As much as I have champagne tastes, most of the time we keep to a beer budget- particularly when it comes to flights.

(Nb, not that I’m opposed to being upgraded. Once or twice in my life it’s happened, and of course, it’s pretty sublime. It’s a rare and lucky 21 year old who has her oxygen mask fall into her face twenty minutes into a red eye between London and New York, only to be told that the sole available seat on the plane is in first class.)

But for me the hard earned cash that’s expended hoisting yourself to the front of the plane is much better spent on food and indulgences once you’ve safely landed on the ground.

By now I’ve got pretty good at surviving long hauls in the back of a plane.  In fact this time last year I even published 11 tips on how to ‘fly better in economy‘ – of all the nifty things I’d discovered that could help make the day-and-a-bit kangaroo hop from Sydney-London that little bit more bearable when you’re squelched into seat 67 G.

Except this time, I cracked.

It was the looming spectre of of flying for 24 hours while 32 weeks knocked up that did it to me. And so for the first time in my life, I willingly super-sized.  It might have been the advent of pregnancy carpel tunnel (a delight of swelling, numb and tingling fingers and toes). It might have been the increasingly tedious need to make use of public amenities every 25 minutes. It might be that the once fail-safe survival option of a glass of red wine and a sleeping pill was taken away. And it might have been that my flying companion is about 6 ft 3- meaning he gets the proper claim on an aisle seat- his legs just don’t fit if he doesn’t.

And so we splurged- to a mid point. Not business class, but Premium Economy, from London- Hong Kong- Sydney.

And was it worth it?

Well….

There are definite pluses from the start of the journey including a dedicated check in area at Heathrow and an extra 5 kg (25 kg in total) of baggage allowance.

We board the flight with the rest of the economy passengers, though the Premium Economy is a petite cabin all on its own, nestled between Business and cattle class- starting at row 30.  The cabins host between 26 and 34 seats, depending on the aircraft. For anyone who gets a little claustrophobic in crowds, this is a good thing. Being sequestered off, even just by curtains makes you feel a little more secure- and a little less like you’re strapped in for eternity with a hoard of snoring, coughing masses.

The seating configuration is 2/4/2 , with solid partitions between each seat where the tray tables and entertainment screens are tucked.  There are foot rests and the seat reclines to a pitch of 38 inches- about 6 inches more than standard economy. But the real winner for a shuffling, uncomfortable pregnant lady and her larger-than-the-average fellow spouse is the seat width- which is 20 inches- about 2 inches more than you’ll find further down the back.

There are nice touches, from better quality blankets and pillows, an amenity case with socks, earplugs and an eye mask , a printed menu for your meals and a complimentary bottle of water to keep with you. And then there’s a glass of champagne or juice before take off. That’s always friendly.

Other ticks  include the larger, noise cancelling earphones. The entertainment options are the same (and are good on Cathay)- though through a design quirk you’ll miss out on the convenience of touch screens and have to resort to the clunky remote to navigate your way through.

As for the meals, they’re a little better than in economy (though if you’re after tips on how to best pimp your plane food, I hear there’s a highly entertaining essay in a good book that’s been recently published) . There’s the civility of metal cutlery, thicker paper napkins and wine served in glasses. A small tub of Hagen Daz ice cream is a sweet finish, though when you’ve boarded a flight at midnight, my need to consume a full supper at 1.30 am is somewhat diminished.

Then there are some disappointments. For one; the bathrooms. There’s no toilet in the cabin and curtains are drawn, meaning Business Class is out of bounds. Which leaves you to go and battle backwards with economy for a spot in the queue, without being able to actually see how long the line is.

If you’re able to score one of the bulkhead seats at the front and if you have one of the smaller cabins there’s a real plus in the leg room stakes- not only can you completely outstretch, but the distance is perfect,allowing you to have your legs up horizontal for most of the flight (we snaffled this on the London- Hong Kong leg and it was a godsend). If you don’t secure one of the first row seats, or if the cabin is larger then you’ll have a foot rest, but still spend most of your flight at a slightly awkward angle.

And lastly, if you find yourself in a relatively empty cabin, the solid partitions between each seat mean you won’t be able to stretch across two or three (or even four) seats, like you would on a deserted flight in economy.

So; would I do it again? If I was significantly pregnant and needing to fly a long distance; yes. If I was taller than 6 ft 1 and couldn’t ensure an exit row seat; yes. If someone else was paying? Yes.

But at the end of the day, a long flight is still a long flight. Breaking the journey up with a stop over (perhaps to eat the world’s best pork bun in Hong Kong), some good meditation podcasts and keeping a strong sense of perspective  that this too, shall pass- is probably the best way to get through it all.

Nb, a few other tips and tricks for flying long haul and pregnant

You want to get the pressure socks. Yes, they’re daggy, but you can get them in black. And when it comes to swelling, they’re remarkably helpful.

Ask nicely for a water bottle- it’s easier than having cups perilously placed on tray tables and you need to keep hydrated.

Try and secure an aisle seat; you will have to get up and go to the bathroom more than the average passenger.

If heartburn is something you’re familiar with, ask the stewardesses nicely if there’s a yoghurt from the breakfast trays that you can have for dinner instead of the spicy noodles.

Get up and walk as much as possible and stretch out before and after the flight.

Try and grab a few extra pillows- one at the small of your back made all the difference after a few hours.

And don’t forget the medical certificate- it needs to say how many babies you’re carrying, when your due date is and if you have any contraindications to fly. If you’re past 27 weeks, lots of airlines will insist on seeing one before they give you a boarding pass. Don’t be that girl.

The post Is it Worth It? Flying Pregnant in Cathay Pacific Premium Economy appeared first on eatori.

It’s hard to know which comes first; the contentedness you clock when you’re around familiar things, or whether it’s the things themselves that deliver a sense of calm.

I’ve just had my first Saturday morning back in my old flat. It’s been a strange two weeks of opening boxes and finding ghosts of my former self there waiting for me. With every book and glass that I place back on my shelf, a little stitch of my previous life pulls closer.

Of course there are things that have changed here in this city-by-the-sea over the last three years. Loved ones now have little ones attached to them. Small people are much taller. There are now empty galleons of shop fronts on Oxford Street, while people circle in large cars for aeons trying to find a parking space near warehouse conversion cafes in suburbs where we once bought cheap timber.

I’m a bit different too. Beyond the baby-in-the belly and the mad torrent of hormones, I think I’m actually calmer than I once was. Yet there are things I’m finding I cannot stand. I cannot abide the buzzing of Australian breakfast television- it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end with the braying and inanity. I hate that after only two weeks I’ve slipped into the Sydney-patter of talk of the weather, real estate and the price of parking. As much as I hoped we’d come back and the slate would be wiped clean, I still find it unsettling to drive past the big sandstone court house in Darlinghurst. The mark of the the morbid months we spent inside under its frigid air conditioning is darker than I thought.  And it infuriates me that as much as I adored our first trip back to Gelato Messina, I couldn’t consider the tub of fig and marsala without being tapped by a memory of my last visit- and having no choice but to dump a just-purchased scoop into the bin and dash back after a note came back from the jury- all for nought.

