Getting a bit crusty with Ottolenghi…..


faut mettre les mains..

faut mettre les mains..

As a rule, it is unusual for me to find either TV chefs or lumps of cooked egg white enjoyable. There’s a relentlessness about television presenters, that may well be part of their training, which serves to quickly remove any interest that I may have, or have had, in whatever they may be saying, teaching or selling. The lack of pause, of silence, is enervating and conducive only to my fumbling for the off switch on the remote control, whose batteries will be as flat as my expectations,  in a desperate attempt to eclipse the on screen hyperactivity that is threatening to make me never want to cook again.

Oeufs durs with anchovies and a well made mayonnaise can change the rule about lumps of egg white as can Yotam Ottolenghi change the other. In truth, I did not see him, for which I am glad as I didn’t have to suffer any disillusionment, but Jenny shouted up to me that she had just seen a chef make some wonderful vegetable filled pies and that I should look up the recipe on the internet which I did and which is how I came across this excellent recipe for the shortest of pastries encasing some miraculously flavoured run of the mill vegetables. The crust is made from butter, flour and sour cream which is a combination that I had never before tried but which produces a pastry as short as one made with lard whilst feeling more virtuous. One of the pleasures of this recipe is the silky feeling of the pastry in one’s hands. Curry powder, thyme, caraway seeds, ground cardomom, black mustard seeds, green chillis and garlic transform traditional root vegetables into something quite unexpected and, possibly, addictive. I’m keeping Mr.Ottolenghi in the same place as the other cookery writers that I admire….in my book shelves.




Posted in 2014, anchovies, Art photography, Baking, Boiled eggs, Cheddar, Cheese, Cookery Writers, Cooking, creme fraiche, Eggs, Excellence, Expectation, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, Herbs and Spices, Olive oil, Photography, photography course, Pie, Recipes, Vegetables, warm vegetable pies, Writing, Yotam Ottolenghi | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 46 Comments

Roger Stowell prints for sale…new Print Store

daily bread

daily bread

Recent print sales have encouraged me to take a fresh look at my Landscape Print Store. My first step of changing the name to Print Store reflects the variety of  the new images that I have selected from my archives. The display of images on sale will be refreshed on a regular basis and please don’t hesitate to ask me for prints of any other images that you may have seen in previous posts.

Posted in 2014, Art photography, Digital photography, food, Food and Photography, Photographic Prints | Tagged , , | 10 Comments

Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at suppertime…


Fall is a time when I need to pick myself up from the lazy carpet of summer on which I have been laying, ripening with age, for far too long this year. Long sunny days of rustic torpor are not conducive to mental exertion and, in the words of Hercule,  “ahhh yes, these little grey cells of the mind…they must be stimulated, mon ami”! So I decided to shoot myself. Sugar, a substance that I have only recently started to treat with the respect that it deserves, was to be the chosen silver bullet that would awaken the kraken in my brain which in turn would scare the shit out of the little grey cells and make them do something more than demand another glass of red or a quick nap on a deckchair. The chosen weapon was a cake, “three pear cake” to be precise, from “The Provence Cookbook” by Patricia Wells. My new found respect for the perils of sugar is manifested by the comparatively understated presence of sugar in our kitchen which scarcity flew in the face of the demands of this recipe. At first sight the sugar bullet is a medium calibre projectile specifically designed to hit the pleasure centres with a similar impact to that of being struck behind the ear with a stuffed seal (pace P.G.Wodehouse). It will daze you, but not put you down…..but it’s the addition of the sugar, egg and eau de vie glaze that is poured onto the cake, after its initial 40 minutes in the oven, and then replaced in the oven for a further 10 minutes to crisp and bubble. This small addition turns the gateau into a gator…a full metal jacket that would suit Vinnie Jones .50 Desert Storm in Snatch –  – beware:)




Posted in 2014, Baking, cake, Cookery Writers, desserts, Digital photography, Eggs, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, France, Fruit, Humour, Patricia Wells, Pears, Photography, photography course, Recipes, Three Pear Cake, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 55 Comments

egg tempera..ment


Like a sun tanned Humpty Dumpty, I am cracked and broken. As with H.D, I am basically a good egg but fragile. The last few days have provided me with a cogent and flawless argument against the extension of the retirement age from physical labour. On reflection, maybe the flaw in the argument is that it touches more on the dangers of a late entry into physical labour rather than an early exit. I have done both and, of the two, the leaving was far sweeter.

