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You’re invited to the Channel Island of Jersey, just off the Brittany coast–to a special charity event for Diabetes Jersey at the Merton Hotel, Oct 11 or 12, 2017 (it’s repeated Wednesday & Thursday evenings).

Recipes and Recollections–A Delicious Night with Robin Ellis

Here’s the info from the Merton Hotel’s website.


 

(My books.)

On stage with me will be Robert Hall, a senior BBC correspondent, who will pepper me with questions while I season various demonstration dishes.

We’ll talk inevitably about Poldark, cooking, diabetes, France and Fawlty Towers perhaps…

(Robert was John Cleese’s “co-star of choice” when he appeared at the Opera House for his sell-out Audience with John Cleese evenings.)

 

 

 

The one vegetable I will not be cooking sadly is a Jersey Royal potatoes.

I remember my mother preparing these jewels of the potato family back in the fifties, when we’d enjoy a feast of “Jersey Royals” with a piece of white fish from the Macfisheries shop at the entrance to the Golders Green Tube Station.

They needed little addition–white sauce would have been an insult to the delicate taste. Perhaps a knob of butter and a sprinkle of parsley. Ma used to serve them unpeeled.

Delicious–but not a goer for me now.

Potatoes are one of the “whites”  I avoid as a type 2 diabetic; their concentrated carbohydrate puts them off-limits.

Others are: white rice, white pasta, white bread and white flourrefined carbs.

Don’t lose heart though–I shall be cooking up a storm…BROWN basmati rice is fine occasionally, as is wholewheat pasta, certain whole wheat and rye breads and chick pea flour.

Cooking school in Lautrec always started with a glass of bubbly.

 

I’ll be preparing the most popular recipe in my entire repertoire:  No-potato fishcakes:

Also planning on preparing no meat, too-simple-to-believe Red Bean Chili:

A delicious black olive dip from Provence called Tapinade:

And a lovely cold summer soup–Chilled Cucumber, gifted to me by my old friend and fellow Poldark alumnus, Donald Douglas (the fiery and thoroughly untrustworthy Captain McNeil, who pursued me as Ross Poldark, up hill and down dale, with no success–so finally gave up–and settled in a house an hour north of us here.

 

 

There’s a Pork Loin roasted with red onions and balsamic vinegar, a Chicken Tagine and plein d’autres chose [much else] as they say here in France.

Stuffed peppers are also an easy favorite I’ll be demonstrating:

 

Dinner is included in the event– and the kitchens of the Merton hotel are putting on a banquet with recipes from my cookbooks–so you can try them out!

I’ll be autographing books too, of course.

Here’s further info for reservations and tickets.

I’m looking forward to my first visit to Jersey and so is Meredith, my wife.

On va se voir bientôt, j’espère!

See you there…!

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The key to the church…

…is in our hands!

Signed and sealed–the deal is done, completed; the church next to our rectory is ours.

I find this an astonishing thing to write.

Owning a church was never an ambition–I have no allegiance–not since spending three hours on my knees at St Jude’s Church Hampstead Garden Suburb (High Anglican) for Good Friday service in the late 1950’s.

An act of pure exhibitionism–no wonder I became an actor.

In 1990 we fell in love with this house, a presbytère (the priest’s residence) with its church just next door–and a cemetery (could come in handy later).

The church is close–a few steps from our front gate.

A benign presence in our fairy tale since 1990–and an everyday one since moving here permanently in 1999.

Twice a year–on Easter Monday and at All Saints (November)–the curé of Lautrec came to say mass to a dwindling number of parishioners.

Funeral services were held from time to time, before burial in the cemetery à coté.

Our neighbors, Alice and Pierrette, made a terrible racket ringing the bells on Christmas Eve–frightening Père Noel out of his wits. The reindeer bolted!

About 15 years ago, a small piece of the vaulted ceiling fell–and the church was closed permanently–and essentially abandoned.

There is a slowly widening fissure in the outer walls one of the side chapels. Birds and bats took up residence inside.

Nonetheless it withstood whirlwind and tempest–and still stands–almost intact.

We are proud of our modest church–not old by French standards–built around 1860.

But three years ago the fairy tale took a less than benign turn.

Our newly-elected Mayor, a local garlic farmer whose parents are buried in the cemetery, announced he was keen to sell it!

All churches in France have been the property of the state since 1905–when an act separating Church and State became law in France.

(Would it were true in the UK–what are the bishops doing in the House of Lords?)

Lautrec needed the money and the now-derelict church was a burden, according to Monsieur le Maire. He was well within his rights.

Several buyers were interested in converting it to a domestic space–and thus becoming our cheek-by-jowl neighbors.

