Turmeric

Turmeric gets everywhere. All it needs is a dusting and whatever it touches is stained yellow. So to have to massage it into a chicken before cooking is going to lead to yellow fingers. I started squeezing out a couple of limes over the chicken. I then added two tea spoons of turmeric and flexed my hands before rubbing it in.

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As anticipated my hands came out yellow. So the chicken was put to one side for an hour or so to allow the flavours to mellow.

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To cook I took down the big Le Creuset  and browned off the chicken before adding a couple of bay leaves, cardamom seeds and some chopped garlic. I then added a pint of water, put the lid on and left it for an hour and a half.

By then the chicken was falling off the bone and we were left with a thick yellow sauce tasting of turmeric.

Afterwards we ate quinces cooked in the oven with sugar, lemon juice and water laid out on a bed of whipped cream.

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Listening now to Tom Waits singing Kentucky Avenue – waiting for the kids to get it – another few years to go. But the house is smelling good!

Fire and Knives arrives

The butcher in The International Store did himself proud today with a silver tray of lambs hoofs. They looked dainty compared to the heft of a pigs foot. There must have been fifty in the tray and I asked what to do with them? “Make soup” he said “Cook with some spices and put water in.” There was little man next to me collecting a bag of lamb chops, “Excellent” he reassured me. “Excellent”.  

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I bought two. Rather to my surprise he chopped them up into pieces an inch or so long. That should be enough for a bowl of soup for me. I am not sure if the kids will be joining me.

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The other good news is that issue thirteen of Fire & Knives arrived today with my article about lobster on page 65 – nine pages in all – and a nice picture of a lobster, although not one of the photos I sent them of Tommy hauling pots. It was good to see that they had not managed to spot all my typos.

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You can subscribe at their website which does mean taking delivery of four copies. You never know I might get something else in before next December. You can also buy odd copies from Analogue books in Edinburgh, although I am not sure that issue 13 has reached them just yet.

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Last night’s Rolling Stones

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Saturday morning and the tree is in. Cora and I bought it last week from Church Farm  late in the afternoon as the sun started to close down and a grey milky light lay on the South side of the Wirral. It spent the week in an orange bucket round the back of the house. I thought it might enjoy the cold and the wet for a few more days before being brought into the dry and hung with baubles. Andrea pointed out it might have enjoyed all that more if it still had its roots.

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Last night kids were out either babysitting or partying so I turned on BBC4 to see what music might be on offer going on to the early hours. The second half of The Rolling Stones documentary Crossfire Hurricane was starting so I settled down to watch that. It covered some of the glory years from Mick Taylor joining, Madison Square Gardens, Altamont to Ronnie Wood joining and Some Girls – the constants being Mick Jagger’s appalling clothes, Charlie and Bill’s grim faced determination and the stone eyed Keith stare as his thickening fingers beat down on the metal strings of his guitar.

What was frightening was the empty wild faces of the Hell’s Angels at Altamont, Meredith Hunter’s bright green suit leading up to the hedonism and swirl of the audiences in the mid-seventies full of self-regard and the band edging away from that horror.

After that there was a film of The Rolling Stones playing with Muddy Waters at the Checkerboard Club in Chicago. Mick wearing some kind of horrible bright red plastic jump suit hamming it up, Ronnie & Keith at the back with smiles on their faces, Ian Stewart clambering out onto the stage to get to the piano and Muddy Waters at the front calling out the names of the band, his band playing as they had been doing for so many years.

More on the naming of fish

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This evening it is the turn of the B’s.

Birt or Byrt A small turbot (O.E.)

Blonde Lat. Raja brachyura. A large and sluggish ray – it grows to a length of four feet – common near Plymouth.

Boarfish Capros aper. A Mediterranean and N. Atlantic fish allied to the Red Mullet

Brancino A perch – like fish, a native of the Adriatic and the best fish one is likely to eat in Venice. It is usually boiled in a court-boullon and served either hot with a Genoise sauce, or cold with a Mayonnaise.

Breet An obsolete name for Turbot.

Brit, Bret or Burt A small turbot in England; a small herring in the U.S.A.

This evening listening to Sera Cahoone who apparently used to be the drummer in Band of Horses. There is a song that sounds like Dreams to Remember by Otis Redding which was done brilliantly by Okkervil River and would have gone well last night as we were picking both our favourite Christmas song and our favourite cover version. This does it in one.