Red mullet with black olives

I can't do parties anymore. I used to be really good at them, but I just can't anymore. I can't drink, I can't make conversation and I can't stay up late.

It makes me feel like such a dick. I used to love a party. Though I was never, let's face it, the first or the last one on the dance floor or the one swept out with the fag butts at 5am, I went, I drank, I laughed, I had a good time.

Now when an invitation drops on our doormat I make a face. My husband and I argue briefly about whether or not we should go and we always decided that we probably ought to because otherwise we will just go mouldy sitting at home watching Californication.

I think about what to wear three minutes before we leave and end up putting on the same plain back jersey dress I have been wearing to parties for about 5 years, "jazzed" up with whichever necklace I bought from Anthropologie most recently. Then I put on eyeliner (but not mascara because it's such a pain to get off) while my husband puts the baby to bed.

I open the door to Kate, our teen babysitter who lives a few doors away, who is so thin and beautiful that I'd refuse to have her in the house if she wasn't so nice. I talk to Kate for a bit, wishing I was staying in watching telly with her, not least because her mum brings her dinner round and it always sounds really nice. But then we leave, driving (because I won't get pissed) and arrive unfashionably early. I gratefully suck down one aperitif, feel a bit dizzy, poke my dinner around and start wanting to go home at 11pm.

The other night we went to a party and the wife of a very famous person came to talk to me. We'd met before a few times. She was very drunk. "You've got suchajewish name," she slurred. "The MOST JEWISH NAME EVER," she shrieked. I stood there, with my hands in the pockets of my Topshop maternity jeans that I am still wearing and felt self-conscious in the not-very-me Gharani Strok blouse I bought from TK Maxx and gave her the smile I give to drunks and lunatics.

At least, I thought to myself, I am not wearing the black jersey thing.

"Do you smoke? Do you wanna fag?" she said. No, I don't smoke, I said. But I'll come and keep you company outside. "Do you wanna do a line?" she said and giggled. I blinked a few times and looked at her, feeling more square, I think, than I have ever felt in my life. I towered over her in my stupid clumpy Boden wedges. "I can't," I said. Which was not true. Of course I could. I just didn't want to. I should have just said that. "No thanks," I ought to have said. "I don't really want to." But instead I said something about having to get up early.

Then instead of vanishing as soon as her head was turned (drunks never notice when you do this) I actually accompanied her out into a street and stood there while she smoked a cigarette. I felt like I was back at school, hovering at the arm of the coolest girl in my year who will occasionally suffer my presence. There were a lot of people on the street from the party also smoking cigarettes, sucking up to the woman I was with because she is married to this very famous man and I felt like even more of a hanger-on and a wanker. But I didn't slip away back into the party. I just stood there, unable to think of anything to say. She finished her cigarette and we went back into the party. I walked in behind her and made my alarm face and frantic jazz hands at my husband behind her head.

She turned and suddenly threw her arms round me and blew a raspberry on my cheek and hissed "I don't like your husband much. My husband loves him. I don't really get it." Then she made a beeline for the bar.

It being 11pm, I insisted to my husband that we leave immediately.

This has been bothering me ever since. She has some children and a job, that woman. But she goes to parties and gets drunk and does drugs and makes a complete fucking mad spectacle of herself but she doesn't care and just carries on with her life regardless. Whereas I have one tiny baby and no job and I've decided this means that I can't ever drink again. Maybe I'm just using it as an excuse. Maybe I never enjoyed parties or drinking in the first place and domesticity is just a key to unlock my inner square and let her run free.



Olives are a thing that people always tell you to put with fish and I'm sceptical. But the other night we roasted a red mullet with lemon, parsley and black olives and it was terribly nice and worth doing if you can get your hands on a really fresh red mullet from somewhere.

I think this is from the River Cafe cookbook, which is always telling you to do things like put a fish in the oven covered with olive oil and a few select herbs and then charge £200 for it.

Red mullet with black olives

1 red mullet
about 20 black olives, roughly chopped
a large handful of parsley, roughly chopped
one lemon, halved
olive oil
salt

1 Preheat your oven to 180C.

2 Wash the fish and put it in a roasting dish or tin. Sprinkle over salt, drizzle over a good sloop or two of olive oil, scatter over the parsley and olives and put the halves of lemon, cut side down either side of the fish.

3 Roast in the oven for about 20 minutes.

I think we had this with new potatoes. Or it could have been sourdough. At any rate, it was really very nice. And I hate fish.

Sufferin' Succotash Salad

I've been looking for a tasty way to show off this ultra-fast and easy barbecue sauce vinaigrette idea, and this almost raw succotash salad proved to be a perfect vehicle. And to think, I almost ruined it by doing it the right way.