It seems there are ghosts of all sorts waiting for us here in Sydney.

But it’s the relicts of my kitchen that are the most interesting to me now.  If I’m honest, I’m a much better cook than I once was in this squarish space of terracotta tiles and mock marble bench. Unpacking my pots and pans was like unfurling aspirational totem after aspirational totem- back then I suspect I was much like a bike rider who couldn’t get their Ducati out of second gear.  I was horrified to discover murky scorch marks on the bottom of my Le Creuset- back then I hadn’t twigged to the miracle combination of bi carb soda, sea salt and half a lemon to clean it all off.

But there’s plenty there to work with, until some more of my stuff arrives.

Our first Saturday morning in the flat was marked by sunshine streaming in through the windows, half a loaf of Sonoma spelt bread on the counter, portions of a roast chicken languishing in the fridge, left over home-made labna (there’s a great and easy recipe in a good book that I know of…) some avocados, herbs and some eggs.

Earlier in the week The Hungry One had been reunited with one of his great loves.

I woke to the sound of the machine burring downstairs and the gentle strains of Ben Harper- it was a CD we played on loop before we left. The last song was one I walked down the aisle to; it was a soothing influence when the edges of life were a little bit scratchier.

I sat down to juice, the colour of sunshine, the Spectrum section of the Sydney Morning Herald and a philosophical riddle; which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I’ve been intrigued by the pairing of chicken and egg for breakfast ever since I ate the egg en cocotte with roast chicken at Prune, in New York.  It was sublime, gilded with cream and egg yolks and joined by a terrifying amount of black pepper for cut through.

I went for a lighter, more Sydney-style version.

It started  with properly charred toast. Now it’s frankly, not breakfast in Sydney without avocado somewhere on the plate, so a good mashing of that provides a sturdy base.

Then it’s time for the chicken. Of course you could poach your own chicken- but this is a terrific way to use up the skerricks picked from a carcass of a roast, or barbecued chicken.

I combined a cup of roast chicken pieces in a pan with two good dollops of labna (strained yoghurt cheese). It provided a nice lactic tang- though you could easily substitute cream cheese. Then it’s two handfuls of baby spinach to wilt down, some lemon zest for piquancy and some flat leaf parsley for punch.

All that was  needed were some five minute eggs, plunged into water and bicarb so the shells easily shirk away.

I served it with a dash of chilli sauce and a cheek of lemon and a good dose of contentedness.

Then we made a plan to get down to Bondi. We said a quiet hi to the spirit of The Hungry One’s mum, whose ashes we swept off the point of Ben Buckler. We walked around to Tamarama. And we smiled at the sunshine. If this is Sydney’s interpretation of winter, I’m fine with that.

If being calm comes from being surrounded by familiar things- there’s not a lot that can placate me any more than this.

Chicken, Soft Egg, Avocado and Labna Toasts

Serves 2 for breakfast (though would easily work for lunch, or even a light supper with a sprightly glass of wine)

 Equipment

1 griddle pan, or toaster. 1 fry pan. 1 saucepan.

Shopping/foraging

2 slices of sourdough/spelt sourdough1 tbsp of olive oil
1/2 ripe avocado
1 cup of cold roasted chicken, cut into pieces the size of playing dice
2 tbsp of labna, or cream cheese
2 handfuls of baby spinach
zest and juice of half a lemon
2 tbsp of flat leaf parsley, roughly chopped
2 eggs, placed in boiling water with 1 tbsp of bicarb soda for 5 minutes, then rinsed under cold water and carefully shelled- the whites will be cooked but the yolks should bleed.

Optional

Chilli sauce/ lemon wedges/salt and pepper

Here’s how we roll

1)  Grill or toast your bread, then slick with olive oil.

2) In a medium frypan combine the chicken, labna, spinach, parsley, lemon zest and juice and stir over a medium heat, until the chicken is warmed through, the spinach wilted and the labna has melted enough to bind it all together.

2) Mash the avocado over the top of the slices of griddled bread, then top each with half of the chicken/labna mix. Nestle a shelled, soft centred egg over the top and splash with chilli sauce, salt and pepper if you like. Eat in the sun with the Saturday papers.

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There are things I can no longer do. I cannot twirl without losing my balance like a drunk. I cannot sleep for more than three hours at a stretch. I cannot see piles of plates next to a sink without being overcome with a need to wash them all- right this instance- and possibly twice.  And I cannot regulate my own body temperature.

Now that we’ve got something around-about-the-dimensions-of-a-melon inside, these are some of our daily hilarities. The Hungry One (aka, the world’s most fastidious man) has no qualms about this new need-to-be-clean. I think he’d be happy if this part of the nesting instinct lingered forever (quick caveat- I’m not a particularly scrubby person, but I am fine with stacks. Stacks of clothes, books, papers- these gather and grow around me- well, they once did. Now they’re being toppled and filed and recycled and shredded with the speed of dodgy CEO in a downturn).

Here are some new tricks at the zoo; the shortness of breath. This is also a good one. An exploratory toe or two from the stowaway up near my ribs was a novelty to start, but now it feels occasionally like there’s a hippo who has sat down, hard on my chest. Combine that with the empty sudsy heaving from persistent heartburn ‘oh yes- you’ll get that around about now’ says the midwife- and I’m a right treat to have lunch along side.

Then there’s the cotton wool brain. My first expedition ‘down under’ back to the beast that is Bondi Junction Westfield (aka The Death Star) was supposed to catalogue a swift ticking of Life Administration items. 1) Change my Medicare Card. Oops. Five years ago, not long after a nice day with a long white dress I changed every piece of legal documentation over from Milner to Haschka. Except my Medicare card. Which means that The Hungry One’s son is going to enter the hospital as ‘Baby Milner’. 2)There was a birthday present for my dear Pa to buy. 3) There were forms to lodge for resumption of health insurance- which required me to produce the boarding pass I left the country on, three years ago. Now that was a fun search mission (see earlier confession about shredding papers deemed excess). 4) And there was one of those massive ‘stock the cupboards, we must prepare for nuclear winter’ food shops to do, when you just move back into a place and discover the pantry is bare.

All of these were manageable, until I could not for the life of me, remember where I’d parked the car. Around and around I walked, hefting a belly and a heaving trolley filled with pomegranate molasses and obscure spices I’d convinced myself we couldn’t live without. Above my head was a ticking clock of parking fees.  And my temperature was rising. Hotter and hotter and more and more flustered I became in the dark pit of an underground, gently sloping, double helixed car park.  There may have been saltwater welling in my eyes- possibly a technique to moderate the flush on my face. And possibly because I’m also not very good at modulating my emotional responses these days. And then, like a mirage, there it was. I’ve never been so glad to see an oversized, borrowed, 12 year old white four wheel drive in my life.

This is exactly the kind of soup you want to eat when you or one of your guests is hot and flustered. It’s cooling and calming. It’s relaxing and mildly sweet. There’s the gentle interplay of melon and cucumber, with the freshness of mint. Lest it all sound a little like a cocktail to you, know there’s a definite savoury slant from the spring onions and garlic yoghurt.

