Welsh Mussels cooked in English Cider

It's a strange thing, living abroad. Before we moved, I never really considered that I was moving to another country - I mean I knew Wales was distinct and had a border - hell, you even have to pay if you cross it at the Severn - but a different COUNTRY? Really?

Well, yes, it most definitely is. My own ignorance has had more than a couple of sharp metaphorical slaps administered over the last 18 months, particularly here, out on the West Wales coast, where you hear Welsh spoken all the time, where most primary education is in Welsh and the best thing on TV at the moment (Y Gwyll) comes with English subtitles. Yes, it's very clear that we are living in a distinct and separate country.

And if you ever make the mistake of thinking Wales is just a small part of Britain, think again. Just come here when Wales are playing England at the rugby, and you can be in no doubt that you are most definitely in another country. 

There are of course, great swathes of rugby playing in England, but here it is religion; and it is national and all encompassing. No moaning rugby widows here, oh no. Rugby seems to define the mood of the nation far more than any other part of Welsh life. Wales is, of course, as diverse as England - areas of wealth and poverty, cities, and villages, mountains and coast - and so naturally there are divisions. People have different politics, different attitudes to Europe, to the issues of the day, but mention the R word, and you will have utter unity.

I find the Welsh love of country fascinating and something to be immensely inspired by. It seems to come from a deep and abiding pride in and love of Wales, rather than hatred of others. The only English people I have seen express similar love of their own country seem to be motivated by hate, and this is not the case in Wales - except, perhaps where the rugby is concerned. Of course, there is still the national passion and pride supporting the Welsh rugby team - but if ever there was a time when a love inspired by hate might become apparent, it is when the boys are playing England at rugby. For days, my Facebook has been full of posts like "I'm supporting Wales in the #RugbyWorldCup - and anyone playing the English". And really, Saturday night, it was just as much about hiding chariots where the sun doesn't shine, about crushing the English as it was about the great game that the Welsh rugby team played. And really, it seemed like the whole of Wales (as evidenced by my Facebook) was watching.  A whole country united behind their team.

It's all water off a duck's back to me - born in England and lived there all my life (apart from various sojourns in France) until now, and not particularly interested in the outcome of any sporting competition, I know I have enough Welsh and Scottish blood in me that I don't feel that this hatred of the English is really about ME - although I probably wouldn't argue the toss with one of my Welsh friends. The fact is, that whatever I feel, I'll probably always be 'English' in the eyes of my Welsh friends here. The Husband, well, I think he'd have preferred not to have to go into work this morning, but he took a deep breath and manned up, practising saying "Well, we've got to let you win sometimes" in the least bitter tone he could muster...

Of course, we watched the game. And (don't tell the Husband) I'm glad Wales won. I love the support the team has, the unfettered pride in watching a good team play brilliantly, and of course, the way the victory is celebrated - by the way, have you seen the video of Ioan Gruffudd dancing around in his pants? If anything is worth a Welsh victory, that is...

Welsh mussels cooked in English Cider

We spent the morning on Saturday before the match foraging for mussels. We're in the grip of the most gorgeous weather at the moment, so we took the opportunity to collect a couple of kilos from a local beach. 

Our intention was to make something called 'eclade' which we've seen Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall prepare - you cook the mussels by burning pine needles over the top of them and then stir the pine infused mussels into a concoction of shallots and spinach. So while the mussels soaked in sea water, we spent the afternoon trying to find pine needles. 

Easier said than done. We were thwarted, so instead, we cooked the mussels in cider. And very good they were too. We ate them in front of the TV watching the rugby. Welsh mussels cooked in English cider - culinary harmony, if not mirrored on the pitch.

About 2.5 kg mussels - cleaned and debearded
good knob of butter and a splash of olive oil
2 echalion shallots, finely chopped
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
1 500ml bottle of cider
about 50 ml double cream
freshly ground pepper

You also need a large heavy pan with a lid

Melt the butter in the oil, and gently sweat the shallot and garlic until soft.

Tip in the cider and bring up to the boil before tipping in the cleaned, de-bearded mussels and putting on the lid tightly.

Cook for 3-4 minutes, shaking the pan a couple of times.

Once the mussels have all opened, stir in the cream, and then leave to sit for a couple of minutes (if you can wait) - apparently this allows any residual grit to sink to the bottom of your pan.

