POST 11, PART II: MAMS KNOW BEST

Cheese stars are essentially cheese straws cut into the uniform shapes to please anal people such as myself. My mum made them when she needed to use up some leftover puff pastry and they were always a firm favourite with my dad and brother, especially served warm straight from the oven.

Since appointing myself the family chef, my brother demands them most holidays and, after years of trial and error, I can tell you that the secret to successful cheese stars (or whatever shape takes your fancy) is... Cheese. And lots of it.

In fact, I’m not sure a recipe is really required for this one, but here goes...

INGREDIENTS

500g pack of puff pastry
An inordinate amount of cheddar cheese, grated
Ground white pepper
1 egg, beaten
Flour, for dusting

METHOD

1) Preheat the oven to a moderate heat – say, around 190 to 200 degrees.

2) Grate as much cheese as you dare. My brother regularly challenges me to cram more cheese than pastry into these babies, but this is quite a complicated culinary feat. I know – I’ve tried.

3) Roll your puff pastry out onto a floured surface. Cover generously with about a third of your grated cheese and sprinkle with a bit of pepper. Fold up the pastry and roll it out again to combine the cheese.

4) Repeat as many times as you can until you’ve incorporated as much cheese as humanly possible.

5) Roll your pastry to the thickness of about a centimetre and cut into stars, straws or whatever pleases you and arrange on a silicone or non-stick baking tray. Brush with the beaten egg. Sprinkle with extra cheese for good measure.

6) Bake in a moderate oven for 15 to 20 minutes until golden and oozing with cheese. Serve warm.

And that’s it. Next stop – deep-fried Mars bars...

POST 11, PART I: MAMS KNOW BEST

Don’t you just love those two Hairy Bikers? I know I do. I was watching re-runs of Dave and Si’s Mums Know Best show the other day and I do adore how they cook up crazily calorific food and try to pass it off as good, old-fashioned family favourites. Wholesome stuff. But do ‘mams’ know best, boys? Really? Because I swear I just saw one mother deep-fry haggis wrapped in tortilla bread. (She was Scottish – say no more.) And another mum dish up a dinner consisting of nothing but baked breadcrumbs and cheese. I don’t think this bodes well for the obesity epidemic.

Still, this show makes me wonder what kind of amazing meals I’ll cook up for my future family. I see my idealised self serving up meat and two veg followed by a bracing walk in the country. I’ll pack my kids off to school with perfect lunchboxes brimming with carrot sticks, and not a Wagon Wheel in sight. An apple or a handful of goji berries will be a treat. Who knows, maybe I’ll even ban TV and make them eat mung beans when I finally morph into Gwyneth Paltrow.

Nope, I won’t be like cheese or haggis lady. Or that teen mum with the tramp-stamp I saw on the bus the other day giving her baby a bottle of Dr Pepper to drink. Not me.

I will be a model mother...

And then I realise – I’m the kind of person who’s capable of consuming an entire tub of Ben & Jerry’s for lunch. Yep, lunch! Eating habits as erratic and unhealthy as mine are hardly going to set a good example for my future offspring. I couldn’t even get my ex-dog’s diet right. I spurned that special, expensive stuff they try to flog you down the vet’s in favour of, well... Any old crap, really.

Let’s take a look at some of the highlights of my dead dog’s eating career... Leftovers galore. Christmas dinner. A whole Christmas pudding, uncooked – including the best part of the broken Pyrex dish he’d smashed when pulling said pudding off the kitchen counter. Seventeen tea-towels. The corner of an MDF cupboard. The Vaseline and chilli powder mixture smeared on the corner of said cupboard to stop him chewing it. A feather pillow. Pondweed. Pebbles. Sand. His own vomit. The crotch out of my brother’s pants. A sparerib, whole, which then had to be extracted from his backside – whole. And, reluctantly, dog food.

He couldn’t abide cucumbers though. Go figure.

Conclusion? My kids are going to be fucked up fatties. So what the hell! I’m gonna embrace my inner irresponsible fat mam and share my equivalent of cheese lady’s family favourite. Cheese stars.