It’s a doddle to whip up in a blender or food processor and store in the fridge for a light lunch or elegant starter. A few rosettes of smoked salmon or trout in the centre add a little more protein, but if you were after a strictly vegetarian route then just hazelnuts add a nice element of contrast.

Eat it when you’re safely back at home, with your legs up, counting the weeks until you can see your toes properly again and your husband gets a sensible version of his spouse back from the brink.

Chilled Honeydew, Cucumber and Mint Soup

Serves 4 as a starter/light lunch

 Shopping/foraging

1/2 honeydew melon, cut into rough 1 inch chunks- seeds and rind removed
1 x 2cm thick piece of soft white bloomer loaf (or 3/4 cup of soft white bread crumbs)
1 cucumber (around 300 grams), cut into rough one inch pieces
1/4 cup of mint leaves
3/4 cup of Greek yoghurt
3 tbsp good quality olive oil
2 spring onions/shallots, finely diced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tbsp roasted hazelnuts, skins removed and halved
Salt to taste

Optional

4 pieces of smoked salmon or smoked trout

Here’s how we roll

1) Place in a food processor, or a bowl with a stick blender the  torn bread and honeydew melon flesh. Blitz until smooth.

2) Add the cucumber pieces. Blend until smooth.

3) Add in 1/2 cup of yoghurt (reserve the other quarter for garnish), half the mint leaves and two of the tablespoons of olive oil (reserve one for drizzling at the end). Blitz until smooth.

4) Taste the soup and season with salt and pepper. Place in the fridge to chill until serving.

5) To make the garnish grate the garlic clove into the remaining yoghurt. It will taste aggressive. Portion the soup into bowls. Cut the remaining mint leaves into ribbons. Garnish each bowl with a spoon of the garlic yoghurt, some mint ribbons, diced shallot and hazelnuts. If you fancy, add some wafts of smoked salmon or smoked trout to the centre. Drizzle with good olive oil and serve cold.

Forty Weeks of Feasting

Each week mad websites and baby books will tell you how big your baby now is in comparison to a seed, fruit or vegetable. It starts as a poppy seed and goes from there. To make this process a little more palatable, join me as I bake my way through. Here’s the journey so far.

Week 31: Truffled (lower fat) Cauliflower Mac and Cheese. Recipe here.

Week 30: Broccoli, Lemon and Pine Nut Loaf Cake. Recipe here.

Week 29: Red Cabbage, Fennel and Pear Slaw with Pork Chops. Recipe here.

Week 28: Coconut and Almond Bread Pudding. Recipe here.

Week 27: Szechuan Pork Noodles with Smacked Cucumber Salad. Recipe here.

Week 26: Jicama, Chicken and Cashew Salad. Recipe here.

Week 25: Corndogs. Recipe here.

Week 24: Eggplant Moussaka. Recipe here

Week 23 Candied Grapefruit Peel and Dark Chocolate Cookies. Recipe here

Week 22 Roast Carrot and Hummus Soup. Recipe here.

Week 21. Spiced Pomegranate Meatballs with Mint and White Beans. Recipe here.

Week 20 Banana Berry Flax Muffins. Recipe here.

Week 19 Mango Pudding. Recipe here

Week 18 Sweet Potato, Red Onion and Feta Pie. Recipe here

Week 17 Red Pepper, Chicken, Onion and Date Tagine. Recipe here.

Week 16 Avocado Mint Salsa with Pea and Mozzarella Quesadillas. Recipe here.

Week 15 Orange, Polenta and Rosemary Cake. Recipe here.

Wk 14 Lemon Creme Fraiche and Parmesan Pasta. Recipe here

Wk 13 Clementine/Mandarin Curd. Recipe here.

Wk 12 Plum and tomato tartines. Recipe here

Wk 11 Sprout and mushroom gratin (in which we come out of the closet). Recipe here

Wk 10 Date tart. Recipe here

Wk 9 Roasted grapes with baby chickens. Recipe here.

Wk 8 Raspberries and elderflower spritz. Recipe here.

Wk 7 Blueberry pancakes. Recipe here

Wk 6 Lentil and Ginger Soup. Recipe here

Wk 5 Sesame Miso Crisps. Recipe here

Wk 4 Poppy Seed Scrolled Loaf. Recipe here.

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Pork buns are a divisive dish. It’s nigh impossible to be luke warm on them. Those who crave their presence on a a dim sum/yum cha lazy susan are drawn to the fluffiness of the dough- a blooming white cloud of squish and how it splinters to reveal a sticky sweet pork centre.

Those who cast them aside them will bleat about their deceptive heft, curious melding of savoury meat and a sugar spiked sauce and their lack of textural contrast.

To which I say; if you don’t love a pork bun, you’ve never been to Tim Ho Wan, in Hong Kong.

Tim Ho Wan made its mark a few years ago now as the ‘world’s cheapest Michelin star restaurant’. The original outpost was a hole in the wall in MongKok- where the waits were legendary. Up to three or four hours for a table was the word on the street. And why? Because of the grand quality and scant prices. Tim Ho Wan has high origins, it began when Mak Pui Gor, a dim sum chef at the three starred Michelin  Lung King Heen ( at the Four Seasons Hotel ) decided to open his own accessible outpost for dumplings and other delights to have with tea.

At HK 24 for a plate of har gau (less than 2 pounds) and HK 3 for tea, it’s entirely possible to stuff yourself silly for less than a tenner.

The original outpost has now closed. But never fear- there is are easy, accessible replacements, where if you time it right, you won’t have to wait at all.

Perhaps the easiest outpost is one floor above the express train to the airport, in the IFC mall on Hong Kong Central. It’s a little garish and shiny- airconditioned and clean- if  authenticity to you means eating lunch with sweat beading on your brow on sticky tables and next to battered walls, this might not tick all the boxes.

At 5 pm, the place is 4/5ths full. The lunch rush has long subsided and this is a lull before the after work crowds descend. The other bonus about Tim Ho Wan’s 12 and a half hour opening window (from 9 am -9.30 pm) means that if a dim sum urge hits you at dinner, you can happily indulge.

Tea is serve yourself on the table. The menus are also printed in English, so you just tick off what you want to eat and smile at a server. Within five minutes your table will be groaning with steamer baskets.

Har Gau (prawn dumplings) come four in a serve; there’s a pleasing bite to the whole prawns in the centre and the dumpling wrappers still hold their own (some specimens will disappointingly dissolve into rumpled skins, like tissue paper that’s been soaked by a hose).

Steamed pork dumplings with shrimp come studded with spring onion- a nice perk.

Turnip cakes are golden scorched in patches on the crust and a sturdy filler- they benefit greatly from a slurry of soy, chilli and vinegar that’s available on each table.

And the steamed egg cake is a glorious fluffy sweet/savoury sponge- light as a cloud and with a caramel note that lingers.

But the real hero are the pork buns. Because at Tim Ho Wan, they are baked, not steamed. It means you still get the mysteriously dark centre of sweet and sticky pork and a fluffy blanket of dough- but what you also get, is some crackle.

