accen­tu­ate the positive

Oh, Brex­it.

Let’s not think about it.  Of course, it’s all we’ve been think­ing about, on a cer­tain lev­el, since the fate­ful deci­sion two weeks ago.  It’s an his­toric deci­sion, engen­der­ing an over­whelm­ing num­ber of ques­tions and wor­ries.  Thank­ful­ly there has been a bit of gal­lows humour as well, result­ing in won­der­ful phras­es like the “Full Eng­lish Brex­it,” but most­ly it’s a wor­ry, con­stant­ly in the back­ground if not actu­al­ly front and center.

Even the gor­geous dis­play of sea­son­al hydrangea, cup­ping St Paul’s Cathe­dral, feels mut­ed in the face of what has happened.

Much bet­ter and health­i­er to focus on the good things in life, like our vic­ar­i­ous enjoy­ment of Avery’s fab­u­lous ball at Oxford on her last day, before com­ing home for the summer.

We were so hap­py to turn up with box­es and bags and tea tow­els to cush­ion wine glass­es, to pack her up after this momen­tous first year and bring her home for the com­ing months.  The dri­ve home, hear­ing about her exams and her plans for the future, was a wel­come reward for the weeks and months with­out her.  What she’s been through and accom­plished this first year at Oxford is just mind-blow­ing, and the knowl­edge tucked away in that brain of hers quite stu­pen­dous.  And what won­der­ful friends she leaves behind, and looks for­ward to shar­ing Year Two, out in a house of their own.

It was but the work of a moment to organ­ise a din­ner par­ty to wel­come her home.  New friends!

Isn’t it remark­able, and some­thing to trea­sure, when you meet some­one just briefly but know with­out a doubt that they are here to stay?  Sev­er­al months ago we were at a cool cham­pagne recep­tion at the Roy­al Insti­tute of British Archi­tects, wel­comed by a viva­cious, knowl­edge­able and sparkling woman.  I imme­di­ate­ly grabbed her busi­ness card and Emi­ly and I began an email cor­re­spon­dence that cov­ers restau­rant reviews, real estate adven­tures, art dis­cus­sions, and menu queries.  What a joy to see in my inbox!

And so she came along to sup­per with her hus­band Ang, and what an addi­tion to our world they are.  Slow-braised duck, but­tery sage pota­toes, choco­late mousse, and bril­liant con­ver­sa­tion.  To have Avery with us — she of the same Oxford col­lege as Ang! — and con­tribut­ing to the mix was a spe­cial treat.

As we stood in the kitchen, help­ing our­selves to the savoury delights, I realised, for heav­en’s sake, I had not pro­vid­ed a vegetable!

Avery looked into the fridge.  “Oh, there are rasp­ber­ries on the choco­late mousse,” she said air­i­ly.  “They’re coloured, and you always said the coloured foods are good for you.”  Fair enough.

But it did seem a suf­fi­cient moti­va­tion to find a new veg­etable for us, and Avery had brought home from her uni­ver­si­ty diet a new­found enthu­si­asm for sweet pota­toes, per­haps a throw­back to her baby­hood when they were a sta­ple of her diet.  Since then, though, they’re an ingre­di­ent I con­fess I have entire­ly neglect­ed.  Did you know they’re not even pota­toes, and that they’re incred­i­bly good for you?  I am a fan, now.

Sweet Pota­to Fries

(serves 4)

4 medi­um sweet potatoes

1 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp sweet paprika

1 tsp gar­lic powder

1 tsp onion powder

1/4 tsp cayenne pepper

1/2 tsp sea salt

Peel the sweet pota­toes and cut them into fry shapes.  Toss them in a bowl with the oil and sea­son­ings and lay them in a sin­gle lay­er on a foil-lined cook­ie sheet.  Roast them in a very hot oven, 220C/425F, for about 15-s0 min­utes.  Let­ting them burn slight­ly is not a bad thing.  Serve with a bit of mayo with Sriracha sauce stirred in.

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Oh, deli­cious!

The Tate con­tin­ues to give joy to us.  We often sim­ply walk through on our way home from some­thing that lands us at the foot of the Mil­len­ni­um Bridge.  We smirk at this habit, but after all, it’s the straight­est route home!  Every vis­it brings a beau­ti­ful view, and won­der­ful people-watching.

