” What in the fuck has happened to my garden?”

and they would have replied as one:

“Hail, Caesar”

I, unlike Caesar, did not have the benefit of having in my employ a group of gardeners to execute in a hideous way for spoiling my morning. It’s unfair, but pleasures like that can only be enjoyed  by insane tyrants. This snail, however, is delighted by the bounty that has fallen unexpectedly from the heavens, thus saving him an arduous slime up the tree. I shall have to dig deep into those chicken entrails to work out my next move, but it already looks like like  brooms, shovels and wheelbarrows will cross my path.

I have always loved swearing and profanity and have never felt that any occasion, however formal or solemn, would not benefit from the occasional expletive. Yet, for the first time in my life, I feel constrained in my opinions and language by the internet. This is the only time in my life that I have had to come into contact with the world of PC, that I loathe and detest. I cannot remember a time when society has been so shackled by how it can “appropriately” express itself.

Before I go any further and fuck everyone off, here’s a picture of an apple tart, or to make sure not to cause offence, apples cooked on a puff pastry base.

Coinciding with the first suggestion of summer, in the Northern hemisphere, comes the appearance of a seasonal race of people, who claim the ability to cook on open fires as second nature. I am not amongst them, and if truth be told, nor are they. The simple act of lighting the charcoal produces in me a similar reaction to early man’s first finger burning experience: a mixture of wonderment and pain. Charred fencing and scorched earth  bear testament to my experiments, with food and fire, in every corner of our small garden. Amongst the drawings, that archaeologists of the future will find on our cave wall, will be one depicting a harried woman bludgeoning an apron wearing septuagenarian who is trying to burn down their cave whilst incinerating a fish.

My earlier manipulations of a chicken’s entrails had foretold success and fine weather. How right those entrails were: henceforth, all chickens beware. In the future I shall not be listening to forecasters, or one in four casters, rather I shall be plunging my arm up a chicken’s fundament to get an accurate prediction of the expected hours of sunshine. While others in smart bars on La Croisette check their Rolex barometers for the coming days weather, I shall be sitting at a nearby table, with my trusty cock in my hand, content  in the full knowledge of that which is about to come my way.

Back to the mackerel. The impetus for this atavistic cookery moment was a very good recipe by Tom Parker Bowles which appeared in one of my least favourite places – daytime television. Fish cookery, of the mackerel and sardine school, invariably leaves its olfactory mark on the interior of a small house in the same way that cats can do. The scent, a euphemism if ever there was one, hangs around for too long. The television version showed the cookery taking place in a well ordered kitchen, as is the way with the fairy tale that is television cooking. At one point it was mentioned that this dish would be even better prepared on a barbecue. I looked out of our window and noticed that summer was pouring down in stair rods. Fuck it, I thought, creatively, I shall swim to the shops and maybe catch a mackerel or two on the way. And so it came to pass. The sea parted and the sun shone down on my bowl of burning charcoal. In thanks to the powers that bring sun, I sacrificed a brace of mackerel and they were delicious. Here follows the recipe:

Yesterday, I had a pastry epiphany. Chica Andaluza, a wonderful blogger, wrote of an olive oil pastry so simple, that even she could not mess it up: nor could I. This pastry is summer pastry because it is so breathtakingly easy to make and because it was conceived  to accompany tomatoes, onions, capers, anchovies, olives, artichokes, and all things Mediterranean that blossom in the company of oil and crisp, thin pastry.

I made this simple tart with the olive oil pastry yesterday. The recipe for the pastry can be found on the link to Chica’s blog, which should be visited any way. The covering of my tart came from what was around in my kitchen. There were some sprouting onions that needed to be used up: they were melted in good olive oil for about 50 minutes, never going dark brown, but becoming meltingly sweet and savoury. A ramekin containing what was left of an intense tomato sauce, some capers and a few anchovies. That was it. Sunshine and wine did the rest.

