Lionel's perfect popcorn: or, We need to talk about pans

Popcorn! I used to make it all the time. When? Ages ago. Years ago. When I lived in America and Orville Redenbacher  and his cute bow-tie could be found in any grocery store. But here in England, the popcorn sucked, to put it frankly. I'd buy popcorn in the supermarket, put it on the stove. . . and hear not a frolicsome cannonade of poppery, but sad little pips and pops as the occasional kernel deigned to do its thing. Eventually I would have a meagre bowl of sullen, verging-on-burnt popcorn, scores of blackened and unpopped kernels lurking at the bottom. It was shameful, I tell you. But I was certain that it wasn't my fault. Not enough people in England bought popcorn, I thought -- so the popcorn you bought in the supermarket was always stale. That's why it wouldn't pop! Right? Right? I can't tell you how many people I told this story to. They all believed me. I am terribly convincing when I want to be. 

And then -- Lionel Shriver changed my life. It's not the popcorn, folks, it's the pan. Just stay with me a minute here, and all will be revealed. 

Lionel knows her popcorn. Go round for dinner at her house -- either in Britain or Brooklyn, and I've done both -- and a bowl of popcorn will always be served with the pre-dinner drinks. You have to really careful, in my experience, not to scarf too much of it, because that meal that follows is always incredibly tasty (I'm going to go after the recipe for the crabcakes we had a couple of weeks ago). Watching Lionel pop in Prospect Park, I remarked -- rather wistfully -- how admiring I was of the explosiveness of her popcorn: "loft", Lionel calls it: that's when the popcorn lifts the lid right off the pan. 

"Revere Ware," she said, indicating the light, stainless-steel pan on the stove. "The secret to great popcorn is a cheap pan." Revere Ware is stuff we grew up with in America -- not a fancy pot at all, just your everyday boiler. Revere Ware is miles from Le Creuset or Calphalon: drop a Revere Ware pot on your foot and you won't have to go to the hospital, let's put it that way. "If you're pan's too heavy it will get too hot, and then your popcorn burns without popping." As she spoke, the lid began to rise off the pan, clouds of lofty popcorn making a break for freedom. 

Reader, the scales fell from my eyes. My proud collection of fine saucepans was doing me no good at all. My first purchase, once back home in England, was a £5 pan bought on the Bethnal Green Road; above is a batch of lofty popcorn made therein. 

How lucky am I to be Lionel's popcorn pal? Truly lucky -- for she sealed our kernel kinship with a gift of JollyTime Buttery Seasoning. Don't laugh. It's da bomb. Pop! Pop pop! POP!

1 1/2 tsp plain vegetable oil
1/2 cup popcorn kernels
to put on top: if you have no JollyTime, melt a tablespoon of butter if you want -- plain old salt & pepper will do fine, or a sprinkling of mixed seasoning like Old Bay. Lionel throws a lot of chili powder over hers, which makes for an extra-exciting snack.

Pour the oil into your cheap pan and put in two or three kernels of popcorn. Set over medium heat with the lid on: when the kernels pop, it's time to add the rest of the corn. Dump it in, cover, and give things a good shake to coat with the oil. Soon your explosions will start! When they slow to a pop... pop... pop... it's time to turn off the heat, pour into a bowl, and season. 1/2 cup of kernels serves two, I'd say. 

Flying solo

Alone in the house. Work work work. Scribble scribble scribble. Okay, work, and watch Breaking Bad, since no one I lives with really approves, and I can catch up when they're gone.

But a girl's gotta eat, right? Catch is: she doesn't want to cook every time her belly growls. 

And so I lit on this noodle salad which I saw in The New York Times before I left Noo Yawk --  from the wonderful Martha Rose Shulman; her version adapted Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's from Hot, Salty, Sour, Sweet. 

I thought I'd make the full recipe -- which says it serves four -- and store it in the fridge, and snack on it when I desired. This has worked a treat. If I don't remember to spoon out a bowlful half an hour before I actually want to eat it, I zap it in the microwave for 30 seconds just to take the chill off. 

