I have always deeply admired Nigella Lawson. To me she is undoubtedly the whole domestic goddess package. It may be Christmas time when most of us mere mortals are frantically pulling our hair out trying desperately not to be at war with wrapping presents, entertaining people who are blissfully unaware of the carnage that had taken place in your kitchen only five minutes before they arrived and endlessly writing Christmas cards into the middle of the night which sometimes never even get posted (woe betide you if you forget to send one to an estranged Aunt and Uncle). Nigella glides, no floats through her household emitting sheer Christmas joy through every soft bouncy ringlet of hair. Her abode is so pleasingly decorated that it is rustically perfect. The abundance of lights on the Christmas tree mixed with the many years worth of a complete jumble of mixed decorations each looking as if they have been so carefully, artistically placed on the branches.
Similarly, in summertime, when thousands of us willingly ignite the barbecue even on the days when sunlight is trying to fight its way through the dark, bleak unpromising clouds, Nigella graces our screens looking entirely immaculate even though she is fighting the elements on a blustery seaside coast having just made some fabulous Mediterranean canapes and conjured up some dreamy summery cocktails. Most of us settle with whatever was left at the supermarket after the barbecue food-rugby scrum rush that happens every time the weather reports predict a glorious weekend, a couple of naff burgers - usually of the chilli kind (the ones that no one wants) and some defrosted soggy baps, bought months ago just in case an impromptu grilling was on the fore front (they possibly could have been purchased last September).
Getting to my main point, it is dinner parties where I feel Nigella's best qualitys really shine through. Every time I start to consider having a small gathering, it is Nigella I wish to emulate. It's not necessarily her food I want to copy, but more her ability to look so damn perfect as she so easily creates a bountiful feast for six people. I know it's only a T.V. programme but I really imagine her to be like that all the time, even down to the silk dressing gown she wears to go and snuffle a last mouthful of goodness out of her fridge before she retires to bed.
Stupidly, around two weeks before such a soiree I envisage myself to be exactly the same - food easily prepped, looking so delectable it is hard to resist, a house free of all useless contents, looking shiny and clean but comfortably lived in and myself groomed to within an inch of my life, no hair out of place and my dress making me look eye catchingly gorgeous. Every time I unseemingly fall into this trap when in my harsh reality it couldn't be further from the truth.
I take this opportunity now to apologise in the lack of posts in last couple of days. My intention was to give you a running commentary of my perfectly planned (how could anything possibly go wrong?) dinner party. As you can probably tell, given that it is Monday morning not quite everything went according to plan.
The intention of the dinner party was to thank close family for looking after our menagerie of animals while we were away. It was also an opportunity to show off some of my culinary skills I'd picked up on my Italian journey (I promise to stop going on about it after this post). To make things even easier I had even practiced most of the dishes beforehand giving me complete confidence that the night should run with out a hitch. The plan was to have chicken liver pate for starter (a typical Tuscan antipasti), mixed mushroom ravioli for main and mint choc chip ice cream and Cantuccini for dessert - not a complicated menu but one that I knew would satisfy my guests. That is, all apart from one - R.
Throughout the week I kept wondering when he was going to quiz me about the type of food I would be serving at the weekend, knowing that when he found out that; 1. We would be having pasta for a main course and, 2. It didn't include any meat he would find it extremely difficult to keep his opinions to himself. I already knew in my head what his responses would consist of, "PASTA, for a main course on a Saturday night with NO MEAT? You can't do that, there won't be enough and anyway pasta's boring, people don't want pasta, they want roast beef with Yorkshire puddings or steak with field mushrooms." Knowing him so well gives me the upper hand as I could build up a repertoire of responses ready to defend my menu down to the last vegetarian ravioli square.
However, this never came. Maybe he was too busy to even think about the weekend, maybe he'd forgotten or maybe he was actually beginning to trust me in my decisions when it came to food. Coming from a very strong farming background R has always been a classic meat and two veg man - not that there's anything wrong with this but it can get quite heavy and doesn't exactly do wonders for your waistline.
Being completely naive about food when I first met R, I easily succumbed to this traditional way of dining, quite often having the same monstrous sized meals as R. I didn't know even how to boil a potato but R took me under his wing and taught me skills that had been lovingly passed on to him by his grandparents who were locally well known for their award-winning jams and cakes.
Unbeknown to R he was unearthing an currently dormant volcano inside of me and I have him to thank for awakening a fire inside of me that never goes out.
Anyway, getting back to the dinner party, I had pre-planned everything down to the very last detail, pate was to be made the day before as with the Cantuccini, pasta dough and foccocia dough was to be made early Saturday morning, finishing both off in the afternoon then the ice cream was going to churn while we finished off our main meal, that way it would be served just like the soft geleto you can get in Italy - with things so precisely planned how could any thing possibly go wrong?
Friday night I went to bed feeling very chuffed with myself. Having never made pate before I consulted a few different recipes to eventually come up with my own (something I never start out to do but it always turns out that way), which turned out very successfully and the Cantuccini baked just how I wanted them to. Part one and part two of my plan were complete.
