When a recipe blithely  tells you not to worry too much about how much stuff you are making as it will all keep for a week or so in the fridge you know you are storing up trouble ahead.

So it has come about with the harissa sauce I made two weeks ago.

There was plenty left over and I dutifully ladled into a pot and covered it with a thin layer of olive oil and put it to the back of the fridge. It has been there ever since. A dark, red, fiery presence. A blot on the conscience. It has been counting down the weeks until it develops a thin layer of mound and has to be thrown away. Last week I came across a pot of creme fraiche, use by date sometime in August, that had mould growing so thick and black it was pushing open the lid. ‘This could be me’, the harissa has been saying, ‘unless you pull your finger out and do something with me’.

That is all well and good for the harissa to say but it ignores the fact that it was, is, so hot and fiery that no one else in the family has the stomach for it. All this is compounded by the fact I made it with the two handfuls of chillies I was able to harvest from the garden.

This evening I had a go at it smeared over a small chicken that was roasted for an hour. It was still fiery and hot which may be sufficient for a troubling nights sleep.

We listened The National and got high on cheerleaders.

Having put the Westvleteren beer up there in my top five for the weekend I should probably reflect on what else was close by.

Well a trip to Holland is always good for an opportunity to connect with some of my Dutch heritage. With half of the genes running around my body there should always be the chance that spending some time over there will allow me to connect ever closer to those parts of the family that were left behind.

So it was that I had a weekend of bitterballen and Black Peter.

The bitterballen were more the palatable. They are deep fried balls of roux mixed with some ham or beef covered in bread crumbs and served so hot from the frier that biting into them inevitably leads to burnt lips. They go very well with dark beer houses and dark beer and were an excellent way of lining the stomach before a modern day lunch and over a Sunday morning breakfast.

I could do with some more bitterballen in my life and with a glass of either Palm or Konick close to hand  I could feel feel a little more Dutch.

That came crashing down slightly on the Saturday lunchtime when we emerged from out beer and bitterballen to come across a small group of jolly Dutch people blacked up as Black Peter and playing trombones. We moved on slightly bemused only to find ourselves walking toward a stage from which we could hear the unmistakable sound of people playing the Okey Kokey at volume.

I muttered that we were about to walk around a corner to find ourselves confronted by a hundred Black Peters all doing the Okey Kokey and so it came to pass. There was something surreal about it all. There was a stage with a band on playing the music and in the middle of the stage a white beard Sinterklaas wavily gamely to the crowd attended by his Black Peters – all of whom were blacked up and togged in bright costume.

The crowd seemed to be made up of of almost equal part Black Peters and their children who all waved back and then turned round to the startled passerbys to hand out sweets.

We walked through open mouthed. In hindsight it was no highlight but perhaps a small insight in to some of the dutch culture that has been left behind.

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It would of course be wrong to suggest that the highlight of a quick 48 hours in Eindhoven was the bottle (or was it two) of what some would say is the world’s best beer but it was certainly up there in the top five highpoints of the weekend.

The beer came from a Trappist Abbey near the French/ Belgium border and is so exclusive that it is almost impossible to get hold of. I almost wrote “buy” there but it is not supposed to available to be bought unless you are personally invited to go to the Abbey in which case you may be permitted to make an appropriate donation and come away with a small crate of the precious brown liquid.

For reasons that I was not quite able to get to the bottom of Roger’s neighbour had a close enough connection with the good monks who make the beer and was able to secure a supply. For reasons more unaccountable the only safe place in Waarle for these precious beers, the only place maintained at the proper temperature was Roger’s cellar. It was under lock and key for the whole weekend.

Before the locks were put on a few bottles were put in the fridge. There were no labels and all the necessary information was carefully marked with the name of the Abbey, Westvleteren, and the alcohol content. The was a grading in colour to tell the beers apart.

It was beer to be treated with respect. There were a dozen or so flavours that came out of each mouthful and by the time the bottle was finished a faint feeling of floating a few inches up from the chair I was sitting in.

Late on Saturday evening I found myself talking to the same brave neighbours who trusted Roger’s cellar with their beer. They had a key to the cellar and they kindly handed over one of the bottles which is now waiting to be ferried over to England over Christmas.

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There is of course something reassuring in finding yourself back where you have may have been before and so this evening I found myself yet again pulling up on a stool next to the bar in Morito.

I have been in London for a conference on the law around property litigation. There may be some defeat in the fact the conference took place in the same building where nine months ago I went to see various talks put on by The Guardian on how to start a food business. At least this time I didn’t turn up there suffering the lingering after effects of a super duper hot mackerel curry – no doubt a relief to those people sat close to me.

All this gave rise to me having a bed for the night in more or less central London. Having misread the placing of a semi-colan in the weekends paper I thought this would give me an opportunity to see Julia Holter in concert. Having started to plan for this it transpired that the semi-colan was there to tell me the concert was on Thursday night instead.

So I was left with fingers to twist. I kept them occupied with a walk to Exmouth Market.

Morito was full when I got there and I left my number and went to have a pint nearby. Just as I was contemplating a second pint a buzz went off by my leg and a minute later I was sat at the bar in Morito perfectly situated about two foot back from the grill and just in front of the terracotta plates of nuts, seeds and saffron there to be picked at and sprinkled over the dishes before they were handed up to be served.

There was a sign up for a vermouth called Cora. I felt bound to ask if they had some – fortunately they didn’t as I might otherwise have been tempted with a bottle to take home with me.

So I twisted the paper menu through my fingers and made my way through it.

The highlights came at the beginning and the end. I started with two Gildas. A cocktail stick threaded with a pickled chilli, a baby pearl onion, a sliver of anchovy and an olive. It came in a burst of taste and heat that lingered on the tongue.

I finished with a lemon posset. Lemon and cream topped with burnt orange and a crunch of nuts.

All the while through eating I was able to watch the food being cooked. Most of it was done by one woman who had some hell with the deep frying and the assembly. I was able to marvel at how she seemed to manage effortlessly cooking for for the thirty or so people in the room with hardly a word being said whilst whenever I do the same at home it is normally for the family and lots of words are said.