The last few days have afforded me little time for writing or picture making. Lack of these outlets has allowed my mind, numbed with the repetitive dullness of the tasks in hand, to dwell on words remembered: annoying words remembered such as ” …if you drink milk you should be obliged to eat veal” as written by an established food writer in a Twitter conversation on “head to tail” eating. The main thrust of the argument centred on the premise that unless a person is willing to eat every part of an animal, including the offal, that person should not eat any of it”. The patronising morality that lays behind such didacticism is so ridiculously misplaced as to beggar belief. Aside from the fucking outrageousness of such bollocks (and very tasty tidbits they are too), there appears to be no conception that the milk drinker might well like to eat some veal if only he/she had the wherewithal to buy some of the stuff. I am a committed supporter of Fergus Henderson’s mantra but, if my memory serves me right, I saw no one but the well heeled during my many visits to the St.John in Smithfield some 13 years ago. This is no criticism of that or any other of his excellent restaurants, just a statement from my memory. The prime morsels of offal are not eaten by the short of a few bob. What they eat is “meat”. Very often the provenance and  type of “meat”  is uncertain and may well contain many of the pieces of offal that, unaware though they are of the obligation, they should indeed be eating. I am no friend of statistics, but I am fairly sure that the majority of people, at least the majority of those who are lucky enough to have the choice, eat meat out of laziness which is why Ronald’s outfits proliferate, why meat pie producers profit and why pubs are placed close to establishments offering the whirling doner dervish option. The amount of people who are considering, at a butcher’s counter this morning in the UK, whether to have lambs’ brains, calf’s head or sweetbreads for dinner tonight could be counted on the beads of food zealot’s rosary. My delicious spleen is now vented and I shall return to sanding and painting shutters ….after a glass of wine and slice of a very good tart. I’m not risking milk…..


Posted in 2014, Baking, Cookery Writers, Cooking, Digital photography, Emotion, Excellence, Expectation, Farming, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, France, Humour, hypocrisy, Meat, Memory, Photography, photography course, Pie, tart, Uncategorized, Wine, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 43 Comments

Angry birds…


The glow of satisfaction in which to bask at the end of a hard day’s work is as elusive to me as a pretty chicken. After living in the French countryside for some years I am as far from conceiving what sort of unbearable loneliness brought about the colloquialism of “poule” for a lady of easy virtue as I am from understanding the pleasure of honest toil. Chickens and beauty go together like a peach and carriage and you mostly certainly can, and should, have one without the other. Work and basking have no contiguity in my experience. I have seen London road menders make a liaison of such opposites seem as natural as breathing, but these are the Shaolin of manual workers and it would take a lifetime of leaning on a shovel to come near to that trance like version of labour. I have used up most of a lifetime so I feel it would be wiser to avoid labour altogether rather than fall short of that flawless paragon. Jenny has seen the holes in what I assumed to be a water tight argument which means that, rather than continuing my pleasurable and sedentary quest for the link between poultry and pulchritude, I am condemned to continuing the search for the hidden link between sanding and painting heavy wooden shutters in the bright sunlight of an Indian summer’s day and basking in the satisfaction of laborious drudgery. At least a “poule” isn’t on her feet all day.