Our hackles were roused.

After an anxious year, we agreed to the asking price and shook hands with the Mayor.

Whoopeewe thought.

That was over two years ago!

French bureaucracy is a world beater–the notaire and the mayor wholeheartedly agreed on Thursday morning, as we both signed the final act of sale and shook hands again.

He wants the cash to improve the primary school and other good works around the village.

Felicitations to him,  felicitations to Lautrec and finally–felicitations to us!

Thus opens a new chapter….

 

 

 

Ratatouille

Ratatouille came into my mind as I was walking this morning–must have been the sun coming up.

A classic vegetable stew and the culinary face of summer! Looking at it makes you smile and forget–for a second– the state of the world.

Memories of holidays in Southern Europe drift into view.

Elizabeth David calls it Ratatouille de Nice–a sunny place for shady people“–according to Somerset Maugham–in her definitive tome, French Provincial Cooking.

Haven’t made it for years–got distracted by spicier recipes in the repertoire for sweet pepper, aubergine and tomato.

Shakshuka for instance–which features in my latest cookbook, Mediterranean Cooking for Diabetics, p. 41with a couple of eggs melting into the surface.

Ratatouille is gentler–relying on herbs for its flavor enhancers–rosemary, bay, thyme, marjoram.

We’ll have it for lunch, with pork chops and rosemary, cooked in a cosy nest of aubergine slices.

 

  • 3 tblsp olive oil
  • 1 medium onion–roughly chopped
  • 3 sweet peppers–red and yellow makes a pretty picture
  • 1 medium aubergine–halved and quartered lengthwise and then sliced into square inch pieces
  • 3 tomatoes–skinned and roughly chopped
  • 2 garlic cloves–pulped
  • 1 tsp coriander seeds–crushed
  • Sprigs of thyme, rosemary and bay–all added with the toms
  • 1 medium courgette–prepared as the aubergine

Heat 2 to 3 tbsp olive oil in a medium pan and add the onions.

Cook over a gentle flame until they soften–about five minutes.

Add the chopped peppers, aubergine and garlic to the pan and turn everything over in the oil.

Cover the pan and cook on a low flame for about 35 minutes–until the vegetables soften nicely.

Add the tomatoes, courgette, the herbs and the coriander seeds and turn it all again–being careful to preserve the shape of the veggy pieces, remembering that it’s the face of summer!

Cook for a further half hour–uncovered.

A dollop of tapinade (black olive dip–recipe also in my cookbook), enhances the feeling of being in Europe du Sud.

 

Can’t resist showing it again…

Walking again…

Our friend Romaine was here for a few days and took her daily short walk up the road with Meredith.

“Robin not walking anymore?”

“Seems not at the moment….”

This comment was duly reported back to the sometime walker who was busy watching others exert themselves impressively in the World Athletic Championships–enjoyable.

No immediate reaction then from the “no-longer” walker.

The comment, however, left its mark–like a nagging truth one’s been trying to ignore.

At supper last night prompted by Ben, our sleek, fleet of foot, black cat–mercury on the move–agitating for a postprandial forage, the subject came up again.

“You’ve given up walking?”

“Uhm…”

I had just eaten–I say it myself–a delicious plate of Mellanzane Parmigiana (aubergine in tomato sauce with parmesan)* and simple tomato salad–and was feeling benign–not like walking exactly, at that moment you understand, but positive towards the idea of walking again.

I heard myself saying:

“I should walk at 6am at this time of year–before the sun gets up and it gets too hot.”

My relationship with the sun changed a few years ago, after a small operation to remove a squamous cell carcinoma close to my nose.

The fiery beast has become like a friend you’ve fallen out with–and cross the road to avoid.

I spend my time dodging the ultra-violet.

Sad paranoia.

Silly too, as I have hats–effective ones–and sunblock.

The former I enjoy, the latter I don’t.

The remark at dinner was well-timed and I resolved to get up at 6am and walk.

I didn’t commit to this publicly at the time, which meant that this morning it was with a glow of virtuousness that I delivered Meredith her hot drink at 7.30.

“You went for a walk?!”

Yes–and as I left the “precincts,” I saw a small figure approaching out of the darkness, as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Beau takes his duties seriously

Our head cat–Beau–was out on his early morning walk–patrolling the perimeter.

We greeted–and went our ways….

Beau, night work completed, takes a break.

 

  • see page 176 of my book Mediterranean Cooking for Diabetics

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s the 14th July–Bastille Day.

Anniversary of the storming of the Bastille Prison in 1789–the start of the French Revolution.