1/2 small green cabbage, shredded very fine (about 4 cups or so)
200g cellophane noodles (NB, gluten-free!), soaked for 20 minutes in warm water
1/3 cup chopped roasted peanuts (or cashews, if you like them better)
1 cup chopped fresh coriander
1/4 cup chopped fresh mint
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil
fresh hot chili pepper, like Thai chili or jalapeno -- to taste, which is about a teaspoon, chopped, for me...
2 eggs
2 tsps sugar
salt and pepper
3 tbsps sunflower or peanut oil
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 tbsps minced or grated ginger
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
3 tbsps rice vinegar
1-2 tbsps ponzu citrus seasoning (this is a citrussy soy sauce you can buy in Asian markets; if you can't find it, regular soy sauce is fine).
1 tbsp tahini
1 tbsp fresh lime juice

Put the cabbage in a bowl full of ice water while you prep the other stuff. Keeps it nice 'n' crispy. 

Bring a pot of water to the boil and cook the noodles for about 1 1/2 minutes; drain and rinse with cold water. Drain again. Using a scissors (it's easier than a knife) chop the noodles roughly while they sit in the colander. Don't do this and you'll be sorry -- you'll have big old clumps of noodles that won't play nicely with the rest of your salad, but sit on their own and sulk. Put your drained, chopped noodles in a bowl. 

Drain the cabbage and add to the bowl, add the peanuts, coriander, mint, basil and chopped chili pepper. Toss together. 

The secret to really excellent tossing when it comes to something like this? Get yourself a box of latex gloves. Yes, the kind they use at the doctor's office. Snap on a pair and just lift and toss your salad with your gloved mitts: you won't look back, I promise. Also good for tasks like forming meatballs. Trust me. Who needs big spoons? Not me. I've got my gloves. 

Beat one of the eggs in a bowl with one tsp of sugar, add salt and pepper. Heat one tsp of sunflower oil in a nonstick pan of 15cms or so, get it nice and hot and add the egg, swirling it round until you have a wide flat round pancake of egg. After a moment or so -- it will cook fast -- flip it over and cook the other side, briefly. Remove from heat to cutting board; repeat process with other egg. Roll up the egg-pancakes, slice into thin strips and set aside. 

(NOTE: Only do both eggs if you plan to serve this to a bunch of folks; if it's just going to be you and you're planning to keep this in the fridge for later, I'd cook a new egg for yourself next time you're ready for a bowlful. Simples.)

Put garlic, ginger and a pinch of salt in a mortar and pestle and pound to a coarse paste. Heat 1 tbsp of the sunflower oil in the pan in which you cooked the eggs, medium heat; add the paste and red pepper flakes and cook for about a minute. Transfer to a bowl and allow to cool a little. Now add rice vinegar, ponzu, tahini and your fresh lime juice, whisk it all together and pour over noodle mixture. Toss well again. 

Serve yourself a tasty bowl; scatter over your sliced egg pancake. I also went a little crazy and scattered over some frozen shrimp I had; I just thawed 'em in the microwave and gave them a quick saute in sesame oil in the same pan I'd used for the egg and ginger/garlic mix. That said, I just read this piece in Harper's Magazine about the evils of farmed shrimp: I may not buy another bag of those little pink fellas ever again. Wicked shrimp or no wicked shrimp: this is one tasty salad. And it's interesting and satisfying enough that you won't mind having it a few meals in a row, if you are by yourself and can't be arsed to make anything else, like I was. That I guarantee. 

The fruit guy

We don't buy fruit from Gristede's. We buy it from the fruit guy on 23rd and 9th. Sure, you could go to Gristede's, but why would you, when what the Fruit Guy has on offer is cheaper and better and comes with the kind of sales pitch you can't resist? 

These last couple of weeks in New York I've kept to a regular breakfast. Fruit, yoghurt, and Ezekiel 4:9 cereal (yes, really) to add a little crunch. What fruit? Well, that depends on what the fruit guy is selling -- and the other morning, when -- post our morning promenade -- Sylvia and I climbed down off the High Line in the kind of downpour that only NYC can muster, there were these figs:

Nice, no? Oh, tell me about it! Soaked to the skin at 8.30 am we plucked the figs from the fruit stand, expecting simply to hand over our money, but we weren't going to get off without a warning. "Be careful with those figs!" admonished the Fruit Guy, going on to indicate that they might get us, well, pretty excited. "American men, they only work all day and read books -- but Turkish guys, they eat a lot of figs," said our Fruit Man, grinning; you may have guessed that he is a Turkish guy. "And also they eat women like spaghetti!"