The pleasure in cherries lies in immediacy. A white china bowl sits in front of me whilst I wonder what I shall do with them. As I wonder, I eat and soon there are none. That is the best way to enjoy cherries – thoughtless indulgence leaving one covered in juice and the plate looking like a well used love nest.

The moment of waking, very often, holds the mood of the day. Today was such a day, as was yesterday. I’m not a person who readily believes in superstition and signs but when a giant rabbit smiles down on me from the ceiling I’m ready to believe that the omens for the day are positive. James Stewart had a fabulous time with Harvey, so I am full of hope for a fruitful twenty four.

Back to the glass in hand. The sun has come out, I’ve cast my clout and summer has officially begun. Summer cooking is now on my mind. So many books have been penned on the subject, but only one remains foremost in my mind: Summer Cooking by Elizabeth David. This is an anorexically slim book, which speaks volumes about the possibilities  of good eating and straight forward cooking in this longed for season which, unlike the book, has a habit of disappointing. The volumes that it speaks are not concerned with long and convoluted recipes; rather with familiarising us with the idea of summer and the pleasures of the wealth of produce, synonymous with this season. This description of a summer hors d’oeuvre sets the tone:

“A dish of long red radishes, cleaned, but with a little of the green leaves left on, a dish of mixed green and black olives, a plate of raw, round, small whole tomatoes, a dish of hard (not too hard) boiled eggs cut lengthways and garnished with a bunch of parsley. A pepper mill and a salt mill, lemons and olive oil on the table; butter, and fresh bread. Not very original perhaps, but how often does one meet with a really fresh and unmessed hors d’oeuvre?”

A good rule of thumb, in summer months, is to keep cooking as simple as possible, so as to be able to sample the contents of the cooking glass with impunity. With this in mind I’d suggest a starter of radishes with salted  butter: ideally they’d be pink radishes served with toast and butter from the Vendéen coast, studded with crystals of sea salt.

Follow this with a simple puff pastry tart with cherry tomatoes and goat cheese.  First cook the tomatoes in a hot oven, until they are starting to caramelise. Next, cook off a disc of shop made puff pastry until it is puffed and golden brown. Cover the crisp puff pastry with a layer of tomatoes and stud it with discs of goat cheese.  Cook until the cheese is melting and the tomatoes have burnt, sticky edges.

That’s certainly enough cooking for this Alice.  To finish, just cut open some ripe and sweetly scented pêches plates, lay back and pretend that it’s not raining.

It had all begun so well. Sunlight, music and sparkling wit filled the kitchen, thanks to the services of the Almighty and Radio 4.  Cosseted in this harmonious atmosphere, I processed through the steps of a clever and well researched recipe, attentive to each command, filled with the confidence of one who knows that right is on his side. Reminiscent of a keen eyed kamikaze pilot, my eyes skimmed across the page,  reading and absorbing the words of experience that flowed from the pen of Patricia Wells. ” If you are like me ” she wrote “the urge will be to stop the cooking a bit soon, so it doesn’t burn”. As if to prove how unlike her I was, I quelled the urge to stop the cooking which duly took me past the “deep, golden brown” stage and proceeded directly to the “Oh, fuck, I’ve burnt the pears” stage. The white headband around my forehead, the samurai sword on my lap and the glass of sake at my lips faded and were instantly replaced by blue sticking plaster, a broken tipped Sabatier and a glass of Côte de Rhône as I stared hopelessly at that which had gone so awry. I blame the cooker, the butter, the pan ….I blame the fucking mice. Was Burns not a poet but a pissed off patissier…. did he acquire his name, in a moment of raging irony, from the chef at mediaeval Gleneagles and how did he know John Steinbeck in the first place…..no surprise that he wrote about Grapes of Wrath. If he cooked like me he’d be necking them on a regular basis.

However dark and hellish this tarte tatin aux poires  may look, it was absolutely delicious. The appearance is my fault but the wonderful taste is due to Patricia Wells’ recipe.