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Pineapple and strawberry cake and Quasimodo returns from London
Pineapple and strawberry cake Earlier this month, I drove from my home in southwestern France to St Malo, took the ferry to Portsmouth, and then headed to London. This was part experiment, part necessity: would I rack up as many fines in a French-plated car as I usually do in a hire car? Watch this space, they’ve yet to arrive!
Driving in the UK is like playing a complicated video game on nightmare mode. While trying to dodge potholes the size of small craters, you’re squinting nervously at speed limits that flicker up and down like bonus levels. One minute it’s 70mph, the next it’s 40, then 20, then 70 again, for absolutely no obvious reason. Perhaps just someone having a bad day? And the radars! I stopped counting at 42 between Portsmouth and London.
Roadworks pop up like surprise boss fights, and redundant cones stretch to infinity. Then the ultimate challenge: the giant roundabout, where hesitation is weakness and eye contact is a full-blown declaration of war. Throw in numerous one-way systems, a bit of rain, fog, and enough traffic to make you question your life choices, and you begin to wonder why you left home.
And don’t get me started on smart motorways. Are they sentient? Do they want to chat about philosophy or mathematical theorem? I’m not convinced by their intellectual credentials, but they certainly intimidate me no end.
After a hot, heavy, and emotional week of clearing out my mother’s house, it wasn’t just driving that was in nightmare mode; my poor body was too, and I seriously wondered whether I’d manage the return drive.
Wholewoman holistic pain relief
Enter Sarah, my guardian angel! Sarah is a lovely lady who came to collect a piece of furniture. She noticed me hobbling, groaning and wincing when I helped her move a piece of furniture, and said she thought she could help. She generously made time for me a couple of days later, and worked with me for nearly three hours. I was amazed by the transformation: from a limping, lopsided wreck to upright, mobile, and pain-free for the first time in months.
What I really appreciated about Sarah’s therapy is how holistic and empowering it is. As a former chronic pain sufferer, she really understands. She’s empathetic, skilled, and committed to helping people help themselves. Her approach is multi-disciplinary and in my case, she used massage, lymphatic drainage, red light therapy, breathing and movement exercises, and gave me practical tips to stay on track. I will be following up with her online very soon. You can find her here: www.wholewoman.club.
This is a perfect summer dessert. It’s light and fresh and the rum makes it deliciously decadent!
Recipe for pineapple and strawberry cake (serves 6-8)
For the sponge base:
- 3 eggs
- Vanilla essence
- 150g granulated sugar
- 150g flour
- 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
- 80ml rum
For the topping:
- 500ml milk
- 1 soup spoon cornflour
- 2 egg yolks, beaten
- 70g sugar
- Vanilla essence
- Fresh pineapple, cut into cubes
- Strawberries (or other red fruit) to decorate
Prepare a 28cm cake tin and preheat the oven to 180°C. Combine the eggs, vanilla essence and granulated sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the flour, baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. Pour the mixture into the cake tin and bake for 20 minutes. Pour the rum over the cake and set aside.
Begin the custard topping by incorporating the cornflour into a small amount of milk and then adding the egg yolks. Pour the remaining milk into a large saucepan, add the sugar and vanilla essence, beat and bring to a simmer. Combine with the cornflour mixture and beat until the mixture thickens.
Pour the custard topping over the rum-soaked cake, and garnish with the pineapple and strawberries. Chill for at least 12 hours before serving.
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Kombucha, bossy, big brother Britain, and dead moles
Lemon and ginger kombucha 
I lived in London for the first 22 years of my life, and managed to dodge arrest. Admittedly I resorted to mild flirtation on occasion, but still, my point stands. In the past five years, every single time I go back — which is very frequently — I seem to break at least one law, more often several, and mostly inadvertently.
I’ve always considered France to be far more authoritarian than the UK; in reality it’s bordering on a police state. Having said that, in France, it is generally accepted that laws are made to be broken. By comparison, in the outwardly-welcoming UK, you are likely to be breaking ‘stealth’ laws without even knowing. And these ‘stealth’ laws have a life of their own and multiple at an alarming rate.