The figs, I will tell you, were as beautiful to eat as they are to look at. But guess what? We didn't have pasta for dinner...

Hot stuff

And so to Flushing, Queens, home to the world's biggest Chinatown. A Chinatown so big that it actually seems like China, but for the signs that still say DON'T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE. How do I know it's the world's biggest Chinatown? Because my pal Sarah told me so, and since she's running the Queens beat for The New York Times, she should know. 

Diving into noodle shops crowded together into warreny basements, we ate tea eggs, hot and just-pressed soy milk and the freshest vegetable dumplings I'd ever tasted before barrelling up to the main event: Hunan Kitchen of Grand Sichuan. Now Sarah -- unlike us -- is no tourist, and has a real taste for fire. There was a long discussion with our waiter about her order of Boiled Sliced Fish in Chili Sauce -- a dish we'd spotted on a table across from us. Sarah kept assuring him that she wanted the real thing -- as hot as they'd make it for any Chinese customer. He looked doubtful, and shook his head. But Sarah is nothing if not persistent and persuasive, and finally our man seemed satisfied. While we waited for the great dish, we ate pillowy steamed pork dumplings, and dry-fried string beans which inspire me to go back to my Magic Beans (see below) and throw in some hot red pepper. There was stewed eggplant too, sticky and garlicky and served in a bubbling hot pot. 

But then the fish arrived, and all else was forgotten. A big metal bowl whose entire surface was scattered with whole red chilis, fresh coriander, and cumin seed: the liquid in the bowl was fiery red, and the steam that came off it -- I kid you not -- made my eyes burn. Sarah exclaimed with delight and the waiters looked on with some concern: until Sarah simply lifted out one of the whole chilis and chomped it right down. A home run. 

It took me a while, I confess, to get up the nerve to try a sliver of fish and tofu, for all Sarah's exclamations of delight. I am not Mrs Spicy. But I wasn't sorry: the fire was ferocious but not unwarranted, a depth-charge of flavour that resonated through my palate in ways that most things don't: tongue, throat, nose, they're all involved in eating something like this. And so it seemed fitting that when we left the restaurant we headed for Rockaway beach to lie on our backs and watch the Perseid meteor shower put the lights of the planes taking off from JFK to shame. There's one! Another! A web of bright threads in the New York sky, brilliance spicing the dark. 

Nope, not feeling crabby at all

So in August, why not trade Shoreditch for Park Slope, Brooklyn? Especially if you have a pal who can cook up a storm and offers you Sunday brunch. The R trains aren't running normally at the weekends -- thanks, Hurricane Sandy -- but that was okay by us, because instead of running under the river, like they usually do, they head on over the Manhattan Bridge, so as you trundle over there are magnificent views of my dear Brooklyn Bridge, and Lady Liberty out there in her harbour. 

Park Slope is a party, in case you hadn't heard; not everyone approves. "Park Slope isn't even part of Brooklyn anymore," ran a comment on Gothamist. "It's seriously a lower rung of hell, filled with hateful English teachers." (NB: does this mean all English teachers are hateful, or just the ones who head out to Park Slope? Answers on a postcard, please.) Well, cities change, and in any case I don't have a dog in this particular fight. 

In any case, I wasn't there for chi-chi amenities (Swedish espresso!) but for the most delicious afternoon with an old dear friend -- who also happens to be an expert at cooking Maryland crabs. So for once, I'm not going to tell you how I made something: just let your mouth water when you see what we got to eat. Bet you wish you could get your claws on these, eh?

why, you little tart!

C'est si facile, une petite tarte! Especially if you've got a little help from Marie, over here on the left, and her ready-rolled puff pastry. I dare you: tell 'em you made it yourself. No one will know. 

I determined to be tart-tastic the other weekend in Paris -- Abbi's son Lionel knocked one up in moments (yeah, yeah, very funny) and I suddenly felt I might be able to do the same. This is the work of twenty minutes -- maybe not that much -- not counting the baking time, of course, but that's putting-your-feet up time. These are my ingredients, but hey, use what you please. I'm really cool about that. 

