I didn't take a proper photo of this because I wasn't planning to blog it. Then I decided halfway through eating I would...which is why the photo looks like this.
I wasn’t going to post this recipe, because really it didn’t quite go to plan. Then I thought sod it, this blog is supposed to be about the cooking and crafting messes I get myself into, and that really ought to include the times those messes go wrong. At least then perhaps others might learn from my mistakes, even if I rarely do.
So, what did I do wrong? Well, buoyed by my recent slow cooking success with pork cheeks I’d decided to try my hand at some of the other less familiar, tougher cuts of meat. This time, my thoughts turned to oxtail; although I did almost switch to some less adventurous beef shin on the bone, my butchers didn’t have any in. Clearly I thought, the oxtail was meant to be. Continue reading
They say you eat first with your eyes, which is possibly why I find this blood orange, fennel, watercress and feta salad so tempting. Just look at all those vibrant colours scattered around the plate. I’m not really sure where I first got the idea for this, but I Googled around before making it to check this wasn’t a completely mad combination of ingredients. It wasn’t, and the result really does taste as good as it looks. Crunchy aniseed fennel, sharp, sweet juicy blood orange, peppery watercress and salty creamy feta. I had this for lunch two days in a row and will be doing so many more times while the blood oranges are still in season. Continue reading
My boyfriend hates Jamie Oliver, and I mean really, truly hates. This has lead to some blazing rows, but I know he’s not alone. With some people there seems to be this undercurrent of mistrust, annoyance and just general dislike to everything he does, and quite frankly I can’t understand it.
Why am I telling you this? Well, a couple of weekends ago I was kindly invited by Hannah Norris at Nourish PR to try out the new breakfast menu at Fifteen London. I’d never been to Fifteen before, under the assumption that as celebrity chef restaurant firstly, I couldn’t afford to eat there, and secondly they’d take one look at me and know I couldn’t afford to eat there. It’d be just like that scene in Pretty Woman where she goes shopping, except without me being a prostitute.
Freshly baked hot cross buns