Every single time I am in London, in a hire car, I get at least one parking ticket, and one speeding ticket. Even using Satnav/GPS, it’s far too easy to break the speed limit. WTF is it with all the 20mph zones splattered everywhere? It’s dangerous too; I spend more time nervously glancing at the speed limit on Waze than I do looking at the road! And the so-called ‘smart roads’ emit very uncomfortable, tyrannical vibes.
When I went in June, I outdid myself with a parking ticket, two speeding tickets and a threat of a £1,000 fine from TV licensing (totally unwarranted — they just didn’t believe there were no televisions in a five bedroom house). The worst thing is, the parking fine was for stopping, not even parking. What happens if you break down? Do you get fined for that too?
I start to feel guilty before disembarking from the plane now. It’s unnerving and I hate it. Next month I’m driving to London. Watch this space for details of the havoc I’ll create with French number plates and a left-hand drive car!
I know of several laws I’ll be breaking before I even get there: It’s apparently illegal to carry a plank of wood along a pavement, and it’s illegal to be drunk in a pub. I’ll certainly do the former as I’m in the process of emptying the garage of my mother’s house, and possibly the later when drowning my sorrows over all the fines I’ll be accumulating!
Another thing that is unnerving me at the moment, is Java’s insistence on trailing a dead mole everywhere with her, like a security blanket. It’s not too bad when she and her ‘cuddly toy’ are outside, but the other night she brought it into bed with her (I want to point out that I hadn’t realised, or I’d have confiscated it!). Still, luckily for Java I’m very easy-going and won’t be arresting her for molicide. That said, I am trying to wean her off the dead mole with something a little less putrid!
Health benefits of kombucha
Kombucha is a fermented tea that offers health benefits, primarily due to its probiotic, antioxidant and bioactive compounds.
Gut health is improved as kombucha’s probiotics help balance your gut microbiome, benefiting digestion, and aiding constipation, diarrhea and symptoms of irritable bowel syndrome. Kombucha also supports immune health as it contains antioxidants and B vitamins that help protect cells from damage. The fermentation process increases antioxidant levels in the drink and helps protect against cell damage linked to chronic illnesses.
Compounds that are formed during the fermentation process can help combat harmful bacteria and may help liver detoxification. Kombucha also helps regulate blood sugar levels, and reduces fat accumulation.
Recipe for kombucha (makes 1 litre)
Ingredients:
- 1 litre water (preferably filtered)
- 2 tablespoons black or green tea (loose or in tea bag form)
- 80g cane sugar
- 1 SCOBY (kombucha culture)
- 100ml previously fermented kombucha (starter)
Equipment:
- Large glass jar (at least 1 litre capacity)
- Clean cloth and rubber band to cover the jar
- Airtight glass bottle (optional for second fermentation)
Bring the water to a boil, add the tea and steep for 15 minutes. Remove the tea (either using a tea strainer, or by removing the teabags), and dissolve the sugar in the hot tea. Allow the tea and sugar mixture to cool at room temperature. Pour the cooled tea into the glass jar, and add the starter kombucha and SCOBY. Cover with the cloth and secure with the rubber band.
Leave the mixture to ferment at room temperature, out of direct sunlight, for 7-10 days. Taste after a week and leave to ferment longer if you want more acidity/less sweetness. When the kombucha is ready, remove the SCOBY for your next batch. Pour the kombucha into bottles and ferment a further 2-3 day for added fizziness before refrigerating.
The kombucha will now be ready to drink. If you would like flavoured kombucha, you should add the desired fruit, herbs or spices just before bottling.
Ideas for flavours:
- Lemon and ginger
- Strawberry and basil
- Raspberry and lime
- Peach and thyme
- Mixed herbs
- Mojito
- Apple and cinnamon
- Orange and mint
- Vanilla and orange zest
- Pineapple and raspberry
- Chai spices
Use fresh fruits and herbs for the best flavours, and bear in mind that these should be added after the initial fermentation, during bottling, for best results.