4-5 leeks, well washed and sliced thin
100g (ish) bacon, diced small
handful chopped parsley
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter
125g (ish, again) cheese of your choice, grated: I'm for gruyere, which is pretty trad
5 large eggs
80 ml double cream
salt and pepper

You'll need a loose-bottomed tart tin that fits the pastry: 30cm is good. Preheat oven to 200C.

Heat oil and butter in a saute pan and cook the leeks until they are lovely and soft. Ten minutes, maybe more. Put a lid on for a bit; don't let them brown. When they're loose and relaxed-looking, add the bacon and continue cooking until bacon's done. Add parsley and a little salt, to your taste, and pepper. 

In a bowl, whisk together eggs and cream.

Unroll your pastry and line your tin. Scatter cheese over the base; then add your leek-bacon filling, spreading it out nicely. Now pour over the eggs and cream and pop into the oven. It should take no more than 20 minutes to bake -- you don't want it overdone. It will puff up beautifully. Magnifique! Make a petite salade verte and your dinner is complete. I was going to take a picture of the finished article, but we devoured it trop vite!

Sunday pancakes

As I was saying: who needs pancake mix? Not me -- and not you. Not on a sunny Sunday morning when a little grain-swapping makes for an entertaining start to the day. So here's some buckwheat, black wheat, the French call it: if you're over in Brittany and have yourself a tasty galette, this is the flour it will be made from. For this morning's pancakes, I used my farine de sarrasin, some home made oatmeal flour (that's oatflakes whizzed in the food processor) and rye flour -- but any combination is possible. You can use plain old white or whole wheat flour for some or all; I also like to use fine-ground cornmeal/polenta. 


Sometimes if I have half a banana that's going soft, I'll mash that up and put it in at the adding-the-egg-and-milk stage. But sometimes Theo will say: Mum, don't add banana, okay? And then I don't. 

The other thing that's flexible is how much liquid you use. More liquid equals thinner, more crepe-like pancakes, which is what my gourmet son prefers. My Dad, as I've written, made thicker batter for smaller, silver-dollar cakes. As for what you cook 'em on, I have a wide flat stovetop crepe-pan, with almost no rim: it's about 35 cm across. But a regular frying pan will do, if that's what you've got.

I put on a low oven so I can keep the pancakes warm before I serve them; I dab them with a little softened butter before I serve them -- and of course have proper maple syrup to hand, warmed a little on the stove or in the microwave (20 seconds is all you need: just to take the chill off).

The measures I use, once again, for the flours are American cup measures. Get confident and you can just do it by eye!

Serves three or four, depending on how ravenous everyone is.

1/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/3 cup oatmeal flakes, whizzed in food processor to make flour
1/3 cup dark rye flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
25 g butter, melted
2 large eggs
300 ml (roughly) milk

Put the flours together in a bowl with the baking powder, salt and sugar. 

Break the eggs into a smaller bowl and whisk; add milk. This is where you'd mash in that half banana, if you were of a mind to.

Fold eggs and milk into flour mix and stir until nicely combined; add melted butter. Is it thin enough for you? This quantity of milk gives a nicely springy crepe; use less milk if you want a thicker batter.

Grease your pan with an oily paper towel (use a neutral oil, like sunflower) and heat until it's really pretty hot, but not smoking. Pour on about half a cup of batter and swirl the pan around, lifting and tilting, until you have a lovely spread-out crepe. Not round? Who cares? 

Cook until the edges start to lift just a little; the batter will be bubbling. Flip with a spatula and cook on the other side until the steam coming off of it begins to diminish; don't over-cook. 

When you have a nice stack of these beauties, grace with maple syrup and fruit. There. Now who said breakfast was a chore? 

Catherine's cordial

So, Catherine and I had planned to meet in town for a ginger beer, but in the end she came round to my gaff. It seemed only fair to offer her something to rival a Fentimans, but what might that be? Lemonade? Simple, but maybe a bit obvious. In the end, I came up with this, and I bet you'll like it. It is aptly named, since Catherine is certainly cordial.

juice and zest of two lemons
4 tablespoons sugar
4 cm ginger root, peeled and coarsely grated
A few summer fruits -- a couple of strawberries, a couple of cherries... take out any stones, and chop the fruit up a bit

Put the lemon juice, zest, sugar, and ginger in a little pan on the hob; bring to a boil and just let the sugar dissolve. Have ready a clean glass jar into which you've put the cut up fruit; pour over the ginger-lemon-sugar mix. Stick in the fridge and allow to cool. 