Ladle mussels and the cooking liquid into bowls and serve - they are exceptionally good with skinny fries and decent mayo on the side, belgian style, or if you prefer, crusty bread.

Baked Scotch Eggs

It was, apparently, Eleanor Roosevelt that said "Do one thing everyday that scares you".

Do I agree that this is a basis for a life well-lived? I think, on balance, yes. I scare myself every day, in negative (driving too fast down narrow country lanes to get the kids to the bus in the morning) and positive (putting myself out there for work - in fact, being freelance scares me low level all the time in a "what if no one wants me to work for them" kind of way then realising that people do want me to work for them) ways, and on balance, I think scaring yourself in a positive kind of way is a good thing. The negative kind of scaring, where nothing positive comes out of it at the end (apart from getting the kids on to the bus, thereby avoiding an additional 20 minutes drive) is not so good.

But this is all fairly pointless pondering for the moment. I don't have to scare myself any more for at least 6 months, because last weekend, I went coasteering and scared the complete bejesus out of myself - in an exhilarating and positive "definitely do it again" kind of way. And this kind of scaring yourself is something I'd totally recommend, and makes me understand exactly what Eleanor Roosevelt was talking about. About stepping out of your comfort zone - in this case, quite literally: 12 m jump into the Blue Lagoon anyone - and surviving. Feeling the fear and doing it anyway never felt so real or so amazing. And when your 9 year old daughter has done it first, really, there's no option...

(this is me, btw, not the daughter)

As I've wittered on ad nauseam on here, the coastline where we live is completely stunning, and what better way to enjoy it than kitted up and with the full immersion of clambering over swimming round, leaping off and generally enjoying the coastline a little bit further away from the madding crowd. Abereiddy, Pembrokeshire was our destination

Celtic Quest Coasteering our amazingly fun, competent, utterly confidence-inspiring guides as we donned wetsuits, helmets, bouyancy aids, gloves and set off for one of the most brilliant and terrifying afternoons I've had for a long time, albeit that I had to spend quite a lot of time trying not to lose my contact lenses....

And to fuel this afternoon of adrenaline, baked scotch eggs: lovely eggs from our new neighbours' chickens, sausage & bacon from the butcher, my latest chilli sauce discovery, from Estelle's Gower Goodies and some homegrown chives... And because they are baked, they are healthy. Or less bad for you than the deep fried variety. Not very scary, but hey, you can't have anything.

Baked Scotch Eggs

for 5 Scotch eggs

5 large eggs - free range, organic, from your neighbour, if possible...
2 shallots, finely chopped
5 fat pork sausages, skinned (about 350g sausage meat)
1-2 tablespoons chilli sauce
1 slice of brown bread, turned into breadcrumbs
good handful of chives (or parsley), finely chopped
3 slices of streaky bacon

You also need a muffin tin - one with deep holes.

Hardboil your eggs - I do this by putting the eggs in a pan and covering to about 1 cm depth with cold water. Bring the water to the boil, then simmer the eggs for around 6-7 minutes. If you over cook them you start to get horrid black lines round the yolk, and also I like the yolks being not quite solid. But if you're pregnant or cooking for babies or small children, you probably wan to simmer for 8 minutes. 

Once cooked for the requisite time, plunge the eggs into cold water to stop them cooking, and leaving the shells till needed.

Turn your oven on to 200C/180 fan.

Gently sweat off the shallots in a little olive oil for 10-15 minutes, then set aside to cool a little.

Combine the sausage meat, cooled shallot, chilli sauce, breadcrumbs, chopped chives and a good grind of pepper until well mixed.

Peel the hardboiled eggs (one of my favourite cooking things to do).

Divide the sausage mixture into 5 and then flatten  a portion of sausage into your hand and wrap an egg in it, squidging and shaping as you go.

When all eggs are wrapped, cut the rashers of bacon in half, then stretch each half with the back of a knife and wrap each sausage-coated egg in a piece of bacon.

Pop each bacon wrapped, sausage coated egg into a hole in the muffin tin and bake for 25-30 minutes.

Remove from the muffin tin onto some kitchen paper to get rid of any more fat which hasn't drained into the bottom of the muffin tin, then leave to cool and enjoy as if it were your last meal, before heading off for adventure...

Linking this up with the Simply Eggcellent challenge on Belleau Kitchen where for June, 'anything goes'...