It’s the brittle casing that forms on the crust of the dough that elevates this potential piece of hangover-stodge-food to a new level. They’re sublime. And they’re 6 HK dollars each.

Eat as many as you can. Then finish the meal with a serving of Osmanthus Jelly, mildly sweet amber cubes of capturing Osmanthus flowers and wolfberries like segments of stained glass. Pay up at the counter near the entrance. And then take your suitcase downstairs and check into your flight out of Hong Kong at the train station – leaving you to head to the airport without the worry of your bags. You can then head to the airport  content in the knowledge that you probably just ate the world’s best pork bun.

Tim Ho Wan
Shop 12A, Hong Kong Station Podium Level 1, IFC Mall , Central, Hong Kong, China (Central)
(Nb, there is no English signage for the restaurant- look for the characters in turquoise lights).

Other Hong Kong hints and tips

We stayed in the Langham, Kowloon and found it to be spectacular. Great service, terrific pool on the roof (excellent if you’re on a stopover from London-Sydney and you want to stretch out a sore pregnant back), free wifi and a modern gym that’s open 24 hours – also excellent if your body clock is completely wired.

The Star Ferry across from Kowloon to Central is both efficient and a delightful way to see the harbour. It’s an easy straight walk up over the walkways from the ferry terminal in Central to the IFC mall.

If you have anything precious in your hand luggage or in a soft covered bag, best keep it in the back of a local taxi with you. A hard drive of ours only just survived repeated fairly boot slamming care of a driver who was a touch delusional about how much he could squash into the boot of the taxi.

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It means I’m opening boxes in the kitchen and frequently calling out ‘What the…?!’ For instance;

Why in heavens, did I own 18 noodle bowls?

Why did I have four whisks, none of which were any good?

And how many tea pots did I think I really needed? (I’ve found four so far, swaddled in fading newspaper).

Meanwhile, as deflated bubble wrap gathers around my feet,  all I want to do is see old friends and family and fondle the impossibly tiny onesies that have been loaned and bestowed to us ahead of the Stowaway’s arrival.

The cupboards may be filling up with crockery, but there’s not a lot in the pantry. A few days ago we did a rushed trip around an Australian supermarket, marvelling at how wide the aisles were, how cheerful the staff were- and that someone would happily bag our goods for us. Beyond the hygienic essentials; cleaning products, shampoo that smells like green apples, into the trolley went subsistence items; milk, butter, flour, olive oil, sugar, cheese, salt, oats, yoghurt, frozen berries, jarred morello cherries and a sack of apples. I figured we could live on that for a while. I was right.

And today was a big day. It was the first time I got to see my Dad, since his last dance with mortality.  It was lunch in the sun, on his deck overlooking the boats of Church Point.

It called for a simple dessert. The initial plan was to pick up a French apple tart at a patisserie en route- but when I woke this morning it dawned on me that I already had all the fixings for a rustic alternative. It would be something that would let me christen the kitchen – and something a little thriftier too (there are lots of things to get used to here in Sydney- the cost of living being just one of them- ouch).

This tart is a derivation of Amanda Hesser’s famed Peach Tart – it’s her go-to emergency recipe- the sort of  thing you pull out when you need a dessert but all you have access to is a bowl, a fork, a knife and a tart tin.

The crust is biscuity- it crumbles like shale- and if you’re not careful (or familiar) with your oven, it can catch and scorch. But the genius element is that it doesn’t need to be blended or kneaded like pastry- there’s not even any butter. It’s just a rough mash of olive oil, flour and a slash of milk that’s pressed into a loose bottom tin with confident fingers.

Over the top goes sliced fruit. The gentle sag of stone fruit is delightful, but thinly sliced apples work just as well. And then there’s some syrupy sweetness from a pooling rubble of sugar and butter that’s crumpled together.

You could add some almond meal for additional bulk, or flaked almonds over the top for texture. The only two things that it calls for is a puddle of dairy on the side (custard, yoghurt, ice cream or creme fraiche will all suffice) – and for you to keep a close eye on it.

Ours got a little singed on the surface. I’d forgotten that my Sydney oven runs a little hot. I’d also got distracted by a book that I found in which I used to inscribe  before I went to sleep all the good things that had happened that day; before we left I was training my brain to filter for the good.

One day back then listed; ‘great apple tart, lovely chat with mum, dinner with dad and linda, sunshine on my back’.

It’s nice to know that some things never change.

Emergency Apple Tart

Makes one 11-inch tart; serves 6

Adapted from the genius ‘Peach Tart’ recipe from Amanda Hesser, on Food52.

Shopping/foraging

1 1/2 cups plain flour
pinch  of  salt
1/2 cup plus 1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup mild olive oil (or 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/4 cup vegetable oil)
2 tablespoons milk
Optional – 1 tablespoon amaretto or almond extract
2 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter
4  pink lady apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced
3 tbsp of morello cherries, drained

Here’s how we roll

1) Preheat the oven to 220 C/425 F.

2) In a bowl combine the flour, salt and teaspoon of sugar. Stir to combine.

3) In a measuring jug whisk together the oil, milk and amaretto/almond extract.

4) Use a fork to rustically combine the flour mix with the oil/mix. Stir to combine into a rough batter.

5) Use the tips of your fingers to press the dough into the base of a loose bottom flan tin and up the sides.

6) Peel and core your apples.

7) Slice into pieces about 3 mm thick.

8) Nestle the drained or fresh pitted cherries in and amongst the apples (you could also substitute for blueberries, blackberries or raspberries).

9) Use your fingers to mash together the cold butter and the sugar. Dab small nuggets of it over the top of the fruit.

10) Place in the oven and bake for 45 minutes, keeping an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t catch from the heat too much.  Serve warm or at room temperature with yoghurt, cream fraiche, custard or ice cream.

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It becomes comforting to be kicked up under a rib. Particularly after your now-head-of-cauliflower-sized stowaway goes silent on you for a 12 hour stretch. That happened late last week. Like a stealth submarine, he just blipped below transmission level. After a few hours I started to nurse a nugget of concern. After 12 hours I was poking pretty hard trying to wake him up. And then a casually outstretched toe gave a jiggle up near my rib- a small apology of sorts. It seems someone was just having an extended nap.

I wouldn’t mind an extended nap.

Things have been a little…hectic. They’ve been hectic because this just happened.

Somehow in the midst of everything we packed up and snuck out of London.  We took a ride in a big jet plane. We’ve come back to Sydney for a spell. And it’s here, in the lemon yellow light of Australia that we’re going to usher the stowaway into the world.

Here are a few other comforting things; it’s good at this stage of pregnancy to be able to source a medical certificate to give you permission to fly. Not the easiest thing to do when dealing with the NHS, who, despite all of their valour, won’t think twice about cancelling an appointment made 1 month prior the morning before you leave, with no replacement offered. That was a fun day. But when a stern faced Cathay Pacific check in clerk eyeballs your bump and demands to see a signed piece of paper before issuing a boarding pass- it’s a sweet source of relief to know you eventually got one and it’s nestled next to your travel insurance paperwork in a blue striped travel wallet.