Thin to taste with water or soda water in a tall iced glass; you can strain it if you want, but we loved the gingery fruity bits at the bottoms of our cups.

Makes enough for about six glasses. Will it keep? It didn't last long enough for us to find out!

In a jam

Went for a swim at the lido the other morning; on my way home, just at the top of Broadway Market, I found these gorgeous apricots lying in wait for me -- how could I resist?

The trouble with an apricot, however, is that -- however beautiful -- they never really taste very nice, do they? Always a bit dry, and furry, and somehow disappointing. 

Unless, of course, you turn them into jam.

Yes, yes, it always makes me a little nervous too, jam-making. All that stuff about setting points, and the "wrinkle test" (sounds like something I'm going to do more and more as I head deep into middle age...). But relax! Who cares if your jam is a bit runny? It will still be delicious. As for sterilizing jars: I used to use Theo's baby bottle sterilizer, but that's long gone, of course. Now I reckon a hot dishwasher is fine: put the jars in, with their lids, run the dishwasher, and don't open it until you are ready to fill the jars. Job done. For this recipe you'll need five 370g jars -- I use old Bonne Maman jars, mostly. 

My go-to guru for jam -- and more --  is the late Oded Schwartz: my copy of Preserving is pleasingly sticky and stained. This is adapted from there. The main adaptation is that I don't bother (what with being so lazy) with cracking the apricot stones, and putting the kernels into the jam, as Schwartz suggests... I use some almond extract instead.

1.25 kg apricots
zest and juice of one lemon
1 kg preserving sugar (the kind with pectin added)
300 ml water
1 tsp almond extract

Put a couple of saucers in the freezer.

Quarter the apricots, remove and discard stones. Put the fruit into a glass or ceramic bowl and pour over the lemon juice and zest; let sit until needed. 

Put the sugar and water in a wide, heavy preserving pan. Bring slowly to the boil, stirring until the sugar has dissolved, then boil rapidly for 3-4 minutes. Add the apricots and simmer for about 5 minutes. Then bring to a rapid boil and keep it there, stirring frequently, for 2-25 minutes, until the setting point is reached. How can you tell? Spoon some some the boiling jam onto one of your cold saucers: if it wrinkles when you push the surface, it's done. 

Add the almond extract and stir in. Remove from the heat -- and Oded says to skim, but guess what? I can't be arsed. Ladle the jam into the jars you've just taken from the dishwasher, and behold!

Interstices

It's a good word, interstices, don't you think? "A space, especially a small or narrow one, between things or parts." And therein lies much of my philosophy of cooking. What? You don't have time to cook? Yes you do. Just think about the interstices.

I thought we might have chicken for dinner tonight; I'd defrosted some thighs. Yes, I could just bung them in the oven when suppertime comes into view -- but a ten minutes' effort, post-breakfast, will make that suppertime so very much more rewarding.

I made a quick (really quick!) marinade for my thighs (ooh, matron....)

1 tbsp fines herbes
1 tsp salt
1 tsp lemon extract (we'll return to this excellent ingredient later) 
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
good grinding black pepper
2 tsp turmeric
2 tbsp good olive oil
3-4 garlic cloves, crushed
6-8 chicken thighs, skin pulled off and chucked away
1 plastic baggie -- resealable is best
1 more tablespoon olive oil

Mix up the fines herbs, salt, lemon extract, red pepper flakes, black pepper, turmeric, garlic and olive oil in a little bowl. Dump the chicken thighs into the baggie and pour over your marinade. Seal the baggie, or tie it shut well, and now squoosh the chicken all about so that the marinade covers every thigh. Put in the fridge until you are ready to use -- overnight, all day, for an hour or so. 

When you are ready to cook it, preheat your oven to 200C, put the marinated thighs in a baking dish and drizzle over the last spoonful of oil. Give them about half an hour -- till the juices run clear. 

The marinade means you don't miss the crispy skin... and thighs baked without their skin are much, much less fatty. Gets my vote. 

Magic beans

Here they are: our favourite beans. We could eat these beans for breakfast, lunch and supper and we would never tire of them: that is, pretty much, the universal household sentiment.