Lobster

Meet Larry... Larry the Lobster

As birthdays go, I'm not one to get that worked up about them, or presents. There's not much I want and I certainly don't hope for or expect lavish gifts that seem to be de rigueur these days. I'll always remember being asked if I knew I was getting the eternity ring the Husband gave me for Christmas several years ago - as if it was somehow something I'd asked for and was expecting or felt I had some kind of right to. I was completely gobsmacked by the question to be honest - I mean, it was a lovely, gorgeous present, but I would never have expected anything like it. And now that I'm on the right side of 40, honestly, what I enjoy about birthdays is the little things, time with family & friends, an excuse to have a little trip out - to a gin distillery perhaps.... I mean if people want to give me awesome things like a ghillie kettle, then that's all well and good, but presents don't matter to me in the same way that they seem to to some people (and I exclude children here - children are perfectly entitled to get excited about presents - I'm not such a miserable humbug...).

A ghillie kettle - the best 43rd brthday present agirl could get.

I wouldn't normally talk about birthday presents except that 10 days before my birthday, I received an early present, and a very surprising one at that. Imagine, if you will, the scene: I am taking 5 minutes out on a Sunday morning. My mother in law and her new husband who are visiting for the weekend have taken themselves off for a little excursion, and the Husband and the children are engaged in various bad weather day activities. I am crocheting (rock & roll).

My mother in law and husband return and I hear them asking where I am. "Are you sitting down Sally? You'd better put that crochet down" 

And the next thing I know, there's a plastic carrier bag being placed on my knee it feels heavy. Something shifts. I peer into the bag, and see dark shell. At first I think it's mussels, and then, a more vigorous shift - vigorous enough to make me jump and utter a most un-RecipeJunkie-like shriek: for I pride myself on my ability to deal with spiders, slugs and all many of creatures normally assigned the 'fear factor'....

in my defence, I defy anyone who wasn't expecting it not to react in a similar way to having a live, and rather angry, lobster dropped in their lap...

Fortunately, I didn't drop the bag, for if I had, the rather magnificent and indignant (justifiably so) Larry would have been allowed to get loose in our sitting room. His claws were rubber banded together, but he was fluttering the curious flaps he has on his belly in a rather aggressive manner, so I put him back safely in the bag on the kitchen work surface, and went to consult Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (well, his Fish book - our hotline isn't working at the moment...).

Angry and magnificent - could I really bring myself to plunge him into boiling water? Well, depending on your point of view, I'm sorry to disappoint you/pleased to say that I rose to the challenge. Based on Hugh's advice, I popped Larry into the freezer for a couple of hours, and then found the biggest cooking receptacle I could find, which turned out to be the jam pan. 

The theory about putting them in the freezer is that the lobster will drift off into a chilly coma and, when you plunge him into the boiling water, won't have time to come to and realise what's happening before it's all too late and you've got a beautifully pink ready to eat lobster ready for nothing more than some lemon juice and a slather of mayonnaise.

Water appropriately salinated, then, I applied the gas and waited for the water to boil - my VEGETARIAN mother in law looking on all the while. And reader when the time came, I did it. Larry went into the water.

How do I feel about this? I did feel slightly queasy about the whole thing, I must admit, but I'm not a vegetarian, and really, I should be prepared to kill something if I'm going to eat it. I felt there was a lesson to teach the children too - something about putting your money where your mouth is...

I have no such qualms about mussels - but they don't look like living things in the same way as Larry the lobster did, all his indignation intact before his swift consignment to the freezer. There was an element of 'face' going on too - I mean, presented with a lobster by your mother in law, what would you do? Wimp out, or rise to the challenge? I'll say no more.

We ate him, Larry. And he was delicious. Caught that morning, my mother in law & hubbie had acquired him from the fisherman who operates off Aberporth beach as he came in from his morning's work. Apparently, as the boat came in, a number of people appeared to select goodies. I've never seen this, and I'm pleased that it happens, because did you know that most of the fine and delicious sea food caught in these beautiful waters around Wales and the rest of the British Isles is all shipped to Europe? It's criminal, but apparently there's no market for it over here. They paid £10 for Larry - which makes me think, I need to get to know the fishing schedules a little more intimately...