Posted in 2014, Bad Habits, Chicken, Digital photography, Food photographer, France, Humour, Photography, photography course, Poultry, Uncategorized, Weather, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 21 Comments

Cat under a hot tin roof…


The day before the one in question, we had become aware of another presence insinuating itself into the tranquil peace of our home. This is a rare period of the year when there are very few birds in the garden and so individual bird calls are more easily distinguishable. As I lay in bed in the early morning, hovering between sleep and waking, I found myself intently listening to the insistent song of a lone bird which was chameleon like in its similarity to a small cat crying. How varied and wonderful is nature, I reflected, as I slowly raised myself to start another day. The bird song, which continued, relentlessly, through the morning was beginning to lose its charm to the point when I knew who would kill cock robin. Looking up, I scoured the branches of the trees in the garden for the feathered pussy-tit, but to no avail. It was only as I looked down that I noticed a tiny creature looking up at me, perfectly imitating the bird song to which I had previously been listening.

Our married life has been filled with cats, all of them now dead. There must be an ethereal Boot Hill filled with cats who came and died at the Stowells. I am not good at being sad and each of these deaths caused me a great deal of  that emotion, to the point where I don’t want any more so I shouted at the tiny creature and shooed it out of the garden before it could take my heart. Jenny was already leading a clandestine Fifth Column in support of the kitten, ably supported by Nancy, but I stood firm and sung Kumbaya, even though my principal opinion of that anthem is that it sounds like a crap scrabble hand.

The last kitten free day dawned and I steeled myself to stand firm against the waves of cajolement and bribery. We had now noted that the kitten was outside the front of the house and closer inspection revealed that it was sheltering beneath our car, in which I was about to drive away on various commissions. Jenny came out of the house with me to ensure that the kitten was clear of danger before I set off but, although there was plenty of aural evidence to establish the presence of a kitten, there were no visual indications to confirm this. I lay prone on the road, moving in an organised fashion to examine each quarter of the terrain beneath the car to be sure that the little heart breaker was not  trying to end my marriage by purposely lying under a wheel. The all clear was sounded and I started the car but, even  over the engine noise, a cat’s crying could clearly be heard. A full cavity search of the interior of the car was undertaken and revealed nothing. I had a feeling that this kitten’s ancestors might well have been the most ingenious of “priest hole” designers who drove the searchers to such extreme ends of frustration that burning the whole house down was their only recourse. I duly started to stuff petrol soaked rags into the petrol tank but realised that I had things to do and places to go. I jumped to the stirrup, and Joris and he….I should have called him or her Joris, come to the think of it. Once in the saddle I restarted the car and yes, you’re right, the fucking miaouing was still going strong and seemingly very close to me and I wished that I didn’t care. I can never find the bonnet/hood  release because the name makes me think of Little Red Riding Hood/Bonnet and I forget what I’m doing. Once found, the release was released to reveal a tiny cat sitting on the air filter. Molly is now resident in our outhouse, where she lives in the lap of luxury. I think I shall get on very well with this cat as he/she ( we’re still not sure) looks as though it will be happy to live outside which is a sign of a very independent cat which I already love.

Posted in 2014, Digital photography, Emotion, family, Humour, Photography, photography course, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 48 Comments

A warm hand on your opening….

The old ones are always the best and so it turned out to be with this elegant bottle of  1984 Chateau de Rayne-Vigneau Sauternes that I could no longer resist opening. One Christmas, some fifteen years ago, my cousin, who is also partial to glass of something good, put this bottle into my safe keeping. As a wine guard I would not be a first choice or, some would say, not a choice. The label, which still hangs around the neck of the bottle, reads “Roger/ This is a NON Christmas present. It needs a good home and I’m sure it will find one with you. Cheers, David” ..which is comparable to entrusting the NHS Blood Bank to Count Dracula or the Bank of Scotland to whoever it was entrusted. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? As rhetorical a question as ever there was, being that the answer is invariably “No bugger, they do what they like”.
And so it will come as no surprise to you to learn that this guard, who is quite good at doing what he likes, decided that it was time to set the contents of this bottle free. On a sunny Sunday in France, not too far from its birth place, the cork that in 1984 sealed in the genie of maturation was gently pulled from the bottle allowing the golden miracle within to take it’s first breath of the poisonous air that will kill it …..unless we drink it. Which we will, if only out of kindness.