We discovered the method of making the magic beans in (of all places) Norway, generally not thought of in connection with green vegetables. We were there, lounging round a fjord, a couple of summers ago, and my friend Linda -- a brilliant percussionist, do have a look here -- cooked up a pan of these babies and we gobbled 'em up. (Come to think of it, we were there to make a show of stories, so I guess it's perfectly appropriate that I found these magic beans.) Anyway -- you will never look back. You won't steam or boil, and you won't have to argue your youngsters into eating them. Ready, set, go! 

Fine beans, green beans, whatever you call them, a nice big bunch
1 tbsp sunflower or other neutral oil
1 tbsp good soy sauce
optional: finely chopped garlic and/or 1 tbsp of sesame seeds.

First, de-stem the beans, and rinse them in a sieve. Don't dry them: you want quite a bit of water clinging to their little green skins.

Put the oil into the wide saute pan and heat until the oil is really, really hot. Have the lid of the pan standing by. Now -- drop the rinsed beans into the pan and they will HISSSSSS and WHOOOOSH as that moisture hits the hot oil, and so being careful not to get spattered swiftly CLAMP your pan lid on top and turn the heat down some. Give the beans a shake, so they stir themselves in the pan. 

Cook them this way for about ten minutes -- maybe more, depending on how soft you like them. Open the lid and stir periodically; when they are nearly as soft as you like pour over the soy sauce and let them brown in that a little. They should be wrinkly and a little scorched-looking: that's what makes them so yummy. Now's the time, if you want, to add the garlic and the sesame seeds and stir another moment or two, just till the garlic softens in the hot pan. Delicious either way. 

She's like a cold coffee...

Iced coffee. It's not hard. When I was growing up, there was always a jar of it in the fridge, the remains of the morning's pot. Probably that doesn't go down too well with the cold-brew crowd, but it worked for my Mom. 

I'm not so good at planning ahead, however. Too much like hard work. But -- simples! Turn on the blessed Nespresso, pour over ice and

... Bob is your proverbial uncle. I add a little milk. But you don't have too. 

The right stuff

Now, nuts are a good snack, right? Theo likes nuts. Trouble is, he likes KP nuts, which are, let's say, pretty salty. (Interesting, however, that when you click on "Nutritional information" on KP's website you'll only get told how good for you nuts are: not how much salt is in each serving. It's too small to read on the packet. Answer: every 50g serving -- that's not a lot -- contains 12 per cent of an adult's recommended salt intake.)

So I said to Theo: I'll roast you some nuts. I headed out to the wonderful Taj Stores on Brick Lane where a big bag of peanuts can be had for just a few quid. I measured a cup of peanuts (I'd bought the red-skinned kind) into a bowl, poured a tablespoon of oil over them and about half a teaspoon of salt, not much more, swirled it around till the nuts were well coated, and then turned them out onto a baking tray I'd lined with foil (I'd only lined it with foil because I'm lazy and didn't want to wash up the tray). I'd set my oven to 190C, and in went my tray -- for not very much more than 5 minutes. Maybe 7. I kept a close eye on them; nuts go from nicely toasted to burnt pretty swiftly.

There! Lovely, crunchy, roasted nuts! Taste! I said to Theo, who did -- and made a face. I like KP nuts, he said. They're really nice and salty.

Sigh. So what to do with my tray of roasted nuts? How about.... make peanut butter? Did I know how to make peanut butter? I did not. But I figured it out. I've refined it since those early days and added in some other nuts, too. I promise you: once you make your own peanut butter you will never, ever buy commercial peanut butter again. It's nothing to do with cost, but this is much cheaper than commercial peanut butter too. And as for Theo: this is how he'll eat my roasted nuts, and no mistake.

I'm using American cup measures here: Delia has a nice conversion chart if you need one.

1 cup peanuts
1/4 cup cashews or pistachios or whatever you like
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1/2 tsp salt, or a little more if you like; I use sel de Guerande, now
2 tbsps dark brown sugar
1/4 cup vegetable oil: or you can fill your cup measure almost to the top with vegetable oil, and then top it up with a tablespoon or two of sesame oil

Preheat oven to 190C.