In Paris, the Presidents of France and the US are also commemorating another momentous event–America’s entry into the First World War in 1917.

There’ll be military parades and firework displays all over France; there were fireworks in Lautrec last night.

It’s busy, busy–out there.

Here in a quieter corner of Southwest France, it’s simply summer and the living is easy; the mornings are cool and the cats are lying around.

The first figs–les figues fleurs–are dropping and making a mess in the courtyard.

Time to slow down and count one’s blessings.

Time to plan a lunch for the Garlic Festival–in the first week of August.

Time to consult the multitude of cookbooks on the shelves in the larder.

Cookbooks are perched on tables and chairs and falling off dressers.

Experiments are under way in the kitchen–and food is spilling out of the fridge.

Some cookery books one buys on a whim and after the initial thumb-through, sit unused, gathering dust.

Until moments of calm like this–when a glance at the shelves finds books that I had forgotten were there.

Honey from a Weed is one such.

Written in the 1980s by Patience Gray, it is one of those “old fashioned” cookbooks–no photos, just beautiful sketches telling everyday stories–discursive, setting the recipes against a backdrop of place and personal experience.

This wonderful book is the story of the artist/writer’s life in three Mediterranean locations over years living with her “mystery” partner, simply referred to as “The Sculptor“.

The locations are all in places where marble is quarried.

In Catalonia, in Spain, on the Greek island of Naxos and most famously in Carrarra in Tuscany–where Michelangelo once quarried his stone.

I am reading her cookbook with relish this summer.

For me, here’s a perfect example of how to write a recipe.

In a few lines it manages to tell us the what and the how–and finish nicely describing the natural emergence of a sauce that makes the mouth water.

(Ask the fishmonger to do the middle paragraph!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are having Aubergine Tortino for lunch.

Grilled aubergine slices baked in a tomato sauce, parmesan cheese and egg base.

A savory cake.

A small salad would cut the richness–but alas, there is no lettuce in the fridge.

However there is an overload of parsley.

I bought a ridiculous amount last Saturday anticipating making lots of green sauce for the chicken at the Independence Day lunch party. It’s still fresh in the fridge. I have a eureka moment…!

Parsley Salad!

Check the Internet for hints–but the Internet is down–as it often is in rural France.

Check my cookbook library and–BINGO! Riverford Farm’s second cookbook delivers.

Here’s my version:

In a pretty bowl mix:

  • 50gms flat leaf parsley–roughly chopped (i.e. left a bit leafy)
  • 50gms red onion–chopped finely
  • 6 anchovy fillets–roughly chopped
  • 2 tbs capers–left whole
  • 1 tomato–skinned, seeded and chopped

 

For the vinaigrette:

  • 1 tbs red wine vinegar,
  • 4tbs olive oil
  • a pinch of black pepper
  • (no salt–as I’m using the anchovies, which are already salty; try feta if you don’t like anchovies)

Just before you eat:

With two forks and a light hand mix the contents of the bowl together.

The aim is to keep the delicate salad from getting soggy.

At the last moment add three spoonfuls of the vinaigrette to the bowl and again lightly fluff up the contents of the salad.

(Should you need more dressing, you have extra to hand.)

A Winston moment…

On my way down to breakfast this morning, I happened to glance at this photo of Winston and me on the bookshelf.

“Winston!” I thought–there he is; there we are–smiling at the camera–a moment in time.

Winston Graham–a person of great significance in my life!

In the snapshot we are on our back patio in north London, sometime in the early nineties; maybe he’s come to dinner.

It was a brief moment of remembrance.

Days are made up of them. This was a Winston moment.

Late this afternoon, Meredith comes into the kitchen here and says,

“You know it’s Winston Graham’s birthday today? Maybe you should write something…”

I didn’t say, “Winston’s already tipped me the wink!”

Today is his 109th birthday!

Born in 1908 in Manchester, he moved with his family to Perranporth in Cornwall in 1925 after his father died prematurely at 53.

There he married Jean Williamson–whom he’d first met when she was 13 (Demelza’s age when she first met Ross at the fair!). He was just 18. They lived in Cornwall for the next 25 years, bringing up their two children, Andrew and Rosamund.

Winston steeped himself in Cornish history and customs. He wrote the first book of the saga–Ross Poldark--in 1945.

Eleven more books followed. The last in the saga– Bella Poldarkwritten when he was 92!

London Films, the company founded by Alexander Korda, bought the film rights, but–luckily for me and all us Poldarkians–they never managed to make a movie of it.

Instead they teamed up with the Beeb to make the first series in 1975.

And here we are forty years on and the second adaptation is thrilling a new generation of fans.

Bonne Anniversaire, Winston!