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Naughty but knife at the airport, and reclaiming your health in midlife
The Gironde Estuary and Médoc vineyards I’m writing this from Bordeaux airport, where once again, my flight is delayed five hours due to technical problems. Get your act together BA!
My son, Léo, who always mocks me mercilessly for getting stopped by airport security (I fit the drug mule profile to a T), got his comeuppance today. The x-ray machine flagged a knife at the bottom of his computer case. It wasn’t an innocuous penknife either; it was a really heavy-duty ‘don’t mess with me’ sort of switchblade, the sort you would expect to come across in a dark alley at three in the morning. Security took him aside and asked him about it—interrogated him really—and he explained that he’d forgotten it was there, and that he mostly used it to trim the grapevines and slice his lunchtime chorizo sausage! They confiscated the knife and let him go, presumably having reached the conclusion that a potential terrorist probably wouldn’t spontaneously roll out the vine and chorizo excuse.
I exchanged my Mother of a Terrorist hat for my Natural Health Coach hat and had a conversation with Tamsin Jardinier of Unfolding Conversations, on the topic of reclaiming your health during midlife.
Tamsin offers whole-centered coaching to support high-achieving women, leaders, creatives, and entrepreneurs who are ready to reimagine life and work to create success on their own terms, and live a life they truly love.
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White fish with lemon and parsley sauce and Ikea for turtle doves
White fish with lemon and parsley sauce I adore doves and the gorgeous turtle dove lovebirds from last year are once again back on our terrace. They’re beginning to make their nest for the summer, but it’s not without complications. They seemed to bicker (quite loudly) for a few days about where the said nest should go; location, location, location isn’t just for humans!
They now appear to have agreed on the right place, and enjoy twig shopping while we’re sitting on the terrace eating. As their future nest is perched in the wisteria directly above the table, it means that our plates end up seasoned with bits of twig and dead leaves. Luc took pity, because more twigs were dropped than positioned, and placed a small plank of wood under the soon-to-be nest, moving fallen twigs from the floor onto the plank. I think he might add some nuts and bolts, and perhaps some simple instructions Ikea-style, because so far, things are looking very precarious.
Turtle dove taking a rest from his construction works This lemon and parsley sauce works well with any white fish. I used hake.
Recipe for white fish with lemon and parsley sauce (serves 4)
- 15g butter
- 1 shallot, chopped
- 1/2 fennel bulb, chopped
- 480g fresh white fish
- 150ml dry white wine
- 150ml vegetable stock
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
For the sauce:
- 50g butter
- 40g plain flour
- 500ml milk
- Small bunch of parsley, finely chopped
- 1 lemon, juiced
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Melt the butter in a pan over a medium-low heat, then add the flour. Stir for a few minutes until a paste forms. Gradually pour in the milk, stirring continuously until all the milk has been incorporated and the sauce coats the back of a spoon. If the sauce is lumpy, stir rapidly a few minutes more. Bring to a simmer and bubble for 1 min. Remove from the heat and stir through the parsley. Add the lemon juice and seasoning.
Place the butter in a medium frying pan and melt, add the chopped shallot and fennel and cook until translucent. Add the fish, white wine and stock and bring to a gentle boil for about five minutes, or until the fish is cooked. Strain the fish and season, then serve with the sauce.
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Shiitake mushrooms on sourdough toast and a wildlife update
Shiitake mushrooms on sourdough toast After an absence of 100 years, there are wolves again in the Landes area, presumably having migrated from the Pyrenees. One was spotted a few weeks ago, not very far away, in fact alarmingly close-by. Meanwhile, Java, our own little wolf, has been busy keeping the wild pigs at bay, although it’s not clear who has been chasing who; yesterday she took off after some wild piglets, only to be chased back into my arms by their mother.