Put all the nuts in a bowl; swirl the oil around them, and the salt. Turn out onto a baking sheet, lined with foil if you like; pop into the oven for about 5-7 minutes (if you keep your nuts in the freezer, like I do, it may take a few minutes longer). When they are nicely toasty, take them out, and let them cool down a little.

Now dump them into a food processor with the brown sugar. Switch it on (it will be loud!) and pour the oil down through the chute while it's running. Keep it running until it's the consistency you like; you'll need to scrape down the bowl a few times and make sure the oil doesn't pool at the bottom but is mixed in with the nuts. It will never be completely smooth: it will be grainy, which, I learned, after reading Jon Krampner's wonderful history of peanut butter, Creamy and Crunchy, is how all peanut butter used to be.

This makes about a jam-jar full. And, indeed, I put the peanut butter into a cleaned-in-the-dishwasher but not sterilized jam jar. It may separate a little; just give it a stir. I keep it in the cupboard, not the fridge. Maybe it would go off eventually... but it's never lasted long enough for me to find out!

In the mix

My Dad was famous for his pancakes. How famous? Well, famous in our house, and that was famous enough for all of us. The pancake ritual was an important part of my growing up: my Dad was a firm believer in "silver dollar" pancakes -- his were a little bigger than the coin in question, but not much -- and so the first time, as a kid, I ordered pancakes in a diner and got a stack as wide as my face, well, it was quite a shock, I can tell you.

But what my Dad and the diner did have in common, I'm betting, was that they used pancake mix. My Dad certainly did: we were a Bisquick household and no mistake. This did not diminish the power of the ritual; and yet, now that I make my own pancakes, I never, ever use a mix. I'm sad that I haven't been able to discuss this with my Dad, but I only started making pancakes after he was gone.

But this is not the place for my pancake recipe. We'll get to that. What I'm trying to say is that I'm not a big fan of flour mixes: why pay more money for something that's usually just as simple -- and much cheaper -- to make yourself?

And yet. Somehow, a browse on Ocado led me to Neill's buttermilk scone mix. As if in a dream, I added a bag of the stuff to my order; and tried them out the other afternoon. Well! That was a big success. Husband is a serious scone-and-teacake aficionado: and pronounced the result a triumphs. But now the question is begged: could I replicate my triumph without the mix? Watch this space....

Theo wants chicken pie

When are you going to make chicken pie again? asks my son. No time like the present, I say. Chicken pie in our house is a scratch affair: we are not afraid of ready made pastry or, indeed, a bit of stock from a bottle. 

Oil and butter, a tbsp each, approx
4 chicken thighs, cut up into 2 cm cubes (look at me! centimetres! I am so European!)
3 leeks, cleaned and chopped
4 medium carrots, peeled, cut into 2 cm segments, steamed until tender
Two good handfuls frozen peas
chopped fresh herbs
One tbsp plain flour
half a mug of stock, or thereabouts
Bit of cream, if you like
A good spoonful of Boursin (I'm in Boursin moment...)
Ready made puff pastry

Preheat oven to 200C
Saute the leeks in the oil and butter in a deep, wide pan; when they are tender, add the chicken and cook until done, about 7 minutes. Throw in the carrots, the salt and pepper, the chopped fresh herbs and the peas -- no need to thaw in advance. 
Scatter over the flour and stir through; now add the stock, the cream, the Boursin, and let it all bubble a minute. 
Tip it into what I learned -- many years ago, marooned for two weeks on St Kilda -- to call an ashet: a shallow but not-too-shallow dish you can put in the oven.
Roll out your pastry to fit; pop it on top of your chicken pie mix and make a few tasteful slashes in it. 
Into the oven it goes; 25 minutes should do the trick. Yum. Easy as pie!

Eggzactly

I'm trying to kick the kitchen-gadget habit; but a couple of weeks ago in Paris, killing time on the rue d'Assas, I couldn't resist the above, which you can find here. It's an egg poacher for the microwave, and I'm smitten. Scramble up an egg in a bowl with a little spoonful of cream or creme fraiche (or, heck, Boursin or cream cheese), salt and pepper, and some little dots of butter. Dab a little oil inside the silicone pot; slide in your egg and pop on the cover; give it 30 seconds in the micro (mine's 800w)and check what you've got; you might need to stir it and give it another 10 seconds. A perfect coddled egg, no boiling water necessary. Breakfast!