Originally, I was going to grill the corn first, and then slice the cooked kernels into the salad. As I started to prep, I took a little nibble off the end of the ear, and it was so sweet and juicy that I decided to change the plan, and go au natural.

Thanks to the sweet, starchy crunch of the raw corn, the combination of tastes and textures in this salad is outstanding. Sure, you could certainly add more than the four ingredients called for here, but I'm wondering if that would really make this any more perfect.

This succotash salad is great for those occasions when you need to bring a side dish to the company picnic, or family reunion, and want to arrive with something that looks like you put in a lot more effort into it than you actually did.

As you'll see in the clip, the dressing could not be simpler, but will rely on a quality barbecue sauce to bring everything together. I used my wife Michele's famous SFQ sauce, but your favorite barbecue sauce should work out as well (assuming it's deeply-flavored, complex, and kind of spicy).

Anyway, this may not be the most exciting, or visually thrilling thing we've made around here, but what it lacks in aesthetic charm, it more than makes up for in everything else. I hope you give it a try soon. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

2 ears fresh sweet corn

1 large red bell pepper, small dice

4 green onions, chopped fine

1 can white beans, rinsed, drained

salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

Dressing:

2 tablespoons barbecue sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

Grilled Tuna with Freshly Grated Horseradish Sauce – Giddy-Up, Taste Buds, Giddy-Up!

Whenever I hear people say you shouldn’t ruin fresh fish at the sushi bar by dipping it in copious amounts of wasabi-spiked soy sauce, I think to myself, yeah, but that's how I like it. Sometimes I just don't care about "overpowering the natural flavors," and this grilled yellowfin tuna with freshly grated horseradish sauce recipe is one of those times.

I saw a nice piece of fresh horseradish root on a recent trip to the market, and since I love the combination of salty soy sauce and searing, nasal-clearing wasabi, I decided to try a similar preparation with a couple grilled tuna steaks.

The recipe is very straightforward, and the only piece of special equipment you will need is a microplane-style grater, so you can turn the aromatic radish into a fine, white snow. As is custom, I've listed my best guesses on the ingredient amounts below, but consider everything in this, "to taste." I didn't use citrus, as I went with the tomato slices, but that would surely work too.

By the way, I did a little research (very little), and read that some believe the term "horseradish" comes from the fact that horses were once used to crush the spicy roots under-hoof before being grated. Unless those were some very well-trained (and regular) horses, and they were wearing some kind of sanitary horse slippers, I'm not sure that was such a great method.

If you don't find fresh horseradish, give this a try with finely grated ginger. I can't believe that wouldn't work quite well. Also, as I mentioned in the video, this same condiment would be lovely with all kinds of fresh grilled seafood. Enjoy!

Ingredients (for 2):

2 (8-oz) tuna steaks, lightly oiled

2 tablespoon soy sauce

2 tablespoon seasoned rice vinegar

1/2 teaspoon sambal chili sauce

1-2 tablespoons freshly grated horseradish root, plus more as needed

4 sliced sweet cherry tomatoes

1 tablespoon minced green onion to garnish

Happy 4th of July!

Photo (c) Flickr user mmatins

Wishing you all a fun, festive, and hopefully food-filled Fourth of July! Michele and I are laying low this year, finishing up some big projects around the house. But don't worry, "all work and no play" is not something patriot Americans like us are known for. There will be enough beer, baseball and barbecue around to properly give respect to the greatest country on earth. Happy birthday America!

In what's become a little July 4th tradition on the blog, here's “Stars and Stripes Forever” played by four girls, in matching shirts, on the Trombone. Since there are probably only nine or ten girls in the entire country that play trombone, to see four in one clip is a special treat. Enjoy!

Mutton in Port

Often it's not big things that can really make your day, like being proposed to, getting a new job that will allow you to maybe actually tell your shitty bastard boss to Fuck Off on your last day, finding out you haven't got that life-threatening disease you thought you had, or waking up thinking it's Monday and then remembering that it's Saturday.

Sometimes, it's the little things. Finding in your drawer a spare weirdly-shaped battery for that clock whose second hand has been twitching backwards and forwards for two months, for example. Or going to the shops to buy a microwave and finding that it fits exactly in the space you need it to, despite having forgotten to take any measurements. Or getting in the car to find that someone else has filled it up with petrol.

Or finding something to do with the clattery collection of vegetables that have been staring at you accusingly for the last week.

We are inundated with vegetables at the moment because my husband has become obsessed with the Saturday farmer's market at Parliament Hill. We used to go together and he would skulk about behind me saying "What about a cabbage? What about some tomatoes? What about some mussels?" all of which I'd say no to, because all I wanted to do was buy a chicken, get a sausage sandwich from the sausage sandwich van and go home. (Sometimes I see people at the market pretend to come and do their weekly shop, but actually all they've really come for is a sausage sandwich.)