Traumatised removal men
Java is not the only one to be intimidated by the local wildlife. We had a furniture delivery the other week, and the removal men asked if they could park their lorry in the grounds overnight, as it was nearly midnight. The next morning, as the burly, six-pack-sporting chaps deposited the furniture in the house, they looked somewhat ashen. I asked if they had slept well, and they admitted they hadn’t slept a wink due to horses galloping, pigs squealing, deer barking and owls hooting. They had arrived in the dark, and hadn’t appreciated quite how off the beaten track we were. They gave me a very odd look when I said that I often wandered around outside at night, unarmed. I didn’t dare mention our new friend the wolf – I thought they were sufficiently traumatised!
Cowering from the wolves and pigs The birds
A bird has made her nest in our letterbox. In view of the size of the letterbox, and the comparative size of the bird, this means that she’s basically nabbed herself a palace. As she seems determined to stay in her palace, I wrote a note for the postman, asking him to deliver directly to the house until the chicks have fled the nest.
Another bird, an Eurasian hoopoe, has taken a violent dislike to our kitchen windows, which he keeps attacking with his long, pointy beak. Or at least that’s what I thought until I looked into the matter; it turns out that whenever he sees himself in a reflection, such as glass or water, he thinks he’s looking at a rival and launches himself into attack mode. He’s very beautiful, but none too bright!
The Eurasian Hoopoe attacking the windows Shiitake mushrooms are bursting with nutrients and impressive immunomodulating properties. They are also absolutely delicious!
Recipe for shiitake mushrooms on sourdough toast
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 300g shiitake, sliced
- 2 slices sourdough bread
- 2 cloves garlic, chopped
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
- Splash of white wine
- 100g crème fraîche
- Parsley, chopped to garnish
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan and add the shiitake mushrooms. Sauté the mushrooms for about five minutes, until golden brown, add the garlic and continue to cook for a minute. Toast the sourdough bread. Add the seasoning, the splash of wine and crème fraîche to the shiitake and cook for a further minute. Place the mushrooms on the toast and garnish with parsley.
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Méli-mélo mushroom pie and holding the straight line
Méli-mélo mushroom pie My new functional mushroom page
I am very enthusiastic about mushrooms at the moment, which explains this méli-mélo mushroom pie, and also my new page on functional mushrooms. Please take a look!
Luc has fixed ideas about how a shopping caddy should be filled, emptied onto the conveyor belt, and transferred into bags. And also about how the surrounding people in the shop should behave while he is performing these actions. My charitable self thinks this is very useful as I have no brain space whatsoever dedicated to these matters; my uncharitable self thinks he’s a bit of a pain in the arse about it.
During our last shopping trip, the cashier watched him scold the lady behind us in the queue for ‘conveyor belt harassment’, only to be scolded herself a few seconds later for disrespect towards his orderly packing. I just stood by, watching, enjoying my bubbling-up internal hysterics. As we were leaving, the cashier said to me: ‘I’m willing to bet you don’t ever get bored!’
Gentle insanity
On the subject of gentle insanity, it struck me the other day that visiting neighbours, at least our neighbours, is not something for the faint-hearted. One neighbour greeted me recently with an enormous hammer in her hand. When I pointed out that the hammer was unnerving, she said: ‘you’ll be fine as long as you don’t annoy me!’ I held a long conversation with another neighbour who was wielding an idling chainsaw, and yet another neighbour swung for Luc (who ducked successfully) and ended up on his knees.
I morphed into an annoying mechanical wind-up toy
I am only able to walk in very straight lines for the time-being. After a three-year hiatus, I went skiing last week with Léo, in our favourite Pyrenees resort. My ski boots were too loose for optimum control (according to the ski-hire man, my calves are unusually dainty compared with my big feet), which was fine until it wasn’t. On a steep icy run, I ended up going head over ski, and poor Léo had to extricate my limbs and skis from improbably chaotic positions. (Funnily enough, I opened The Times this morning to an article entitled ‘Skiing: Should you give it up at 50?‘).
When I eventually managed to stand up and put my skis back on, I realised that I could only ski in straight lines (I later found out I had injured the cross ligaments in my knee). As we were as far from the hotel as we could possibly be, this made for a long, straight, torturous trek back. Now, with my leg in a splint, I can only walk in straight lines, like one of those noisy mechanical wind-up children’s toys that you have to physically pick up to turn in another direction, or a city-dwelling pigeon. Why do pigeons in towns always walk, really fast, in unnaturally straight lines? My current ambition is to be able to navigate corners within a month or so. The bar is low.