POST 4, PART II: A FATAL CASE OF MAN FLU

So, my cheese and chive bread rolls... This isn’t so much a ‘recipe’ as a flavour combination – just adapt any bread roll recipe and throw in some cheese and chives. That’s what I did. Oh, and I use a bread machine so have no words of wisdom on how to successfully hand bake something. (Kinda makes you wonder why you’d bother to read this, doesn’t it?!)

I do, however, have some words of wisdom about bread machines... After several years experimenting with mine, I have discovered that the secret to baking decent bread in the damn thing is to just accept it as a glorified dough hook and cook in the oven instead. Seriously – just use the dough/pizza setting and be done with it.

INGREDIENTS

600g strong white bread flour
20g butter, cut into cubes
315ml water, room temperature
1 1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp skimmed milk powder
1 1/2 tsp dried yeast
1 tsp white pepper
2 to 3 tbsp chives, chopped
100g strong cheddar cheese, grated (plus extra for topping)
1 egg, beaten

1) Preheat the oven to 200 degrees.

2) Dump everything bar the egg inside your misjudged kitchen purchase and set it to go on the dough/pizza programme for a 750g loaf. Some machines have a seed and nut dispenser, which releases extra ingredients midway through the mix so you could put your cheese and chives in there, but I really don’t think it makes a difference for ‘soft’ ingredients and don’t bother myself. I also tend to keep an eye on the mixing as sometimes it needs a dash more water and a bit of a poke round the sides where the flour gets stuck to help it along. When it’s all incorporated leave it to do its thing.

3) When the programme is complete, turn the dough out onto a floured surface and divide into eight. Gently roll them into balls and arrange on a baking tray. Word to the wise here – invest in some of this magic non-stick baking tray liner from Lakeland. It is a-mazing! I was forever chipping these rolls off the tray because of the cheese-content until I discovered this stuff. Everything just lifts straight off and it’s washable too, so lasts for ages. I resent having to oil baking trays because of the extra calories and fat, so never put enough on to make it truly non-stick, plus I don’t like the taste and texture of using loads of flour or semolina. I command you to buy it!

4) Brush the rolls with the beaten egg and sprinkle with some extra cheese. Pop them in the oven for 20 to 30 minutes. Don’t hold me to oven temperatures and times, by the way – I think it’s always best to monitor and adjust whatever you’re cooking as only you know your oven and its quirks.

5) These rolls are best served fresh and still warm. If you do freeze some, do warm them through first to freshen them up – with the cheese and without all those lovely preservatives and improvers in longer-lasting loaves, the texture can just be a bit dense when they’re cold is all.

Ed feebly finished his soup and roll, admitting – amid much prompting from myself – that he felt a bit better. Bless. He then promptly fell asleep. Confident that I’d cured him, I tended to the duvet and pillows for the umpteenth time (why do we women feel compelled to do that?!) and went to bed contemplating what a fucking awesome wife I would make someone someday...

Only to be woken a few hours later by him coughing. And I mean coughing. And coughing and coughing and coughing... If he had hacked up a shoe it wouldn’t have surprised me. Yes, his snotty nose had escalated into full-blown man flu. And, having fed him cheese and butter (dairy products only make you more mucusy – trust me, I’m a lifelong hay fever sufferer and dairy fan), I only had myself to blame for his deteriorating condition.

I tried my best to nurse him through the next day, really I did. But, sleep deprived and starting to feel pretty ropey myself, the novelty had well and truly worn off. Because, Christ, sick people are so surly and disagreeable, especially those of the male persuasion! I’ve decided that sick people have no business burdening themselves on anybody but their mother. So when I caught man flu – aka the common cold – come Monday, it was she who came to my aid (and cooked me chicken stew and dumplings, incidentally – gotta love my mum!).

Not Ed. No. Having made a full recovery, he’d buggered off back to work. But not before he’d polished off the last of the juice and drugs, the bastard. And did he return that night, as promised, with replacement provisions? Did he heck! Not that I wanted him by my bedside, mopping my brow, mind. But it’s the principal of thing... So you can add being an inconsiderate prick to the crumpled tissues thing. Our relationship never really recovered.

Thanks to superwoman Bex for the illustration!