Now I send my husband off on Saturday mornings by himself and he loves it. With no limits on his enthusiasm or spending he goes perfectly nuts and buys everything. He once took Kitty and came back with her slung over his shoulder like a sack of carrots because the buggy was full to brim with haunches of venison, racks of lamb and eighteen different kinds of vegetables.

It's all very marvellous, but the vegetables don't half sit about looking glum after a week or two. My inclination is to throw the whole lot in the compost, put it down to bad judgment and swear never to buy kohlrabi again, but my husband decided that this was the wrong attitude, and instead turned the whole lot into a stew using a leg of mutton he had purchased from someone at the market. We're not eating lamb anymore. We've decided that it stinks the house out. And lambs are cute. Although I know that's pathetic.

Anyway so here we go, an entirely original recipe, by Giles. This is excellent, although it takes 4 hours to cook.

Mutton in Port

Pre-heat your oven to 130C

1 leg of mutton. Purchasable, probably, at your local farmer's market or at a nearby butcher. Not sure if Waitrose does it
2 onions, chopped
2 bulbs garlic, chopped
4 sticks of celery, chopped
1 kohlrabi, or turnip, or celeriac or swede or any other root vegetable giving you the eye from the corner of your veg box
3 small carrots, left whole
1/2 a bottle of the cheapest port you can find. Real piss. You can sub red wine
1 mugful of stock, packet is fine
oil for sauteeing, salt, pepper
As many herbs as you can lay your hands on: bay, parsley, sage, thyme, rosemary, oregano (not mint) tied up together with string. Any combination of these, or none at all, is fine.

1 In a large casserole brown the mutton all over thoroughly, for about 20 minutes, over a medium flame, in some veg oil. Sunflower or groundnut will do. Please not olive oil because it will burn and taste horrible. Set to one side on a plate

2 In the same casserole sweat over a low flame the onions and celery for about ten minutes. Sprinkle over a good pinch of salt to stop the onions from burning. Towards the end of the cooking time, add the garlic and the herbs so they, too, don't burn and taste bitter.

3 Pour in your half bottle of pissy plonk and mug of stock. Cook off the alcohol but don't worry about reducing it right down. About 2 minutes fast simmering ought to do the trick. Then add in the mutton, carrots and any other root veg. Cook in your oven with a lid on for 4 hours.

4 When it's done, remove the whole vegetables and the joint and strain the cooking water of the herbs, onions, garlic and celery. Then leave the cooking liquid to settle for half an hour and skim off the good 1/2 inch of fat that will appear. If you're making this to eat the next day (which is a good idea, because it's superb re-heated) leave the cooking liquid in the fridge overnight and scoop out the fat even more easily.

We ate this with a lot of buttery macaroni, which sounds like a weird thing to have with it but it worked very well.

4th of July Special: Cherry Bomb Chicken – Because There Are No Grape Bombs

I was playing around with a new brine idea for grilled chicken, and decided that since I was using cherry tomatoes and explosive habanero peppers, I'd do a little 4th of July firecracker-themed word play and call this "Cherry Bomb Chicken."

Unfortunately, the sweetest, ripest cherry tomatoes at the market that day were grape tomatoes, which makes the name somewhat dubious. Never one to worry about letting facts get in the way of a good story, I decided to double down.

Now I'm claiming that not only does "cherry" refer to the tomatoes, it also refers to the old phase, "that's cherry," which is how us old folks used to say something was, "the bomb." As far as a technique for ensuring your holiday chicken is ultra-moist and flavorful, this is both "cherry" and "the bomb."

I had a quail dish once in which the birds where marinated in a tomato-water brine, before being grilled. I remembered it was really good, and that's what inspired this relatively odd treatment. Thanks to the magic of brining, this really will almost guarantee a juicy, tasty piece of chicken – and the method allows for countless customizations.

By the way, don't be tempted to leave it in the brine longer; 4-6 hours is ideal. You want the meat brined, not cured. This will also work for pork chops if that's more your thing. I hope you give this a try soon, and that you all have a fantastic 4th of July weekend! Enjoy!

Ingredients:

Brine:

1 quart cold water

1/3 cup kosher salt

1/2 cup sugar

1 pint cherry tomatoes

3 habanero peppers

1/2 teaspoon allspice

4 cloves garlic

Oil Rub:

1/2 tsp dried thyme

1/4 tsp cumin

1/4 tsp black pepper

1/4 tsp cayenne

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 4 lb. quartered chicken plus wings

2 tbsp red pepper jelly (or sub bbq sauce, or teriyaki sauce)

Later Today: 4th of July Special – Cherry Bomb Chicken!