It’s comforting to get off a plane at the other end of a journey. Less so to pick up a honking cold en route (my kingdom for pseudoephadrine cold and flu drugs).

And it’s particularly comforting to have friends and family who haven’t seen you knocked up until now say  lovely things like ‘gosh- you don’t even look pregnant from behind!’. There’s not a belly-rific woman in the world who doesn’t enjoy the sound of those words.

Because let’s be a bit honest for a moment- we all knew there was a risk. With the genetic blessing of once- marshmallow-cheeks and propensity in this journey for cakes and baked pastas, there was every chance that I was going to truck it out here. Bless him, The Hungry One even had the gumption to put it into words ‘I thought you might get really enormous. But you haven’t. I mean, there’s a baby, but I thought….’

At which point Fat Albert did a dance across his subconscious. (nb, this was all said with great affection and love).

I probably have dishes like this one; made in honour of the stowaway’s graduation to brassica dimensions to thank for some of that relative restraint.

It’s a mind meld of two of my most beloved childhood dishes; macaroni cheese and cauliflower cheese. Except here’s the winning kicker of it all- there’s not much fat. There’s no butter. There’s not even any milk in this version. There are plenty of versions of mac and cheese out there that could sink a plane with their saturated ballast.

Here the gilding, lily-white sauce blanketing all of the noodles is made from nothing more than gently steamed cauliflower that’s blended into a luxurious cream.

Sure, there’s a bit of cheese, for flavour and stick- but considering the relatively scant amount (150 grams in total), and the fact that this can probably serve 6 with some bread and a big bitter green salad on the side, I think we’re way ahead of the curve.

To add a bit of adult exoticism, I like to drizzle it with some truffle oil just before serving. It’s musty and funky and plays up the slightly kinky twang of the Gruyere. Though if you’re not breathing into a bag over the price of strollers in Sydney, feel free to splash out with real shaved truffle.

I’m currently adding  this baked dish to a long list of things that are soothing. It joins in with being made a cup of tea by my Mum, hearing broad Australian accents in pharmacies and knowing that I’ve hit the downward slope of a journey.

If little roasted kernels of bronzed cauliflower playing hide and seek among soft noodles, a deceptively light-but-rich-cream and a blanket of cheese aren’t your thing, then I probably lost you a few paragraphs ago. But if you’re anything like me, life doesn’t get much better  than sitting down with long lost friends and family to a tubby bowl of this- and then feeling 30 minutes later an emphatic thump of thank you-for-the-carbs from a wee one who’s  hitching a ride inside you.

This is the stuff the good life is stitched from (as well as the knowledge that it’s going to be a while before you have to fold yourself into the confines of an aeroplane seat again).

 Truffled Cauliflower Mac and Cheese

Serves 4-6 with a big salad of bitter leaves

Equipment

1 large stock pot. 1 saucepan/Dutch oven. Optional, 1 large casserole dish. Microplane/cheese grater.

Shopping/foraging

1 medium cauliflower, leaves removed, cut into small florets and stem sliced into coins (around 1 kg)
300 grams of macaroni, or other pasta shape
100 grams of Gruyere/tasty cheese- grated.
30 grams of parmesan, grated
Salt, pepper and truffle oil to taste.

Here’s how we roll

1) Add half of the cauliflower into a pot with 1/2  a cup of water. Add a lid and stew over a medium heat for 15 minutes, lifting occasionally to stir and ensure that nothing is catching. Stew until the cauliflower is tender.

2) Add two cups of water, a good pinch of salt and simmer for ten minutes more with the lid off, stirring occasionally.

3) Use a stick blender or a food processor to blend the cauliflower and water until you have a smooth cream.

4) Put some salted water to cook the macaroni on to boil. When it is at a rolling boil add the macaroni and cook for 4 minutes. Then add the remaining florets of cauliflower and cook for another three minutes or so- until the pasta is cooked to just al dente.

5) Drain the pasta and the cauliflower florets and set aside.

6) Preheat the oven to 200C/392 F.

7) In a greased baking dish/lasagne dish or Dutch oven combine the macaroni and cauliflower florets with the cauliflower puree. Add the grated Gruyere/Tasty cheese and stir to combine.

8) Dust the top with the grated parmesan.

9) Bake uncovered  for 15 minutes. If you prefer more of a crunchy crust, grill the top for five minutes additional.

10) Sprinkle with black pepper and drizzle with truffle oil before serving alongside a big salad of bitter leaves.

Forty Weeks of Feasting

Each week mad websites and baby books will tell you how big your baby now is in comparison to a seed, fruit or vegetable. It starts as a poppy seed and goes from there. To make this process a little more palatable, join me as I bake my way through. Here’s the journey so far.

Week 30: Broccoli, Lemon and Pine Nut Loaf Cake. Recipe here.

Week 29: Red Cabbage, Fennel and Pear Slaw with Pork Chops. Recipe here.

Week 28: Coconut and Almond Bread Pudding. Recipe here.

Week 27: Szechuan Pork Noodles with Smacked Cucumber Salad. Recipe here.

Week 26: Jicama, Chicken and Cashew Salad. Recipe here.

Week 25: Corndogs. Recipe here.

Week 24: Eggplant Moussaka. Recipe here

Week 23 Candied Grapefruit Peel and Dark Chocolate Cookies. Recipe here

Week 22 Roast Carrot and Hummus Soup. Recipe here.

Week 21. Spiced Pomegranate Meatballs with Mint and White Beans. Recipe here.

Week 20 Banana Berry Flax Muffins. Recipe here.

Week 19 Mango Pudding. Recipe here

Week 18 Sweet Potato, Red Onion and Feta Pie. Recipe here

Week 17 Red Pepper, Chicken, Onion and Date Tagine. Recipe here.

Week 16 Avocado Mint Salsa with Pea and Mozzarella Quesadillas. Recipe here.

Week 15 Orange, Polenta and Rosemary Cake. Recipe here.

Wk 14 Lemon Creme Fraiche and Parmesan Pasta. Recipe here

Wk 13 Clementine/Mandarin Curd. Recipe here.

Wk 12 Plum and tomato tartines. Recipe here

Wk 11 Sprout and mushroom gratin (in which we come out of the closet). Recipe here

Wk 10 Date tart. Recipe here

Wk 9 Roasted grapes with baby chickens. Recipe here.

Wk 8 Raspberries and elderflower spritz. Recipe here.

Wk 7 Blueberry pancakes. Recipe here

Wk 6 Lentil and Ginger Soup. Recipe here

Wk 5 Sesame Miso Crisps. Recipe here

Wk 4 Poppy Seed Scrolled Loaf. Recipe here.

The post Truffled (lowish fat) Cauliflower Mac and Cheese appeared first on eatori.

There’s a lot of pleasure to be had in a driving holiday. It’s mainly derived from the freedom to explore and duck off the main roads and discover tucked away treasures. There’s the cocoon of your car; no other patrons, just you, your companions and an ipod for company.

The Lake District of the UK is a stupendous spot for such a trip (so much so, that Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon even felt compelled to make a film about just such a journey).