POST 4, PART I: A FATAL CASE OF MAN FLU

Soup. Meh. I can take it or leave it, me.

I mean, sure, soup has its place, its purpose. And, for me, that’s on the Diet To End All Diets. I boil up vats of the stuff. Something punishingly bland and boring, and just, well... Yuck. Watercress broth à la Liz Hurley or, worse still, cabbage soup... I march triumphantly back from the supermarket, having stripped it all of things green and good, and stoically chop, slice and dice before setting my giant pan of hope to simmer on the hob.

But then there’s that smell, isn’t there? That stench..? Of noxious, no-calorie onions and vegetables and water. And an Oxo Cube. Boiled. That you’re supposed to survive on in order to shed two stone in as many weeks for a friend’s wedding, mouthful by boring mouthful. Two weeks! Two whole weeks – that’s 14 days, folks – of nothing but soup, soup, soup. In theory... Because I maybe manage a bowl or two before my good intentions go as limp as my cabbage. ‘I’ll go running,’ I resolve. ‘Every morning. At 6am. And still eat super healthy stuff. No carbs. Or booze.’

I wore Spanx and a maxi-dress to the last wedding I attended. There is no hope.

Yeah, I’m so done with soup.

Soup is for old people who can’t chew solids. Soup, when foisted upon you at a dinner party or something, is just about bearable when served with a hot, crusty roll and lashings of butter. But even then it’s superfluous to the bread and the spread. In conclusion, I hate soup.

Sick people tend to crave – correction, demand – soup when they’re unwell though. Take Ed... I’d been successfully dating Ed for a few months when he started to develop a serious case of the sniffles down the pub one Friday night. Of course, being all loved-up at the time, I thought his pouty, congested grumblings were adorable and so, taking him home for some tlc, plied him with sympathy and brandy (I’m a great believer, as is granny, that it’s best to drink through these things).

Come Saturday, his sniffles had turned into sneezes. In hindsight, I should have turfed him out at this point – not coz I’m some cold-hearted bitch (well, that too). But because there’s nothing quite like seeing the man you supposedly love all sweaty and sick, surrounded by used tissues, snot streaming from that snooter of his, which he just won’t stop bloody blowing and disgustingly dabbing with yet more tissues that he discards anywhere but the bin, to kill the passion in a relationship.

Seriously. Eeugh! Good on you if you’re a natural nurse. Or one of those weird couples who go to the loo in front of each another (ie, have no shame). If you welcome your man to your hospital bedside to watch – maybe even film – you squeezing something the size of a cantaloupe melon out your vagina, with all that mucus and mess, when you give birth. And you still find each other sexually attractive? Not for me, thanks. I find it difficult enough to accept someone could fancy me, with an arse the size of mine, when I’m feeling my best. Let alone when they’re having to wipe it when I’m ailing or elderly. I’d rather crawl away, somewhere quiet and dark... To die. Alone. Like an old dog.

But Ed? He was like a puppy with a poor sore paw at this stage. So I tucked him under a duvet on my sofa and fed him Nurofen Cold & Flu every four hours. Fetched him orange juice. Stroked his hair. Played nursey. By tea time, he barked for some soup – tomato soup, to be specific – to soothe his poor sore throat and fill him with vitamins to make him all better. I was only too happy to oblige. Funny what love does to you, isn’t it?

But, to paraphrase from Meat Loaf, I would do anything for love, but I won’t make soup, such is my hatred for the slop. So I instead popped to the shops for some good old Covent Garden Plum Tomato & Basil soup. It was then that I discovered my trusty cheese and chive rolls, which I try to keep stocked in my freezer, are the perfect accompaniment to tomato soup.

Next post: recipe and conclusion...

Illustration by Bex Barrow.

POST 3, PART II: THE VEGETARIAN OPTION

Right, risotto. Two things about risotto, in my book. ‘Secrets’, if you will. The first is to use the best-quality dried porcini or wild mushrooms you can get your mitts on. I swear I’m not being a food snob here – it really does make all the difference. Ideally some big, impressive ones imported from Italy that cost the earth from the deli blah, blah, blah, rather than chibbily little supermarket ones. And, assuming you don’t fess up, that way you’ll fool your diner into thinking you can make plain ole mushrooms and rice taste magnificent through your genius cooking skills alone. Do you see?