Intact, before the fall 
My saviour Recipe for méli-mélo mushroom pie (serves 6)
- 400g puff pastry (here is my recipe)
- 2 teaspoons olive oil
- 30g butter
- 2 shallots, chopped
- 700 grams mixed fresh mushrooms (I used shiitake, porcini, pleurote and button mushrooms in equal parts), roughly chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, chopped
- 2 teaspoons fresh sage, thyme and parsley, chopped
- Freshly ground black pepper and sea salt
- 1/2 teaspoon paprika
- 100 ml dry white wine
- 150mg crème fraîche
Preheat the oven to 200°C. Line a 25cm non-stick tart tin with the pastry, setting aside enough pastry to make a top.
Heat the olive oil and butter in a large frying pan and add the shallots and mushrooms. Cover and leave to cook for about 15 minutes, or until the mushrooms have softened, then add the garlic and seasoning and set aside. Add the white wine to deglaze and then the crème fraîche, mixing well.
Distribute the mushroom mixture on the pastry in the lined tart tin, cover the tart with the pastry top and brush with egg yolk. Cook for 25 minutes. Delicious served hot or cold!
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Happy new year 2025 and seeing the light
The sun setting on 2024 I would like to wish everyone a happy 2025 filled with peace and happiness, health and vitality, abundance and joy!
Léo and I went to London for Christmas, leaving Luc in charge of the animals. If it weren’t for my mother in London, I wouldn’t choose to travel at Christmas because it always ends up being some version of overcrowded, sneezing, snorting, drunken, vomiting, foggy, stormy bedlam. Last Christmas both our outbound and inbound flights were delayed by named storms. This year, our return flight was delayed for five hours due to fog. When we finally arrived home at 3am, I felt as if I’d been run over by herd of rhinos, and hadn’t seen natural light for days.
Something that always strikes me is how early it gets dark in London in the winter; it’s not surprising there’s more SAD/depression in the northern latitudes. I recently read an enlightening book, ‘Change your Diet, Change your Mind’, by Dr Georgia Ede, a psychiatrist specialising in nutritional and metabolic psychiatry.
Back in France: Super windy, but at least it’s still light at 6pm! Metabolic psychiatry sees mental health challenges as problems rooted in brain metabolism. This perspective is gradually changing how doctors address mental health conditions and offers powerful, practical, and safe nutrition-based solutions, accessible to everyone. The approach also often ends up reducing or eliminating the need for psychiatric drugs.
In her book, Dr Ede says that for so many years, mental health issues were viewed as ‘chemical imbalances’ to be treated with medication (often SSRIs, tested on mice. How can you tell if a mouse is depressed?). While these drugs have helped many, their efficacy is often limited in both scope and time, and come with side effects like fatigue, weight gain, and sexual dysfunction.
A pasta-loving mouse
Talking of mice, there is a mouse that visits our cupboard to snack on raw tagliatelle (the tagliatelle is in a very noisy plastic bag, which now has lots of mouse-size holes). He always visits when I’m on the phone, and this morning I was on a very complicated call with the bank. The mouse was making so much noise burrowing amongst the tagliatelle in the noisy plastic bag that I had to repeatedly kick the cupboard door, really loudly, as I didn’t fancy a face-to-face confrontation. The bank employee ended up asking what the loud banging noise was, and I was forced to explain the rodent situation. The good news is that the bank conversation was delayed until I was ‘less preoccupied’; the bad news is that the mouse has become immune to my kicking.