Dà Mhìle Gin (and other things)

A couple of years ago, a friend turned up at a party we were holding with a bottle of gin. Welsh gin. Organic gin. There was about a quarter of a bottle left when she arrived, none when she left. "Pretty good gin", I thought. So imagine my surprise and delight when, not long after we arrived in this most westerly part of Wales, that we were a mere couple of miles away from the Da Mhile gin distillery...

You don't have to look too hard on here to know that my tipple of choice is a G&T. I don't know when it first wheedled its way to the top of my list of alcoholic refreshment - certainly not during my student days when Mad Dog 20 20 and pints of 'Blastaway' topped the list (cheap, effective); nor during my time living in France, where red wine, sold by the litre and decanted direct into your own plastic bottles at the tabac, and tequila, were the drinks of choice. Perhaps it was while the Husband and I were dancing around each other in the early days of our relationship, mostly at various military black tie 'dos' where a G&T was de rigeur 'before dinner' (unless it was the summer when Pimms was OK)....

As I have tasted different gins, I have come to appreciate that there is gin and there is gin. A green bottle, once something I considered to be the height of sophistication, would now be something of a last resort, and I am half alarmed to find that I now classify gin, secretly (although clearly not so secretly now I've shared), quietly, into 'everyday' gin and 'special gin'. There's also gin for adulterating (sloes, bullace plums...). A quick recce reveals that I have no less than 7 different gins knocking around at home at the moment, clearly covering every eventuality. And let's not even start to talk about tonic.

Which brings me neatly on to Dà Mhìle.

There's been a huge upsurge in the craft gin movement over the last few years which only serves to fuel my interest: a highlight of going to CarFest South a couple of years ago was meeting the Warner Edwards boys and cracking open a bottle of their elderflower gin to drink with some fever tree tonic in the late afternoon sun with a great friend before Scouting for Girls appeared on stage; a  trip to the Good Food show 18 months ago now sticks largely in my mind for the variety of different gins I had tasted before 11:00 a.m. (a girl has to make the most of these occasions...); my epic trip to the London Gin Club last November...

I visited Dà Mhìle (pronounced "da-vee-lay" - it's Scots gaelic for 2,000 - I'll explain later) with a friend a couple of weeks ago - a beautiful sunny day, which also happened to be my birthday - great timing, don't you think! 

After a couple of false turns on the road, it being much harder to follow google maps on a phone round here where the roads are small, twisty and mostly unlabelled, we turned off down the mile long track from the main road, signed for Caws Teifi - the award winning, and frankly delicious, cheese also made here - and landed up in what first appeared to be a largely deserted farmyard complete with scratching chickens and a couple of old tractors. Still, our host, Mike, met us and took us into the distillery which is housed in what was previously a cow shed.

The place itself has a great history - it's been home of Caws Teifi award winning cheese since 1982, although production moved to a purpose built facility on the farm in 2004, freeing up space for the distillery. The farm and land was purchased by Dutch cheesemakers John & Patrice Savage-Onstwedder and Paula Vanwerkhoven who moved to this part of Wales from the Netherlands in the 70s. Cheese making established, John wanted to make whisky, and commissioned the first organic whisky, distilled from 11 tonnes of organic Welsh barley he had delivered to the Springbank Distillery in Scotland. The resulting single malt, 7 years old, 2,000 bottles for the millenium, hence 'da mhile' is much sort after by collectors and incredibly delicious if you're a whisky fan, but this is all about the gin. 

Once the cheese operation moved to the new facility, the distillery could become a reality. The operation is still in the early days - the licence having been granted in 2010, and it taking another 3 years to start production. Gin, with its relatively quick turnaround from alcohol to bottle, is where it's at today, although some whisky is made available every year.

Mike explained the history of the operation at Glynhynod Farm - from cheese to gin, and then took us to meet the beautiful still and explained the distilling process to us

At Da Mhile, they focus on small batches of gin - and other spirits -the distillery licence is for only 350 litres. But while the batches may be small, they are unfeasibly delicious. The first product of the distillery, an orange liqueur, won a True Taste Award for its first batch.

The distillery now produces 3 gins: the botanical gin which my friend brought along to the party I mentioned, a seaweed infused gin and an oak-aged gin which has the smoky hints of the fresh 2013 single grain  whisky barrels that the gin is kept in before bottling.

