First, a slight apology. I realise that, as I post the photo above, I’ve stumbled into the trap of using a boring cliché.

That line up is everywhere.

It’s the beer drinker’s equivalent of the fashion blogger’s flat lay. Seriously, search for ‘flatlay’ on Instagram and have a look at the 635,000 near identical photos of stuff laid out casually but with excruciating precision. For that, I apologise, but I;ve drunk half the bottles now, so no going back …

That all aside, look at that beer!

It comes from Keelham Farm Shop as part of their £22 Yorkshire Beer Experience box, a box that’s finished with a couple of bags of Piper’s excellent crisps, and another couple of bags of superb pork scratchings. They bill it as a pub crawl in a box, and that just about nails it.

Now, Yorkshire has something of a reputation for producing good beer.

These parts have been a major centre for brewing for many centuries. This whole ‘craft beer revolution’ thing is nothing new around here. Keelham have selected a good range of bottles, with beer from Little Valley in Hebden Bridge, Wharfe Bank Brewery in Otley, Great Newsome near Hull, and Timothy Taylor’s and Naylor’s  from Keighley.

More…

Every now and then, I get an urge for junk food.

Vegetables are all very well, but there’s nothing like the occasional meal of that consists of what I’d normally consider to be complete rubbish.

I think of this as a cathartic palate cleanser, and it strikes about once a year.

Normally, it’s fried chicken, and I’ll find myself in some motorway service station somewhere at night, in the rain, on the way back from somewhere far away, wolfing down some chicken, riddled with guilt.

Once it’s done, it’s done, and there’s no need to go back there for many months.

Now, it’s perfectly possible to make a superior version of this awful, awful but oh-so-good fried chicken at home, and I’ll show you how to do exactly that right here, but the High Street, utter junk version is something else. It’s really to do with pressure frying, which leaves chicken crisp and hot, retaining a lot of the moisture that would normally be lost during a more extended cooking process. That, and that infuriating secret blend of herbs and spices that seems to revolve around lots of salt.

Before you judge me completely, I keep this whole thing at bay. I look after myself, and chicken shack fried chicken most definitely doesn’t have a place in a good, balanced diet, but every now and again, it should appear, because, well, moderation and experience are both important things.

So, a homemade version.

Significantly healthier, equally tasty, but different. More…

When we were kids, our mum used to make Yorkshire puddings in bread tins, served as a starter before a main course of beef.

We had one each, a great boat of a pudding to fill the plate. We’d pour gravy into it, my sister holding the onions back with a fork because she hated them.

Mum’s Yorkshire puddings were incredible – big, bold, crisp, and light – and I’ve never really come close to replicating them. I tell myself that it’s because my modern electric oven doesn’t have the sheer ferocity of mum’s ancient gas one, or that I can’t match the precise proportions of egg, milk and flour, but the real reason is that those Yorkshire puddings exist in the legend and lore of our family, and they’re incomparable because of that. They’re part of our childhood, and they’re untouchable.

My mum and dad are both gone, and I’ve tried many, many times to come close to those idealistic Yorkshire puddings, but I’ve never done it. My Yorkshire puddings are flat and depressed, as well as depressing. Every time I’ve served up a frankly pathetic Yorkshire pudding, I’ve thought about my mum serving hers, dashing from kitchen to table as quickly as possible to present her triumphs in the best condition possible.

The other day, I cooked twice.

The first was  a batch of falafel with far too much salt. I knew I was doing it as I shoved the spoon into the salt cellar, knew it was a bad idea, told myself not to, but I still added an extra spoonful, because that’s the kind of stupid thing I habitually do.

Those falafel were pretty much inedible, and despite trying to convince myself they were good, they weren’t, and I had to fall back on the stash of emergency samosas hidden in the freezer.

When I cook, I can feel when it’s happening, and I can tell when it isn’t, but I’d do well to start to listen to myself a little more.

The second meal was much more successful. Lara dropped a succession of hints, that developed into an outright demand for toad-in-the-hole, so that’s what I did, with proper butcher’s sausages, big sausages full of good cuts of pork.

I was nervous about this.

Yorkshire puddings and me don’t have an easy relationship, and after the complete fuck-up that was lunch, I felt uneasy about trying to deliver something I’ve spent a lifetime trying to perfect, never coming close. I sometimes have to work hard to get over kitchen setbacks and try again. The temptation to go back to that freezer and fish out a pack of chilli or something like that was immense.

But this time, it worked.  More…

It’s New Year’s Day.

I thought it important to try something new today, but I had to push myself past the point of no return last night to make sure that something happened today. Before all the partying started, and in anticipation of the inevitable tenderness of this morning, I fished a Guinea fowl out of the freezer and let it defrost overnight.

Last night was a good night, full of food, wine, laughter and happiness, and the temptation to just smear the by-now-defrosted guinea fowl in butter and chuck it in the oven was great, but I avoided that lazy option and spent an hour deboning it, stuffing and rolling it, tying the lot up into a reasonably neat parcel – a ballotine – ready for the oven.

Guinea fowl isn’t particularly common, but a good butcher will be able to get hold of it, and it crops up in some supermarkets every now and again. Mine came from Callards on Leeds Kirkgate Market. Guinea fowl is a good alternative to chicken – it has a stronger, more game-like flavour, but it isn’t as strongly flavoured as pheasant. It roast well, so chucking one in the oven really isn’t such a bad idea, just make sure that some bacon or foil protects the breast, as it has a tendency to dry out quickly.

Taking the bones out of a bird is a tricky operation, but it’s possible with some care and a slow approach. A small, sharp knife is invaluable.

The same technique stands for any kind of bird or fowl. Start by removing the wings, then place the bird breast down on a chopping board and carefully carve away the meat at one side of the backbone, staying as close to the bone as possible, and trying to keep the skin intact. Work slowly, and study the anatomy of the bird to find the best cutting route.  [continue reading…]