Posted in Digital photography, Drinks, Excellence, family, Food and Photography, Food photographer, France, Miracle, Photography, photography course, Sauternes, Sauternes, summer, Sunday, Uncategorized, Wine, wine, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 44 Comments



The car is filled with the warm scent of freshly baked bread as I make the return journey from the boulangerie, snaking through barely moving walls of corn and sunflowers that skitter the light of this late summer morning on the surface of the empty road that unrolls before me. Usually I think of today and rejoice but today I thought of possible distant tomorrows in which such peaceful moments will be the stuff of fiction or memory…but that’s not today.

Late summer is testament to unfairness and inequality. The world that I know goes on holiday in August and it rains…and rains,  drains optimism and makes us vow never to go again where we were that August. When that world is back at school and work, the sun returns from the distant places where it shone on the wealthy, when they wanted it, and on the poor and thirsty whether they wanted it or not. Once back in its rightful place it gets on with preparing to be mellow and fruitful which is what it does best and which it is doing, here, today. Apples are starting to be in the ascendant on the stalls, a bowl of which has led me to make this “golden apple tart” from Patricia Wells’ “Bistro Cooking”. The word golden, in the recipe title,  has nothing to do with the eponymous, yet inappropriately named apple. It has to do with the golden colour that the tart achieves from a rather longer cooking time than is usual.


The recipe demands that sugar, cream and egg yolks are poured on top the sliced apples and the whole then sprinkled with sugar just before being put into the oven and suggests a cooking time of 45 minutes in an oven at 190C, which I ignored and continued for a further 10 minutes and which did it no harm. Many cold and damp holiday makers  would have dreamed of achieving such a colour….until the end of the first week of rain when they would just have been happy not to contract pneumonia.


On reading the title of this recipe more carefully, I notice that the golden refers to the cream that is part of the recipe. Aside from the cream in the recipe, there is little question in my mind that a slice of warm apple tart will only benefit from a spoonful of additional and. if at all possible, golden cream.  The Vallee d’Auge in Calvados is not only renowned for its celebrated falling down water, but also for its extravagantly thick and jaundiced cream. This is not the sweet confection that I knew as thick double cream in a previous life, but an altogether more subtle example of the dairyman’s art ( I just can’t bring myself to write “dairy person” as I’m sure my readers will not be insistent that I spell out everything in order to appease the Goddess, oh all right, God of equality and that it doesn’t take too much perception to understand that gender has little to do with the making of cream, save for the gender of the producer of the milk).


Here’s the recipe from Patricia Wells’ “Bistro Cooking” which book is among my favourites

Posted in 2014, apples, Baking, Bistro, Calvados, Cookery Writers, Cooking, Cream, creme fraiche, Cuisine bourgeoise, desserts, Digital photography, Drinks, Eggs, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, France, Fruit, Golden Apple Tart, Patricia Wells, Photography, photography course, Recipes, tart, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 47 Comments

Getting properly stuffed…


The association of stuffing and peppers has the ring of anathema. Experience, together with hearsay, tells us that nothing good can come of it. Just the mere consideration of such a possibility awakens the culinary Torquemada that lurks in the dark recesses of my food prejudices. There are also the visual concerns to be addressed. Not only does the bisected pepper look like a pair of gay pianist’s spectacles but the two halves appear to be offering a challenge out of the side of their toothy mouths, whilst leering at each other over their respective shoulders :

“Come on then, stuff me if you think you’re hard enough….or more to the point, if you think Jenny will ever speak to you again….”

It was as though those red devils had addressed their challenge to a cocktail fueled  Margot Asquith:

” Fuck you”…came the witty riposte, perfectly in tune with the inimitable style of that most pithed of repartee artistes.


I feel that I should be giving a reason as to why I would consider stuffing a pepper and, as fortune would have it, a timely excuse has just come to my notice on Twitter. The excuse is called “Fridge Foraging” and that is what I was unwittingly doing. In the white interior of a sparsely furnished fridge it’s hard to miss the chromatic shock of a bright red pepper. Not being a diligent forager, I felt that I had looked for long enough and took the pepper rather like a press ganged drunk would have taken the queen’s shilling. When I find myself in times of trouble Nigel Slater comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, recipe….and so it was, yet again.