Our new method of Tate-ing is to see just one room per vis­it.  This method avoids what I think of as Muse­um Fatigue, where one sees so many objects that the inter­est of any indi­vid­ual thing blurs into obliv­ion, and the inevitable headache.  Instead, we devote our­selves to a strict­ly lim­it­ed menu.  One evening was the Louise Bour­geois room.  Her lega­cy is so pal­pa­ble, and so touch­ing, shin­ing such a light on the his­to­ry of fem­i­nist art.

The next day brought the “Three­pen­ny Opera,” at the Nation­al The­atre.  Am I the last per­son on earth to know how to pro­nounce this word?  “Thrup­pe­ny”?  I felt quite stu­pid when the word was men­tioned at the begin­ning of the opera, but what the hell, now I know.  This mis­un­der­stand­ing pro­vid­ed fod­der for a very fun­ny dis­cus­sion after Sun­day ring­ing, at our tra­di­tion­al cof­fee shop conversation.

“Well, it’s a com­mon enough thing when one learns a word pure­ly from read­ing, isn’t it?” con­tributed one ringer.  “Our daugh­ter reached about age 9 before she found out how to pro­nounce ‘mis­led.’  Until then she assumed it was the past tense of  ‘to mis­le.’  Which actu­al­ly has a very sat­is­fy­ing sort of sin­is­ter sound.”

And it does.  “I’ve been mis­led.”  Now I can’t hear it any oth­er way.

But back to the Opera.  Rory Kin­n­ear starred, and whilst he is a very good actor, to my mind he lacked the intense sex­i­ness, the sort of dan­ger­ous charis­ma, that the main char­ac­ter required.  He’s sin­is­ter, and cru­el, and com­pelling, but not sexy.  But oh my his impromp­tu mono­logue before the sec­ond act.  Let me try to con­vey it to you.

He appeared onstage after the inter­val, and sur­veyed the audi­ence.  “So you came back.  It’s not a giv­en you know.  We are a free coun­try, after all, and you could have cho­sen to leave.”  (A tit­ter of uncer­tain laugh­ter.  A ref­er­ence to Brexit?)

“And as for the screens show­ing the text [it was a per­for­mance that sup­port­ed the hear­ing impaired with screens], I just hope I haven’t got any­thing wrong.  There is noth­ing more infu­ri­at­ing than hav­ing an author­i­ty fig­ure say­ing one thing, when he man­i­fest­ly means some­thing else.”  [Def­i­nite­ly Brexit!]

“I feel a song com­ing on!”  And he leapt into the sec­ond act, with a song all about greed and how only the wealthy will sur­vive.  His anger was pal­pa­ble, and it real­ly boost­ed the ener­gy lev­el of the sec­ond half, with its into­na­tions of “patri­o­tism,” backed up by a huge St George’s flag, sym­bol of Eng­lishism over Britishism.

Some­times a play can be TOO relevant.

It was time to invent some­thing com­fort­ing to eat.  Inspired by Stan­ley Tuc­ci’s love­ly “The Tuc­ci Cook­book,” I used his recipe as a spring­board for a tru­ly flavour­some new pas­ta dish.  To Tuc­ci’s recipe I added gar­lic (obvi­ous­ly), a sprin­kle of fresh nut­meg, a bit of lemon zest, and a hint of Boursin cheese.  And thank­ful­ly, Avery was here to take one of her inim­itable photographs.

Tagli­atelle with Spinach, Ricot­ta and Crispy Breadcrumbs

(serves 4)

2 tbsps olive oil

3 onions, fine­ly chopped

4 cloves gar­lic, fine­ly chopped

450g/1 lb baby spinach

250g/9 oz ricotta

175g/6 oz pro­sciut­to, fine­ly chopped

85g/3 oz Parme­san cheese, fine­ly grat­ed, plus more for garnish

1/2 round Boursin cheese

fresh­ly ground black pepper

1/4 tsp fresh­ly grat­ed nutmeg

zest of 1/2 lemon

50g (1 3/4 oz) fresh, coarse bread­crumbs (not Panko)

2 tsps extra vir­gin olive oil

450g/1 lb fresh tagliatelle

Heat the olive oil in a fry­ing pan and saute the onions and gar­lic until soft­ened.  Add the spinach and cov­er, turn­ing the heat low or off (depend­ing on your stove and how it retains head).  After sev­er­al min­utes, remove the cov­er and toss the spinach until nice­ly wilted.