There are great restaurants up in this neck of the woods; L’Enclume, being just one of them (for a full write up of the L’Enclume experience, go here).

But the sticky thing about driving to dinner, is getting home afterwards- particularly if there’s the option of paired wines to go with your 17 course supper.

Which is where L’Enclume House comes in handy.

Beyond L’Enclume, the ancient village of Cartmel is most known for their 12th Century Priory, curved small streets, racing festivals and as one of the original homes of sticky toffee pudding- available at the Cartmel Village Shop.

Staying in L’Enclume house allows you to literally roll home after dinner- and spend the next morning exploring the village. There are a variety of rooms- since we were celebrating our ten year anniversary, we plumped for one of the superior rooms.

It’s got everything you could wish for; a king size bed, plush carpets, swift wifi, a kettle, a little fridge with proper milk and even home made chocolate chip cookies to stave off any hunger pains.

The bathroom in room 11 has a large bath with a shower overhead.

There are a few vintage quirks; thanks to the heritage building the doorways are short- fine if you’re 5 ft 6 like me- but if you’re nudging past 6ft 2 (aka The Hungry One)- if you’re not careful in the middle of the night you’ll smack your head, hard on the way to the bathroom. And then there’s the noise- right above reception, in room 11 you’ll hear every word uttered at the front desk, clear as a bell.  And parking in the village can be a bit of a challenge- there aren’t any spots reserved for the restaurant or accommodation- it’s every punter out for themselves

Breakfast the next morning is included in the tariff for the night and is served at Simon Rogan’s bistro, Rogan and Company, adjacent to L’Enclume House.

It’s a modest two course affair; it starts with freshly squeezed orange or grapefuit juice, the choice of yoghurt and fruit, cereals, fruit salad or organic porridge.

Yoghurt is gloriously thick and speckled with fresh berries and banana slices.

A full english arrives as a considerate portion- one egg, half a tomato, some mushrooms, black pudding and bacon.

For those who fancy even more of an English breakfast experience, there’s the option of smoked haddock or kippers. The timing on the boiled egg and soldiers went a little awry, with the second egg cooked through- leaving very little to dip.

An espresso with hot milk is a sounder choice than being cheeky and asking for a flat white. A pot of Earl Grey is faultless. And the marmalade, butter and whole grain toast is exactly the thing to steel you for the long road back to London.

As far as gourmet English get aways go; this is a great one.

L’Enclume House

A superior room at L’Enclume House is £159 for bed and breakfast.http://www.lenclume.co.uk/sr/rooms.html

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Some will know L’Enclume from a famous scene in ‘The Trip’. Some will know it as the older sister of chef Simon Rogan’s forays into London; Roganic.

But if you haven’t made it up to the southern fringe of the Lake District, this is all I can say. Go. Now now. Because you are missing out on something very, very special.

Simon Rogan’s cooking shines in the small village of Cartmel. It makes perfect sense. This is a bucolic town in a beautiful part of the world, with cobbled curling streets, a babbling brook and a church that dates back to 1100s. Flanking it are  green fields flocked with black faced sheep and further on, brown cows.

Recently voted sustainable restaurant of the year, much of the produce that finds its way onto the menu at L’Enclume is gathered from their own farm just a mile from the village centre. Yet this is not simple produce, unfussed with on a plate. This is destination dining, showcasing cutting edge cooking. In my mind L’Enclume sits happily alongside meals we’ve consumed at Mugaritz, Faviken and Noma. So if a dash of artistry, friendly service and impressive food ethics floats your boat- read on.

Rather than walking you through and making you redigest the 17 courses consumed at L’Enclume, bite by bite, here’s a summation; a bit of a fan letter;

Dear L’Enclume, here are 10 things I really like about you.

1) Your unpretentious environment

The interior of the restaurant manages to be both modern and earthy, from the stone floors and walls, dark wood tables, squat chairs and table accents of sticks and stones. The rear extension looks straight out onto the garden, with sunlight streaming in. Here the water glasses are fashioned from recycled wine bottles and the dress code is simply smart. There’s no need for mucking about with jackets and ties (there were a few gentlemen in sports jackets, but a nice shirt and trousers seems to be just fine). This is a place that invites you to sit back and  be swept along on a gentle journey- the road map for which waits in an envelop on your table. It’s a listing of the 17 courses to follow, in efficient language; it’s more a listing of components in the dish than a breathless ode of what may follow.

2) Your dashes of whimsy

The meal starts, (like Mugaritz) with rocks. In this instance; pebbles. Here they’re not potatoes coated in clay, but delicate macaron like shells, sandwiching the world’s tiniest dice of apple. Nestled next to it are oyster leaves- something we first tasted at El Bulli, some four years ago now- these naturally occuring crisp green leaves tastes eerily like brine. It’s amouse bouches like this which truly live up to the moniker; they amuse- not both your mouth, but your mind. It’s great tasting food, with a sly sense of humour. This is the kind of stuff that tickles my fancy.

3) The way you use textures

There’s a riot of textures in the ‘snacks’ at the start of the meal- a tartare of mackerel sits in a cocoon shell of a seaweed cracker, garnished with filaments of radish and fronds of lady’s smock. It’s brittle and smooth, fresh and bright with a coolness that echoes the lily pond the bite resembles.

Then there’s the smoothness of a black pudding mousse, balancing against a novel leaf of crisp chicken skin, which shatters against your teeth.

And finally a revelation- cubes of smoked eel, washed in the meatiness of ham fat and a crackling crust. This one bite has all the novelty of your first bowl of rice crisps, with the hangover-drenching umami depth of a full English. In short, it’s pretty stunning.

4) Your beautiful flatware

There is such thought that’s wound its way into this restaurant; from the studied friendliness of the floor staff to the vessels the food is presented in. Spears of asparagus, a gentle green emulsion and delicate fronds of crab are layered in small ceramic ‘sacks’, allowing you to forage and dig with a novel small spoon all the way to the bottom. Other courses come on elegant slate boards, specially crafted bowls and at the very end- small cones are chocked into rock. No matter where you look you’re confronted with good design.

 5) There’s innovation- but not at the sacrifice of flavour

There are molecular techniques at play all over this menu- but beyond the novelty, they work to enhance the natural flavours of the dishes. Case in point; the cod ‘yolk’ with pea shoots, douglas fir and salt and vinegar. The dish looks like it’s been  plucked from the henhouse- but really, thanks to some smart kitchen trickery- it’s straight from the sea, with the centre of the luminous yellow yolk capturing a cod brandade style sauce. Underneath you find relief in the form of puffed rice that’s been assertively seasoned with salt and vinegar.

6) Your stellar wine service

A flight of matching wines at L’Enclume will set you back around £60 per person, yet it adds so much to the experience. Service is enthusiastic and deft, with pithy descriptions of each of the nine chosen pairings and- beyond the simple ‘this is the wine, here is where it’s from’- some thoughts on why it’s been selected and what it will bring out in each dish. When you’re dealing with more obscure chosen varietals such as Atanasius and a Spatburgunder from Germany- it’s helpful. Pourings are generous, but not glutinous. But beyond all of that, these canny choices add so much to each dish. The ruby tartare of venison, touched with charcoal oil, mustard and flooding lozenges of candied fennel positively sings when joined by the slightly smokey tannins of  the Austrian Gut Oggau Atananasius. It’s inspired stuff.