If you visit the distillery, you can taste these beauties in the amazing gallery that's been constructed over the distillery - a beautiful warm light space used to art exhibitions as well as gin drinking, with views across the lush wooded valley - a Welsh paradise. However, it's well worth looking Da Mhile gin out wherever you are because it's wonderful.

The botanical gin is smooth, infused, I'm told, with 20 botanicals. I'm not gong to flatter myself that I know how to describe gin in high faluting terms, or insult you, so I shall leave it to the tasting notes from the website "The nose is subtle fresh rose petals, then spice and a hint of juniper. The initial palate is floral with bitter, fresh notes of dandelion and peppery cloves. The texture is silky, exuding a superb botanical mouth-feel finished by intense juniper tones and peppermint cool." Whatever, It's lush.Try it with Fever Tree elderflower tonic. You'll thank me.

The seaweed gin, a delicate pale green, is a less complex gin, and is then infused in seaweed, which comes, dried, from the West coast of Ireland. Apparently, seaweed gathered on the local beaches on the West Wales coast can't be classed as organic because of the possibility of pollution, so farmed seaweed from the West Coast of Ireland is the next best thing - and makes for a different and very enjoyable gin., designed to compliment seafood and lay the ghost that says you shouldn't drink gin with oysters- this is something I intend to address myself at the earliest opportunity, given that I remember necking a G&T in a smart restaurant once before my starter of oysters turned up for this very reason...

The oak-aged gin is something very different, akin to a Dutch Jenever. The fact that it's aged in whisky barrels is apparent both from the colour, a pale gold, and the taste. I can confidently say that it's unlike any gin I've ever tasted, and really delicious, although the smokiness may not be to everyone's taste. It's a warming drink, definitely one for winter evenings. 

So which to choose? Well, in the end, and because it was my birthday, I bought a bottle of each. All special gin, each different. We bought some cheese too. Then my friend and I headed off for a late lunch...

If you're close enough to visit, or on holiday in the area, you're welcome to go along and check out the distillery for yourself, although this is no slick visitor centre operation - you'll get up close to the process (and the odd chicken), shown round by the people actually involved in the distilling process who can answer all your questions. The best times to visit are 11 and 3 p.m. - best to get in touch with them first. 

Sticky Ginger Cake with Lemon Icing

So I was sneaking a piece of this ginger cake from the kitchen when I realised that I hadn't written a blog for OVER A MONTH. 

There's a lot going on, of which more, I hope, in a few weeks when 'the lot' has concluded and I can tell you all about it (I expect you are intrigued now).

I don't know why I was sneaking the cake, because there was no one else in the house, and only my thighs will tell the tale but anyway, there I was taking a guilty bite of this delicious thing and realised that it just had to be shared with the world before, like everything else I've made, my culinary adventures, in the last few weeks, it's been eaten and forgotten, a blissful memory... The ramson pesto, in all its green, wild-garlicky glory, for example,

the crumpets I made (so chuffed), 

the brilliant burger, 

and, of course, THE LOBSTER will simply have to wait - may be even till next year - only immortalised in my Instagram feed until then...

It's not just 'the lot' either ('the lot' that I don't want to jinx by talking about it)  - generally life has been incredibly busy. We've also had the Easter holidays, visitors, and just the most beautiful run of weather. And because everyone says "Oh, yes, Wales, well it's bound to rain again soon", you just have to get out and make the most of it. Not, exactly, a hardship, when getting out and making the most of it involves lots of this

and plenty of that

and quite a bit more of the other, 

but I'm starting to think that this is part of a conspiracy to keep this most fantastic of places a secret. Sorry if I've just blown it, but, honestly, this is the most stunning place, and the weather is not nearly as bad as you might have been led to believe...

But back to the blogging, I am afraid I've been spending a lot of time on the beach, my floors are covered in a fine dusting of sand, and I've gone a little bit more native and taken up crochet. I won't, you'll be pleased to hear, start blogging about the crochet, but neverthless, it's eating in to time I'd otherwise have spent tapping away.

This cake however, fits perfectly with the season and the weather. It's ideal beach cake, I made a slab of it to take camping with friends last weekend on the Gower. A combination of Martin Dorey's The Campervan Cookbooks' sticky ginger treacle cake, and Nigella's fresh ginger bread from Domestic Goddess, it's old fashioned and delicious and just what you want to eat with a cup of tea after a day on the beach.