Place the spinach mix­ture in a sieve and shake over the sink until the extra liq­uid has been removed.  Place the spinach mix­ture in a food process and leave it to cool, then add the ricot­ta and pro­sciut­to and process till smooth.  Add the 85g of Parme­san, the Boursin, the black pep­per and lemon zest, and pulse again.

Place the bread­crumbs in the fry­ing pan you used for the spinach, and driz­zle over the olive oil.  Heat gen­tly until very crispy and crunchy.  Set aside.

Cook the tagli­atelle for about 3 min­utes or until al dente.  Reserve 125ml/1/2 cup of the cook­ing water, and tip the pas­ta back into its cook­ing pot.  Stir in the sauce and the reserved cook­ing water, stir­ring until creamy.  Serve imme­di­ate­ly topped with the bread­crumbs and a gar­nish of more Parmesan.

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This dish is intense­ly com­fort­ing — a sophis­ti­cat­ed sort of baby food.  Heavenly.

How DOES Avery man­age to achieve these beau­ti­ful pho­tographs?  The line between my accept­able pho­tographs and her genius shots is painful, but I am so grate­ful for her efforts.

Speak­ing of my ama­teur pho­tographs, I was respon­si­ble for yes­ter­day’s record of my bak­ing efforts, a but­ter­scotch ver­sion of my short­bread obses­sion.  To my mind, but­ter­scotch was the best.  Just leave out the cit­rus from my basic recipe.  Then pulse up a Heath bar (if you’re in Amer­i­ca) or a bar of Green & Black­’s but­ter­scotch (if you’re in Eng­land).  So, so com­fort­ing and warm.

I would be lying if I said that short­bread, or Operas, or even Louise Bour­geois, have been the most excit­ing thing that’s hap­pened in the last week or so.  Because one evening, dur­ing our after-sup­per walk across the Bridge, THIS happened.

No, your eyes do not deceive you, nor have I placed a card­board cutout on the Bridge of our dar­ling Shaun Evans.  We real­ly, tru­ly, REAL­LY encoun­tered him yet anoth­er time!  My Face­book page went crazy.  “Who is stalk­ing whom?” was a com­mon refrain.  Hon­est­ly, Avery in Oxford, me in May­fair, and now this?  He was charm itself, ask­ing about Avery’s exams, ask­ing with total unfeigned inter­est what it is we do in Lon­don, and then, unbe­liev­ably, ignor­ing a phone call on his mobile whilst talk­ing to us.  He is an angel!  As he walked away, final­ly, he turned back and said, grin­ning, “See you next week!”

Unbe­liev­able!

My celebri­ty-lucky ring­ing friend Eva, who scores charm­ing pho­tos of actors after each play she sees, was prop­er­ly impressed.  She coun­tered with a gift of an authen­tic Hun­gar­i­an savoury spread, a gen­er­ous and inspir­ing gift.  The per­fect top­ping for a crisp cracker.

Eva’s Körözött, in her own words

In a bowl using a fork mix togeth­er the following:
* Cows’ curd (tra­di­tion­al­ly that’s the eas­i­est to find) prefer­ably high fat and moist
* Sour cream if needs moist­en­ing (can sub­sti­tute with creme fresh if that’s what you find)
* Fine­ly chopped onion
* Fine­ly chopped garlic
* Salt, pepper
* Car­away seeds (whole or ground as you like)
* Red papri­ka (can be chilly if you like)
* Mus­tard (Dijon style). Just a dash. You don’t want to taste the mus­tard but it will bring it all togeth­er, trust me. I learnt this trick from my wine­mak­er boss.

Chill in fridge overnight for flavours to mar­ry. Serve with fresh bread and chopped chives. (Hm… onion heaven!)

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Eva is a mas­ter of under­state­ment, so her part­ing words in this recipe are along the lines of “No mea­sure­ments.  Just use your own taste.”  So, do.

I will love you and leave you with a beau­ti­ful image of a con­cert we attend­ed last week­end, cour­tesy of my great friend Eliz­a­beth.  We saun­tered along to Hyde Park to spend all after­noon in the rare Eng­lish sun­shine, guard­ing our spot with our blan­ket, lis­ten­ing to open­ing acts like Louise Gof­fin and Don Hen­ley (belt­ing out Eagles hits), and then final­ly, as the sun sank grace­ful­ly, Car­ole King, per­form­ing all of “Tapes­try” and many oth­er hits.  A glo­ri­ous end to a per­fect day, and the first week of this event­ful, his­toric month.