There's a lull in the travel for a couple of months, which means plenty of weekend time to cook at home and a break from the endless bitching about airline service.
Over the last few years I've made sporadic attempts to find second-hand copies of some of the best cookbooks that I used to refer to when I lived at home. I've tried just stealing them from my mother, but she has sharper eyes than I bargained for. Last year I found a well-preserved copy of Frances Bissell's The Times Cookbook, then a couple of weeks ago I decided to unearth copies of the various Two Fat Ladies cookbooks. In the process I also picked up a DVD set of all four TV series.
Once the first disc started playing, I was basically rooted to the sofa for an entire weekend; I'd forgotten just how good Jennifer Paterson and Clarissa Dickson-Wright were together. The recipes are interesting and the banter is just amazing. As TV, it's simply in a different league to the insipid pseudo-cooking of Jamie Oliver or Nigella Lawson's initially amusing, but now frankly dull, middle-class food porn.
There are some parts where you wonder if their producers and censors actually realised what they were saying - they're often using incredibly provocative references while still sounding impeccably polite. I suppose people were just distracted by the food, most of which looks tempting in a way that would send Gillian McKeith into paroxysms.
Last Saturday I cooked an early Valentine's dinner involving two of their creations - an incredibly decadent concoction of scallops, leeks, vermouth and double cream, then an, almost healthy, potato side-dish. Both were delicious and I'm eager to continue working through their extensive collection of dishes.
In the mean time, I challenge Jamie, Nigella, and the various clones, to reference Marlon Brando and anal intercourse when describing how much butter should be spread over a quail before roasting.