(Sorry, that was a crap secret, wasn’t it? A bit like when my granny revealed that the ‘secret’ to her famed asparagus soup was, erm, adding some fresh asparagus to a packet soup. Bless her. The second’s coming up and is better, I promise...)

INGREDIENTS

1 tbsp dried mushrooms
100ml Madeira wine
100ml boiled water

Olive oil for frying

400g mushrooms, sliced (I like a mixture of chestnut, button and portobello)
1 tbsp fresh or dried thyme

1/2 onion, finely diced
1 clove garlic, crushed
180g risotto rice

Dry white wine (see note)
1 pint vegetable stock

2 tbsp parmesan cheese, grated – plus extra to serve
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

METHOD

1) Soak the dried mushrooms in the Madeira and boiled water for at least half-an-hour until soft and rehydrated. The Madeira is optional, but it really does complement the nuttiness of the parmesan and mushrooms so I urge you to try it, but just double the water if you do want to omit it. Remove the mushrooms from the liquid and run a knife through them until they’re roughly chopped, just to make their flavour and texture go that bit further. Reserve the liquid, leaving it to settle as there’s often a bit of grit on the dried mushrooms that you don’t want in your risotto.

2) Soften the onion in some olive oil and salt in a large saucepan. Take your time to do this – by sweating them for a good 10 minutes until translucent and golden they’ll be melt-in-your-mouth rather than left with a bit of a crunch. I tend to add the garlic a couple of minutes in to prevent it from catching. Next, add the risotto rice and stir for a couple more minutes on a gentle heat.

3) So, here’s secret number two – drum roll, please... Open a decent bottle of dry white wine, pour a glassful and chuck it over the rice. Now – and here’s the really important part – refill your glass and drink. Maybe pour a glass for your guest if you’re feeling generous. Either way, having a glass of vino to-hand is vital to making a good risotto, I reckon, as you have to stand there over the hob for around half-an-hour, stirring, stirring, stirring. Which is extremely dull and quite sweaty.

4) When the wine has been absorbed by the rice, carefully add the mushroom liquid, being careful not to let the sediment at the bottom slide in too. Next, add the vegetable stock a ladle at a time. This is the point at which stupid people who think using jars of Dolmio and bags of Aunt Bessie’s constitutes cooking complain risottos are hard to make – well, they’re not. You just have to slowly add liquid, constantly stir until it’s absorbed and then add some more until it’s cooked. Der!

5) When you’re about half way through the stock, fry your fresh mushrooms in some olive oil with some fresh or dried thyme and seasoning. In theory, this should coincide with the precise moment your rice is cooked to perfection, but I am rubbish with timings so I won’t stake my life on it. Just set them aside if they’re done a little early.

6) Once all the stock is added, your rice should be pretty much there – taste to check. I don’t care whether you prefer it al dente or well-done – each to their own. Add a bit more boiled water if you need to cook it a little longer.

7) The moment you’re happy with your rice, stir through the mushrooms and parmesan. At this point, a TV chef (I’m talking to YOU James Martin!) would tell you to add buckets of butter, olive oil, maybe some mascarpone, etc... But if you’re at all like me and your muffin top is in constant danger of spilling over into a Yorkshire pudding, I figure why get used to food filled with those sorts of calories? This is delicious as it is, but go ahead if ye dare.

8) Oh, yeah – serve. With some cracked black pepper and parmesan shavings. And that’s it.

Adolf tentatively tucked into his risotto... In hindsight, I can see he was one of those boring, bland vegetarians surviving solely on macaroni cheese. Yawn. He even accused my mushrooms of being too mushroomy! But I consoled myself with the thought that I’d at least get a half-decent shag out of it. I say half-decent, because that’s all it had been to-date – but my worst fears were confirmed. Because there was something else Adolf wouldn’t eat, if you get my drift... And that’s just not cricket, as far as I’m concerned. One does develop a taste for these things, like coriander.

But if you’re not prepared to man-up and get down, then it’s bye-bye. So I dumped him.

Illustration by the marvellous Bex Barrow.