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Yuzu roast chicken with garlic and herbs and all sorts of disobedience
Yuzu roast chicken with garlic and herbs While I was last in London 10 days ago, Luc was forced to stage an intervention when a procession of seven armoured vehicles, containing AK 47-toting soldiers got lost and ended up in the garden. If I’d been alone in the house, I think I might have been intimidated by the sight of a battalion rocking up in front of the house. Luc, not so much; he went outside, scantily clad, and escorted them off the property in reverse, to avoid damaging the lawn. He then sent them on their way, gently mocking the fact that they’d managed to get lost, despite their state of the art navigation systems. It takes some nerve to take the piss out of a bunch of soldiers with loaded machine guns, doesn’t it?
Escorting the army off the property While Luc handles a battalion with ease, I struggle with a single naughty puppy. The puppy in question belongs to our neighbours and I have been taking him, their other dog and Java out during the day while they are at work. I thought, proudly, that I had everything in hand, and even convinced myself that I could easily manage a couple more dogs, when the little minx leapt up and grabbed the trailing cord my keys were on from my pocket. A frenetic, zigzagging chase through the pine trees ensued, culminating in me having to throw myself over the over-excited wriggler, rugby tackle-style. Dignified it was not, but I did regain possession of my mud-covered, dribble-splattered door keys.
Unbridled black and white mischief 
Pine-scented chaos Recipe for yuzu roast chicken with garlic and herbs (serves 4)
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
- 5 garlic cloves, 1 of which should be crushed
- 1/2 teaspoon chopped rosemary, plus 2 rosemary sprigs
- 1/2 teaspoon chopped thyme, plus 2 thyme sprigs
- 1/2 teaspoon finely grated yuzu zest (or lemon zest)
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 1 chicken, gutted
- 1 large onion, sliced
- 1 yuzu, cut into wedges (you can use a lemon instead)
- 1 cup chicken stock
Preheat the oven to 180°C. In a bowl, mix the butter with the crushed garlic, chopped herbs, and the yuzu zest, then season with salt and pepper. Rub the herb butter all over the chicken, piercing the chicken skin with a fork to allow the butter to seep in, then place in a roasting tin. Add the sliced onion, remaining garlic cloves and the yuzu to the top of the chicken, as well as the remaining sprigs of herbs. Pour the chicken stock over the top and roast in the oven for an hour.
Delicious served with butternut purée and green beans.
Yuzu health benefits
Yuzu is a citrus plant and fruit that belongs to the the Rutaceae family. It is often described as a cross between a grapefruit, lime and mandarin orange. It has a distinctly sour flavour, which is much more intensely fragrant than lemon. Its oil is extracted and revered for its therapeutic effect.
The yuzu is highly nutritious, particularly high is vitamin C, B vitamins, vitamin A and copper. It also contains powerful plant compounds such as carotenoids, flavonoids, and limonoids, which act as antioxidants in the body. In addition, hesperidin and naringin act as anticoagulants and antioxidants which protect the brain.
The scent of yuzu oil is particularly soothing, potentially helping reduce tension and anxiety. In one study it was shown to decrease stress markers, such as mood disturbance, tension, depression, anger, and confusion.
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English custard tarts and up in arms in London
English custard tarts I was in a queue on a London bus last week, behind a woman asking the bus driver for complicated directions to an obscure destination. All-in-all, she seemed very needy direction-wise, and was determined to contradict everything the patient driver said in his perfect, charmingly accented English.
She finally huffed and puffed her way to a seat, muttering that she still didn’t know where she was going. She grabbed me as I looked for a seat and asked if I could help. She said ‘why don’t they employ English people? I’m not from around here (meaning she was from Brexitland) and I couldn’t understand a word he said because of his accent’.
A red rag to a bull
I told her that I had understood every word he’d said, despite being behind her, and when she insisted that he hadn’t been speaking English properly and that I should help her, I said: ‘No I can’t help you. I have a strict ‘I don’t help racists’ policy.’
The irony was, the person to finally take her in hand, and show her where to get off the bus was a Polish lady (with an accent).
Another thing that made hiss and spit (I’m really selling myself here) was the number of people I saw carrying their dogs in baby wrap slings. I mean WTAF? They weren’t carrying handicapped or injured dogs, or even unvaccinated puppies; these were fully-functioning canines equipped with the requisite four legs and a tail.