Slater’s impressive tome, “Tender”, has a privileged place on my cookery book shelves. Although the pages are, unsurprisingly, filled with delicious and imaginative ideas what I really like is the shiny piece of ribbon that acts as a book marker…that, together with the cover and a tiny, illegible, but wonderfully designed, font for the page numbers singles this book out as special. I know that can be a disparaging term but, in this case, it isn’t. I quickly searched the index for “good legal things to do to a pepper” and, within the hour, had found the page number with the aid of a linen glass. On the pages relating to peppers there were so many wonderful possibilities and one of them coincided with the fridge forager in me…..torn mozzarella, tomatoes, black olives and anchovies…..I’ve cooked them , cooled them, photographed and admired them. I gave Jenny something different for supper and the peppers are now back in the fridge from whence they came…I think they’ll be very good cold…I think

Posted in 2014, anchovies, buffalo mozzarella, Cheese, Cookery Writers, Cooking, Digital photography, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, Humour, Italian food, Nigel Slater, Olive oil, peppers, Photography, photography course, Uncategorized, Vegetables, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 40 Comments

The Big Red One…



Oh, that religious and political zealots were as sparse on the vine as good tomatoes were this August. Too much rain has taken its toll, leaving the scars of “maladie” on the marvellous misshapen fruit without which my cooking would be impoverished. How easy it is to relegate these cicatrised lumps to the compost. We spoiled inhabitants of peaceful lands , whose visual sensitivity has not as yet been depleted or exhausted by a daily confrontation with the horrors of men’s wickedness, are very sensitive to ugliness, mutilation and decay. Should the appearance of something displease us, our reaction is to turn away or to throw it away. A life as a studio photographer in London made me a standard bearer for such behaviour. A diet of perfection lacks any form of nourishment whilst simultaneously removing appetite although, on reflection, this might have had something to do with the drugs. My view has now changed and, having achieved my biblical quota, I am finding it easier to see beyond and beneath the skin which is opportune as these ugly buggers taste fantastic.

It is unusual, in our house, for a week to pass without a moment when a pot of tomato sauce is bubbling away on the hob. For a sauce as simple as this it should, by all rights, be wholly reliant on the quality of the ingredients used whereas, as long as tomatoes of some kind are employed, it will always be a success. Each tomato sauce that I make will differ in flavour, character and texture as I make it to the mood of the day and the available produce. Tomato sauce and measurements do not sit well together so the end result may depend on the heat of the chilies, that someone gifted me, the choice of olive oil,  the amount and quality of red wine, ground black pepper or a shake of white, a few grains of sugar for added sweetness, which herbs and, of course, which tomatoes. Tinned tomatoes, cherry, greenhouse, vine, cornu, marmande, coeur de boeuf, tomates de crimée, old, new, ugly or pretty tomatoes will all contribute their own individual nuances to this most well known and loved of all sauces ( except to haters of tomatoes who will have stopped reading some time ago). Sometimes, when time is on my side on a dark winter’s day, I will carefully chop and prepare carrots, celery and onion which are put into the covered pot to gently soften in olive oil. releasing their aromatic flavours before the chopped tomatoes are poured over them with the addition of red wine and more olive oil. When time is scarce, because the sun is beckoning me to sit outside with a glass, I’ll just chop fresh tomatoes and throw them into a pan with olive oil, salt and black pepper and let them cook for a very short time before stirring them into some pasta or just eating them with good bread and cheese.


The pleasure lies in the continuum….in knowing that I’ll not tire of this simple food… looking forward to making it again, and again, and again.


Posted in 2014, Cooking, Digital photography, food, Food and Photography, Food photographer, France, Olive oil, pasta, Photography, photography course, sea salt, tomatoes, Uncategorized, Vegetables, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 60 Comments