7) The inclusion of salad

My kingdom for a salad…. It’s a curse of multi course menus, they’re so often weighted by the heft of the traditional plating equation; protein+carbohydrate+slick of sauce. Half way through, you’re desperately searching for wafty greens for respite. So you can imagine the delight at discovering that the ox tongue listed on the menu arrives as small, beautifully seasoned nuggets playing hide and seek in a bouffant of hedge greens, herbs and Cherry Belle radishes. And the dressing? A light drizzle of beefy jus.

8) Your considerate portion sizes

The other thing that you come to appreciate when you’ve spent far too many months of mortgage payments (and hours of your life) sitting down to outrageous meals is consideration in portion sizes. Heaving yourself away from a table at 11.30 pm, only to spend the rest of the night shallow breathing and trying to sleep in a half sit up position after 17 generous plates is frankly Falstaffian. So thank you, L’Enclume, for being sensible about this. Most of  the fresh flavours that prance across the table can be consumed in three to four bites. And if there is a richer course; it’s presented in a restrained way. The double act of the raw prawn with wood sorrel and grilled prawn with onion is a perfect example. It starts with a pintxos style cracker, boasting a tartare of sweet raw prawn and the sweetness of an apple gelee that sits on the lid of a beautiful grey ceramic pot.

Beneath it is a rich onion custard, studded with sweet petals of red onion, garlic scrapes and langoustine. It’s rich- luxuriously so- but the sensible portion size what makes it Goldilocks-perfect

9) The way you turn a spotlight on unsung heroes

There are certain ingredients that get a bit of a short thrift in the kitchen. For instance; turnips. Nobody ever really waxes lyrical about this tuber. Yet with gentle care, Simon Rogan has turned it into a show stopper. In the base of the bowl is a nest of softly cooked spindles of this pale white starch. Joining in are some hen of the wood mushrooms and nasturtium flowers. Peeking out of a silken truffle infused turnip cream are tiny, Tokyo turnips. They’re bonsai in proportion- itty bitty baby turnips, plucked straight from the farm. If vegetables had souls, this might be grounds for infanticide. Beyond the adorable proportions, they are a textural treat- soft with crunch.

And then there’s the mutton- this shows up as the climax- yet the scarlet protein at the centre of the meal is not aged beef or spring lamb- but mutton. The older animal is treated tenderly- slow cooked sous vide and as soft as butter.

There’s fried kale for contrast, artichokes and the novelty of garlic flowers. It’s like the fields outside somehow morphed onto the plate.

10) The tempered sweetness in desserts, emphasis on fruits

Lastly, credit must be given to desserts. There are no cliches of chocolate fondants or hipster pleasing gimmicks of infusing bacon into panna cotta. There’s the curiosity of bitterness in a rye crust capturing a Coniston oatmeal stout ice cream- that’s contrasted with the sweetness of pear and elderberry vinegar.

Then there’s brown butter ice cream, studded with brioche crumble playing peek a boo inside,  with the acidity of rhubarb, sorrel and apple.

And lastly, the pinnacle of the meal for me; a sheep milk mousse, snap frozen by liquid nitrogen into craggy cubes. There’s ginger bread for spice, sweet cicely leaves for floral acid and underneath an orb of caramel, which creeps across the plate when punctured with a spoon.

It is impossible to leave L’Enclume without a smile on your face.  It’s like somehow in one restaurant it’s managed to capture some of the best of England- clever, dapper, restrained and sweet. It’s a restaurant that makes you feel good about yourself and the world you live in.

This is possibly the last, big restaurant we’ll do for a while.  We came to the Lake District to trace some family history and to celebrate ten years of eating well together. Now there’s a stowaway to shepherd into the world and school shoes to eventually pay for. But quite frankly, I couldn’t think of a nicer note to close it all with.

So thank you.

Kind Regards

Tori

L’Enclume
http://www.lenclume.co.uk/Cartmel, Lake District, UK

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I had thought that the craving for cake would wane.

It’s time for a confession. It hasn’t.

I’ve been generally lucky in this whole – building something that’s now the size of a head of broccoli caper. I haven’t had insatiable cravings for gravel or pickles. I can still be trusted to take a litre tub of ice cream from the fridge without finding myself ten minutes later scavenging against the cardboard at the bottom for the last ribbons of half- melted dairy.

The stomach churning aversions to slow cooked meats, rosemary and wilted greens that haunted me for the first 13 weeks have left the building.

And these days I can even bear to sit within sniffing distance of  The Hungry One while he’s nursing a small tipple of whiskey at the end of a night.

The latest fun guest at the party is the heartburn. It’s warm and sour. It rises up through my lungs like muddy suds from a shower that just won’t drain. That’s one I could do without. And the heartburn tablets I’ve turned to for help taste suspiciously like fruity, fizzing concrete.

But something I still can’t do without, is cake.

Me, circa 1982. Nice tracksuit, huh?

It seems I have completely reverted to childhood. My comfortable clothes these days are more likely to dark grey yoga pants and a voluminous v neck t shirt than cuffed pink velour, but if there’s a social gathering, that’s where you’ll find me. Sitting down (potentially on the floor), legs splayed and stuffing my face with cake.

I’ve become less picky about flavours. A few months ago it was all about apple and almond, though carrot or something studded with berries would suffice.

These days anything that fits on a fork and gives itself up to soft crumbs will do- though there was a very special specimen recently consumed; crafted from blueberry and cream cheese, it was as though a bagel and a sponge cake ran away and had a torrid affair.

Meanwhile, I should probably be eating more greens.

This loaf is in honour of the thirtieth week of gestation. It feels like hump day- like we’re on the downward slope- though I think we all know that the the distended lump in my stomach is not growing anywhere but out.

This creation satisfies my need for cake, but also gives a good dose of greens. It’s not too dissimilar in theory from a zucchini, or courgette loaf. It’s sturdy and dense and mildly sweet- though you can make it much more savoury by omitting the sugar all together, perhaps replacing it with grated parmesan. It packs some pine nuts and lemon along for the ride. It’s the sort of thing you should serve in smaller slivers as part of a wider spread of treats , or pack in brown paper to accompany you on an extended stroll. You can eat it on its own, but I think it really starts to shine when glossed with a good schmear of cream cheese and some extra lemon zest.

It may not be the prettiest thing around- and the smell of roasting broccoli may not be your thing (particularly if you’re less than 12 weeks pregnant)-  but I can say this; it’s a sound thing to have in your arsenal when you’re trying to keep the cake baby at bay.