Sticky Ginger Cake with Lemon Icing

200 ml semi-skimmed milk
3 tbsp black treacle
100g butter
75g plain flour
2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1/2 tsp cinammon
200g soft brown sugar
125g oats
A good chunk (maybe 3 inches or so) fresh ginger, peeled & finely grated

Juice of half a lemon (although you may not need all of it)
175g icing sugar

Grease & line a 20cm square cake tin, and pre-heat the oven to 150C (130C fan)

Tip the milk into a small pan. Add the treacle and butter and slowly bring to the boil so that everything melts into the milk.

Keeping an eye on the pan, sieve the flour, bicarb and cinammon into a large bowl, and mix in the sugar and oats. 

When the butter & treacle has melted into the milk, add the grated ginger, give it a quick stir and pour into the flour mixture, then stir to combine.

Pour into the prepared tin and bake in the pre-heated oven for about 50 minutes.

Leave to cool in the cake tin, then make the icing. Sieve the icing sugar then slowly mix in the lemon juice to make a thick, spreadable icing - not too runny, you want a layer on the top (preferably one you can leave teeth marks in) rather than dribbles down the side - and smear it over the cake. When the icing has hardened, cut the cake into 16 pieces, wrap in greaseproof paper and head out.

A final fling - for now

We are the only ones here. It feels only right, a final treat, to have it all to ourselves.

If I could bottle and sell this walk, the sense of calm that I feel as I emerge from the wooded valley onto the beach, the sound of the birdsong, clearer and richer than I've ever heard before giving way to the hush and rush of the waves, I'd be a wealthy woman.

The tide is quite high on this, the day of our final fling on our favourite beach until the Autumn. Alone, but not lonely.

We walk as far as we can, the dog chasing ahead to make sure there are no seagulls in need of a good talking to, before returning to remind me that it's high time I started throwing stones into the sea.

We turn and head back, and I marvel at the fact that we are the only ones who have seen the beach exactly as it is, in this moment. The pattern the waves leave on the shore, the configuration of the shells, pebbles, seaweed and other debris that marks the tideline.

Already the sea is washing away our footprints, imperceptibly shifting stones, reshaping sand. By the time the next visitors arrive, certainly by Autumn, it will be a different beach - although hopefully the same.

Going...

 

Going...

Gone.

 Roll on October.

Vegetable Cawl

I have learnt a lot about my children over the couple of months since we moved, and this will probably sound like a bit of a boast, but they are my kids, and if I can't boast about them occasionally, well who can?

They have shown themselves to be resilient, adaptable, tolerant, good natured and enthusiastic in the face of not inconsiderable challenge and come out mostly smiling. I say mostly because there have been moments, especially for Blue, when it's all got a bit much, but even then, they have managed to get it all back together and on track. I've had moments too (as the fruity peanut butter cookies are testament to), but I've had years of 'character building experiences' to help me deal with this particular one (although, when does ones character stop being built??), where they haven't. And yet, they have done more than just cope.

Another thing I've learnt about them - or perhaps, been reminded of - is that, food-wise,  you can dress something up in another guise, repackage it - rebrand it if you will - and get them to eat something that they would otherwise not have touched.

Now (and yes, another boast) my kids are pretty good eaters - well, Blue certainly is, and in true sloppy attitude to second child - Pink's occasional fads simply don't bother me any more (I've come along way from the woman who once chased a 9 month old round a room with a spoonful of brocoli in cheese sauce...)

But less of the self-congratulation. Good eaters or not, there are some things that just aren't that popular with children, and as far as mine are concerned, this includes soup - lumpy soup in particular. We've made progress over the years, but a soup including barley, chunks of veg - something I would have called vegetable broth, for want of anything more imaginative to call it? You're having a laugh.

So this is where the repackaging comes in. Cawl is a traditional Welsh dish - pronounced cowel (as my kids inform me, with all the authority of those who have been learning something their parents have not yet had time to get to grips with, and not 'call' as I had thought). It's basically a broth which can have anything in it, depending on what's available, but usually includes barley type grains, making it more substantial than a simple soup. It can have bacon or gammon in it, left over chicken, pieces of lamb, or just be vegetables.