My brain and my mouth often have separate agendas: while it was very challenging to prevent my mouth from snarling sarcasm and abuse, my brain has been feeling guilty ever since for never having carried Java around in a scarf…
Despite the various sources of irritation, I rediscovered these English custard tarts during my trip. I used to love them as a child, and the ones I ate last week didn’t disappoint!
Recipe for English Custard Tart (serves 6)
For the shortcrust pastry:
- 110g flour
- Pinch of salt
- 50g butter, cut into squares
- Cold water
For the custard filling:
- 400ml single cream
- 1 teaspoon butter
- 3 large eggs
- 40g sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- Whole nutmeg, grated
To make the shortcrust pastry:
Sift the flour and salt into a bowl. Next add the butter to the bowl and, with a knife, cut into smaller pieces into the flour. Then rub the butter into the flour using your fingertips until the mixture is crumbly. Sprinkle roughly a tablespoon of water into the mixture and gradually start to form a dough ball, first of all using a spoon, then your fingers. If the mixture is too dry and isn’t forming a ball, add a drop more water. Place the pastry in a plastic bag and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.
When you’re ready to roll out the pastry, prepare a tart tin and then line with the pastry. I used separate tins to make mini tarts, but you could also use a larger one. Cover the pastry with greaseproof paper and fill with dry beans and bake in a preheated oven for 15 minutes. Remove from the oven, remove the beans and greaseproof paper and cook for a further 10 minutes.
To make the custard filling:
Place the cream and butter in a saucepan and bring it up to a gentle simmer, then whisk the eggs and sugar together. Pour the hot creamy liquid over the beaten eggs, add the vanilla extract and half the freshly grated nutmeg and whisk briefly again. Pour the filling into the tart case and grate the rest of the nutmeg all over. Bake in the oven for 40 minutes, or until the filling is just set in the centre.
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Courgette and parmesan pancakes, and post office shenanigans
Courgette and parmesan pancakes I was greeted at ‘La Poste’ yesterday by an armed security guard, a bouncer almost. He gave me a very thorough visual frisk, concluded, I assume, that I was unarmed, and let me in. I was then ushered to a smiling receptionist who offered ‘a mini bar of chocolate while I waited’. This was beginning to sound ominous. I hadn’t come to La Poste to dance, eat chocolate or to wait; I had come for a stamp. It turns out the mini bar of chocolate would have needed to be laced with premium skunk to take away the pain of the wait and general confusion.
Show respect and kindness towards the vending machines
Once settled in a surprisingly orderly queue (as a rule the French don’t queue; they entangle themselves together anarchically, whining loudly), I looked around and realised that I had never seen so many postal employees in one room. And then it dawned on me that I had never seen so many automats either. There was an employee for every automat. Was I missing something? Aren’t automats meant to steal jobs, not dole them out? There were notices above the automats asking customers to be ‘kind and respectful towards the machines’. No foul temperedness directed towards automats would be tolerated.
In the end it took 47 minutes to buy a single stamp. I was helped by three different people who patiently coached me on how to coax a stamp from a vending machine. To no avail. In the end, a stamp was ripped from a book, old style. And I never got my change because the automatic change drawer refused to open, and by this time I was losing the will to live. I left stuffed full of chocolate, a few centimes poorer, my head reeling.
Recipe for courgette and parmesan pancakes (serves 2)
- 1 egg
- 85g flour (I used spelt flour but any flour will work)
- 100ml milk
- 1/2 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon curry powder
- 1/4 teaspoon cumin seeds
- 1 clove of garlic, crushed
- 200g courgettes, grated
- 30g parmesan, grated
- 10ml olive oil
Combine the egg and flour in a mixing bowl, gradually adding the milk. Add the bicarbonate of soda and seasoning, continuing to mix. Lastly incorporate the garlic, grated courgettes and parmesan. Heat the olive oil in a frying pan and spoon the mixture and fry over a medium heat until the pancakes are golden brown on each side.
May be eaten alone with a green salad, or topped with smoked ham and a poached egg.