then spit it into a convenient ice bucket or other receptacle. Although this is fine if you are a) Hugh Johnson and b) in the cellar of Chateau Meursault, it is frowned upon in a restaurant.
• Swish the wine around in the glass, holding it to the light, then taste a little.
• Swish the wine around in the glass, and take a deep (but not showy) sniff

My opinion is that the last method is the best. If the wine is bad, you can tell without drinking it: it will smell bad. The wine needs to breath a while in any case, so what’s the point in drinking it too soon?

By the way, if you are paying serious cash for a good bottle of wine, insist on a suitable wine glass. Drinking a large-nosed red out of a champagne flute just wont do. There is also something about a good quality glass of the right type for the wine that improves it.

And this is so crucial: the look of the wine, the look of the bottle, the smell, the glass, the temperature, all contribute to how enjoyable the wine is. The fact is that most folks cannot tell the difference blindfolded between a Hungarian, Italian or French red wine of any given grape. (Most folks also cannot tell the difference between whisky and brandy while blindfolded). So it’s all to do with the look and feel.

I remember I used to be very intimidated with this whole wine ordering and tasting palaver in restaurants. Now I’m very cool about it: I just remember a) I’m paying, b) I know what I like, and c) I don’t give a monkey’s about what other people think is the “correct” way to do things!

Cogshifter’s Guide to Wine

Warning: Opinionated stuff about wine follows! Beware.

Part One

I first started drinking wine in quantity when I moved to Switzerland in the early ’80s. I developed quite a taste for it, and soon came to prefer it over a pint of “Scruttock’s Old Dirigible”, which had been my favoured tipple in Old Blighty.

I had a lot of friends who liked wine, too. And some of them had copies of Hugh Johnson (a handy little booklet that lists good vintages, vineyards and bottlers), sections of which they had clearly committed to memory. This made for some painful procedures at the start of any meal, along the lines of rejecting the Chateau Chiroply ’95 in favour of the Vigne de l’Enfant Jesus ’96 since the autumn of ’95 had been a little moister than ideal, and the grape treaders in Chiroply a little less enthusiastic due to a bout of Napoleonic ‘flu in the village.

At that time I drank exclusively reds. Preferably full-bodied Burgundies from good years, with an occasional Bordeaux if I was feeling frisky. If you’d offered me an Italian Bardolino, or a Spanish Rioja, I would have declined. I was for the great French wines, the wines of Bergundy, and I would settle for little else. Which leads me to my first rule:

If you want a truly great bottle of wine, it must be French, and it must be a good year.

and its corollary:

If you choose such a wine, you will pay dear.

It is possible to buy great French wine at bargain prices. I have done it. In fact I have about 500 bottles of what is now probably truly astounding wine laid down in the cellar of the house I use to own in France. The trick is to buy it young, directly from the Chateaux, and lay it down. If you salt away enough, then after about 5 years, the first bottles you laid down will be drinking well now and you can start to reap the harvest of your toil and expense. But you have to keep buying and laying it down. Which leads to the second rule:

If you lay wine down, lay it down in the right place!

This means you need a cave i.e. a cool place undergound out of direct sunlight, preferably with space for several thousand bottles (equivalent to a bottle a night for just three years if you set about drinking the contents). There’s no point in laying down a few cases of Chateau Margaux ’03 in the laundry room, only to find it’s turned to vinegar when you crack open the first bottle on New Year’s Eve 2008!

So much for expensive French reds. I fairly soon realised that there were plenty of red wines that were extremely good, and were not French, and specifically not expensive. They were never going to reach the heights of exquisite taste of a vintage Nuits Saint Georges, but they were still very good indeed. In fact at this point I’d had my fill of French reds because, unless you paid a lot, they were awful. Hence the third rule:

There’s no wine worse than a cheap Burgundy. Except perhaps a cheap Bordeaux.

If you’re looking at a wine list and see what appears to be a bargain bottle of French red wine: don’t pick it! There is a very good reason why it’s cheap.

The wines I moved to were the Italian reds. On my way there I toyed for a while with Spanish Riojas, which at their best have that oaky taste, browny-red colour, and humungous nose, that good Burgundy has.

The Italian reds are super, and the epitome of cheap and cheerful. I’m bundling a lot of wines into that statement, but I’m thinking of Valpolicella, Barollo, Chianti, Bardolino. To me, what makes them especially good is that they seem to improve by being drunk slightly chilled. Frankly, on a sweaty Italian night in the Piazza Agostini watching the Vespas buzz around, and i ragazzi saying “ciao”, the last thing I want to drink is a heavy red wine served in a poncy tall-stemmed glass at 80 degrees Fahrenheit: I want a fruity, light, chilly tumbler of Valpo to wash my fettucine down with! E vero! So to rule number four:

Italian reds are reliably good, and should preferably be drunk chilled from tumblers while riding a Vespa

This concludes Part One of the guide. In Part Two I will address whites, exotics (retsina, spumante, frizzata etc.), desert wines and how to tell if a wine is “corked”.

Spice Racks

The first question I ask any new acquaintance is: “what have you got in your spice rack?”. I find it a most telling indicator of personality, intelligence and general sexiness. Most people look at me as if I’m barmy, which I suppose I am. Others profess to not having one. Others tell me salt and pepper. The most interesting answers are from those who have a well filled rack, and are obviously spice lovers.

I suppose I should make an online Poll out of this, but I can’t be faffed. Basically I score it on a points system:

• 10 points for any spice used in curry, such as cardamon, cumin, turmeric, cloves, etc.
• Add 10 points for each of the above kept in seed form (not ground)
• 10 points for any non-standard form of Paprika
• -10 points for any manufactured mix like “Italian Seasoning”
• 30 points for any jar of home-made spice, such as a mix specifically for Massaman Curry
• 5 points for any sort of fancy salt, 10 points if it is French Sea Salt farmed from the flats at Picardy
• -20 points for bog-standard “white” or “black” powdered pepper
• 5 points for a peppercorn grinder which must be in regular use
• 20 points for any sachets of saffron
• 20 points for a finishing spice like Garam Masala

To the grand total, add:

• 50 points if the spice rack is too small and the spice jars overflow to take up space on adjoining kitchen surfaces
• 50 points if there is more than one spice rack involved
• 20 points if most of the jars have their lids half off, and are coated in some sort of sticky deposit that could well be mango chutney

Finally, a bonus 100 points is offered if any of the spices are regularly used during lovemaking.