Just right for an easy supper. Except I never for one minute thought the kids would go for it, and how wrong I was. The 3rd day at their new school saw them celebrating St David's Day. I had to work hard to persuade the Husband that they could be permitted to go to school dressed in Welsh rugby shirts, but may be the very 'welshness' of the occasion (and the rugby shirts) rubbed off on them, because they came home pronouncing that cawl was so delicious that they had had thirds. Well, you can't let an opportunity like that go to waste, so armed with a packet of country soup mix, this has become a staple of the weekly menu. Not soup, not vegetable broth, but cawl. 

When in Wales, and all that.



Vegetable Cawl

Serves 6, approximately. 

Remember that you need to start this 8-12 hours before you actually want to eat, to soak the country soup mix.

150g country soup mix
1 tbsp olive oil
2 onions, finely chopped
1 large clove of garlic, peeled & finely sliced
2 carrots, peeled & diced
1 bay leaf
4 medium leeks, cleaned and sliced
1.5 litres hot chicken stock (or veg stock if you're vegetarian)
Chopped parsley to garnish if desired

The night before, soak the country soup mix in 500ml water - it needs to soak for 8-12 hours at least.

Heat the olive oil gently in a large pan, and gently fry the onions and garlic for 10 minutes or so till softened, then add the carrots, bay leaf and sliced leek and cook for another couple of minutes.

Drain the soup mix, add it to the pan, then tip in the stock and bring it to the boil. Boil the soup for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat and simmer for another 20 minutes or so.

Serve in big bowls, garnished with chopped parsley, and with crusty bread.

Ceredigion Calling - Welsh cakes

You didn't think I was going to wait till we'd actually moved to Wales before I blogged about welsh cakes, did you?

I absolutely LOVE these babies - not quite biscuits, not quite cakes, and pretty easy to knock up a passable batch (although don't remind me of the total fail we had trying to make some while we were camping in the summer. You remember the summer? You know, when the sun shone, and you could leave the house without being wrapped up in enough gortex to waterproof the Royal Navy. You don't? Actually, I'm not sure I do either...)

But (as I often do) I digress...

Welsh cakes. I'm not sure if this is an authentic recipe - I realised too late that I'd run out of straight caster sugar, so used some vanilla sugar. I certainly don't have a welsh cake stone to cook them on. The Husband tells of a family welsh cake stone, but this appears to have been lost somewhere along the way, consigned to family tales of Auntie Pam and her Olympian ability to churn out plates of welsh cakes at the drop of a hat. I never met Auntie Pam - a formidable lady of the Valleys who, the story goes, greeted her husband every day after work with a plate of fresh welsh cakes... While I'm sure I'll never live up to that, it feels right that I should get to grips with some of the basics of the Welsh menu, and welsh cakes seem like a good place to start. 

I'd have loved to have seen Auntie Pam's welsh cake stone - and kept it in the family - and it goes without saying that I'd have loved to have tried her cakes. Still, the griddle plate that came with my lovely cooker - the cooker I will shortly be saying good bye to (sob) - does the job admirably, and the welsh cakes that Pink & I made today were pretty good. I picked up a tip that you should make sure the griddle plate or pan that you cook them on doesn't get too hot. Of course, it makes sense, but in the past, I may have been guilty of using an overly hot pan, meaning that you had to forgo a fully cooked cake, or risk burning.

Pink and I had a surprise opportunity to do some after school baking, and this is what we made. Who needs healthy baked potatoes for tea anyway?



Welsh Cakes 

225g plain flour
½tsp baking powder
a generous pinch (or 2) of allspice
A pinch salt
100g unsalted butter
75g vanilla sugar, plus a little extra for sprinkling at the end
65g sultanas
1 large egg
A little milk to bind

Sift the flour, baking powder, allspice and salt together into a bowl.

Chop the butter into pieces and then rub into the flour mixture.

Stir in the sugar and sultanas.

Lightly beat the egg then add it to the dry ingredients, and mix together to form a dough. Add a little milk if necessary - in the end I used about 3 tsps.

Roll the dough out on a floured work surface to the thickness of about a £1 coin, then cut out using a biscuit cutter, re-rolling and cutting the dough till it's all used up.

Heat your griddle pan, welsh cake stone etc and cook the cakes gently on both sicdes till golden and cooked through. Keep them warm as they come off the cooker, and then when all are cooked, sprinkle with a little more sugar and eat.

I think we all ought to have a look at that photo again. Don't you?