Broccoli, Lemon and Pine Nut Loaf

Makes one loaf, with around 10 slices

 Shopping/foraging

1 medium head of broccoli (300g), cut into florets and steamed until the stems are soft
2 eggs, beaten
75 ml of sunflower oil
50 grams of sugar (optional- it will give a sweet/savoury loaf. If you want something  more savoury, leave it out, or potentially substitute with grated parmesan cheese)
40 grams of pine nuts, toasted
Zest of half a lemon
250  grams plain flour
1/2 tsp bicarb soda
1/2 tsp baking powder

To serve; cream cheese and extra lemon zest

Here’s how we roll

1)Preheat the oven to 150 C/300F.

2) Steam the broccoli florets until the stems are soft, but the colour is still bright green. Set aside to cool.

3)  Use a stick blender, food processor or blender to blitz the broccoli until smooth.

4) In a separate bowl whisk together the eggs and the sunflower oil.

5)  Combine the cooled broccoli puree with the toasted pine nuts and lemon zest.

6) Mix the broccoli puree with the eggs, sunflower oil and the sugar. Stir to combine.

7) Sift in the flour, bi carb soda and baking powder.

8) Stir to combine.

9) Pour the batter into a greased loaf tin and bake for 1-1 and a quarter hours- until a skewer comes out clean and the top is brown.

10) Allow to cool in the tin for 5-10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack.

11) Serve slices topped with cream cheese and some lemon zest.

Forty Weeks of Feasting

Each week mad websites and baby books will tell you how big your baby now is in comparison to a seed, fruit or vegetable. It starts as a poppy seed and goes from there. To make this process a little more palatable, join me as I bake my way through. Here’s the journey so far.

Week 29: Red Cabbage, Fennel and Pear Slaw with Pork Chops. Recipe here.

Week 28: Coconut and Almond Bread Pudding. Recipe here.

Week 27: Szechuan Pork Noodles with Smacked Cucumber Salad. Recipe here.

Week 26: Jicama, Chicken and Cashew Salad. Recipe here.

Week 25: Corndogs. Recipe here.

Week 24: Eggplant Moussaka. Recipe here

Week 23 Candied Grapefruit Peel and Dark Chocolate Cookies. Recipe here

Week 22 Roast Carrot and Hummus Soup. Recipe here.

Week 21. Spiced Pomegranate Meatballs with Mint and White Beans. Recipe here.

Week 20 Banana Berry Flax Muffins. Recipe here.

Week 19 Mango Pudding. Recipe here

Week 18 Sweet Potato, Red Onion and Feta Pie. Recipe here

Week 17 Red Pepper, Chicken, Onion and Date Tagine. Recipe here.

Week 16 Avocado Mint Salsa with Pea and Mozzarella Quesadillas. Recipe here.

Week 15 Orange, Polenta and Rosemary Cake. Recipe here.

Wk 14 Lemon Creme Fraiche and Parmesan Pasta. Recipe here

Wk 13 Clementine/Mandarin Curd. Recipe here.

Wk 12 Plum and tomato tartines. Recipe here

Wk 11 Sprout and mushroom gratin (in which we come out of the closet). Recipe here

Wk 10 Date tart. Recipe here

Wk 9 Roasted grapes with baby chickens. Recipe here.

Wk 8 Raspberries and elderflower spritz. Recipe here.

Wk 7 Blueberry pancakes. Recipe here

Wk 6 Lentil and Ginger Soup. Recipe here

Wk 5 Sesame Miso Crisps. Recipe here

Wk 4 Poppy Seed Scrolled Loaf. Recipe here.

The post Broccoli, Lemon and Pine Nut Loaf appeared first on eatori.

From there, we battled Bank Holiday traffic north to the Lake District. The land of Beatrix Potter and Peter Rabbit;  it’s a beautiful region for boating, tramping and frittering away an afternoon in a local pub with a plate of pigs in blankets and a pint of ale.

It’s also the kind of area where quaint bed and breakfasts will commence your day with the offer of a Full English. And far be it for The Hungry One to decline.  This cultural specificity is a heck of a way to kick off a morning. It’s a belly bloating ballast of sausage, egg, bacon, tomato and blood pudding, often accessioned with baked beans, hash brown, toast and mushrooms.

The meat may be the first hurdle for some; that’s up to three slabs of cured and stuffed pork products there- but the real silent killer is the mushrooms. Anyone who has a penchant for soft funghi knows how much butter those morsels can absorb.

As for me- I’m more of an egg and soldiers kind of girl. There is so much childhood comfort wrapped in the process of dunking slim fingers of toast into a molten yolk.

So after four days of over-indulgence; of cake and tea, fat hunks of bread with pickle, ham, cheese and apple at lunch (the frumpy promise of a ploughman’s platter at a pub never fails to please me), it’s time to rethink our favoured starts.

This is not a full English. But it does fulfil a similar purpose.

For one, like the traditional English breakfast, it would be just as suitable for dinner- if you’re more of a bircher muesli at 8 am kind of person.

It takes the beloved bleeding yolk; a uniting concept of  both feasts and gives it a bit of a slow carb makeover. It  also puts to good use the beautiful asparagus that has just come into bloom here in our parts of the world.  A collection of trimmed stems give you the perfect vehicle for swiping through a runny yolk, while also adding the trickle of fat that asparagus craves to really come into its own.

And there’s still some pork for those who crave it. For ease of presentation, I’ve cosseted the asparagus spears in strips of cured ham- jamon is lovely, but prosciutto or thinly shaved leg ham would also do. It saves the need to pull out another fry pan and deal with sizzling fat.

As for the egg- I’ve upsized to something more palatable for an appetite the size of The Hungry One’s.  In keeping with the pastoral landscapes we’ve been skipping through, I’ve gone searching for another barnyard alternative to a chicken egg. Goose it is. A goose egg is about two and a half times the size of a hen’s egg. They’re in season in the UK from February to early June and have a fantastically rich yolk.

By submerging a room temperature goose egg into water that’s at a rolling boil for around 7 – 8 minutes should ensure a cooked white and runny yolk (if you want to substitute a hen, go for 5 min 15 seconds).  All that’s left to do is steam your asparagus and then wrap it in ham, and then you’re ready to take the plunge.

It’s the kind of feast that makes you want to go in search of your childhood copies of Jemima Puddleduck. It makes you wish for a garden as grand as Mr McGregor’s. And when you’re back in grey London, not surrounded by fields and mountains, lakes and lanes, it’s a sure step towards starting a day in the best way possible.

Goose Eggs with Asparagus and Ham Soldiers

 Serves one- though easily doubles, triples etc

 Shopping/foraging

1 goose egg (or 2 chicken eggs), at room temperature
6 asparagus spears, trimmed
6 strips of jamon/ prosciutto, or thin cut leg ham
Olive oil, salt and pepper

Here’s how we roll

1) Bring a saucepan of water to a rolling boil. Submerge the egg and boil for 7-8 minutes for a goose egg and 5 minutes and 15 seconds for a hen’s egg. Drain and set in egg cups (or use a latte glass for the goose egg).

2) Steam the asparagus until just soft- around 3 minutes.

3) Wrap each asparagus spear in the jam. Drizzle with olive oil and season with a little salt and pepper.

4) Carefully cut the top off the egg and then dip the ham-spears into the yolk, before eating the remaining white with a small spoon.

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