Slabs of oxtail jelly, Penny’s fresh-baked bread, chicken-liver paté, a side of lightly sautéed, sliced brussel-sprouts, a nice domestic gewürztraminer. I make a mental note to have pickled beets the next time we do this. [Read more]
The tinkling business and romantic ninnies all well and good, but the paydirt for me, without doubt, the teased-out erotic history of Sarastro and the Queen of the Night and the strange evocation of Masonic brotherhood as the highest form of Enlightenment. [Read more]
The first clue should have been the unmistakeable evocation already of ramps, the wild garlic, whiffs of which we got in spring tramping through wet woods in Wales. The second was less ignorable: a few snips on some corn chowder for lunch and we stank until the next morning. [Read more]
The street runs parallel to a sort of harbour, an estuary formed by the confluence of three rivers, the Esk, the Mite and the Irt. Esk is cognate with many other river names in Britain, including the Axe and the Usk, and means a good place to fish. [Read more]
Butt-ends of celery. And fennel—the stalks as well.
Coarse outer leaves of everything lettuce, especially escarole.
Radish tops and kohlrabi tops. (The colour of beet tops is off-putting.)
Plucked-clean stems of kale, collards, parsley.
Also, discarded stems and twigs and woody parts of any herbs. [Read more]