After a very early start on Saturday morning, two batches of dough, one pasta and one foccocia were completed (and so was my morning workout after kneading two big batches of dough!) so off I glided to the shops to get some last minute fresh ingredients at the same time wondering whether I should curl my hair or not to get the complete Nigella look.
R decided to accompany me, which is slightly unusual as he gets so frustrated by "Saturday shoppers", particularly the ones that frequent our local supermarket. About halfway through the morning just as I was directing him towards the third food shop of the day he dropped the bombshell.
"What actually are we having for tea?"
I knew it was coming so I was prepared for him as I confidently gave my answer.
"Are you sure that will be enough for six people?" - If there was a defining moment when I could say every thing started to go wrong this was it.
I had not planned on his response, even though I was pretty sure that I had enough food to feed ten people, the seeds of doubt started to spread in my body as I frantically racked my brain trying to think of something else to serve. My leisurely walk around the supermarkets had taken a downward spiral into a stressful trip barging my way in and out of the crowds.
Back home I decided to calm down before carrying on with my preparations, giving myself half an hour to resume channeling Nigella I found some peace in flicking though one of her books. Inspired again, I made the ravioli filling and the custard base for my ice cream. I was back on track as parts five and six of my plan were now complete.
After unforeseen problems at work, I arrived home a little later than planned but undeterred I started to roll out my masses of bright yellow pasta dough. Having used the machine on a few occasions now I was well aware on the process of rolling, folding in half and rolling again although this time something was not right. The machine seemed to be making a grinding noise and was becoming extremely difficult to turn. Feeling too proud to ask for help, on hearing the noise R quite casually called in the kitchen to see if I wanted any assistance. Trying not to sound too needy and desperate, I politely said, "Yes please" and waited for R to come in and see I had managed to get pasta flour to encase even the smallest crevices of our kitchen. R took over the pasta machine and I started to make the ravioli.
"It's broke" said R as he picked up the bolts from the floor.
"What do you mean, "It's broke"? "It can't be broken, I've got pasta to roll out and people starting to arrive in an hour!" I said with my voice starting to screech and get a little bit piercing towards the end. There was no snappy comment back from R (which was well deserved given the arsey tone in my voice) instead he just continued to help me. One of us holding down the machine, while the other fed the pasta dough through and turned the handle. It was at this point I received a text from one of the guests saying that they would be arriving earlier, I think they got the message when I so pleasantly replied back, "Not ready for you yet. GO TO THE PUB".
With fifteen minutes to go, I scrubbed the bits of pasta dough that were stuck to the side and the floor and mopped up the flour which had some how managed to get in the living room and made a dash upstairs to wash my make-up stained face and changed into something that I hadn't spent the afternoon wiping my hands on, emerging downstairs just as the first guest walked through the door, even managing to light a candle on my way through.
Was there enough food? Of course there was, as there always is. I could have fed another four more couples, Did I look effortlessly glamorous? Not quite how I pictured myself to look, but I did manage some mascara and some perfume. "I don't know how you do it all" said one of my guests as she saw the spread I had prepared, "Oh, it's easy really" I pleasantly replied as I turned and faced my kitchen units downing an exceedingly large glass of Rioja.
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Chicken Liver Pate.
Seriously consider this dish as it's so surprisingly cheap to make but tastes as if you've spent a fortune on ingredients.
500g chicken livers - green sinew trimmed off
Olive oil
100g butter at room temperature
A couple of sprigs of thyme/rosemary/parsley or sage - what ever you've got available
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
2 shallots, chopped
A good splosh of Vin Santo, brandy or white wine (optional)
Salt and pepper
Rinse your chicken livers under cold water, then pat dry with a paper towel.
Heat the oil in a pan on a medium heat adding the chopped garlic shallots and herbs.
Cook for a couple of minutes until they begin to soften, then add the chicken livers, salt and pepper and cook until they are no longer pink in the middle (around 10 minutes), then, if using, add your alcohol and allow it to soak up all of the juices in the pan and reduce slightly.
Remove from the pan and place in the blender and allow to cool .
Once cooled blend for a few seconds before adding chunks of the butter and blending again until smooth, cheaking the seasoning as you go along.
Remove to a serving dish, if your wanting to keep the pate for a few days it is recommended that you place clarified butter over the top of the pate and allow to cool in the fridge.
As I knew this pate would not last much longer than that night I didn't bother.
Similarly, in summertime, when thousands of us willingly ignite the barbecue even on the days when sunlight is trying to fight its way through the dark, bleak unpromising clouds, Nigella graces our screens looking entirely immaculate even though she is fighting the elements on a blustery seaside coast having just made some fabulous Mediterranean canapes and conjured up some dreamy summery cocktails. Most of us settle with whatever was left at the supermarket after the barbecue food-rugby scrum rush that happens every time the weather reports predict a glorious weekend, a couple of naff burgers - usually of the chilli kind (the ones that no one wants) and some defrosted soggy baps, bought months ago just in case an impromptu grilling was on the fore front (they possibly could have been purchased last September).
Getting to my main point, it is dinner parties where I feel Nigella's best qualitys really shine through. Every time I start to consider having a small gathering, it is Nigella I wish to emulate. It's not necessarily her food I want to copy, but more her ability to look so damn perfect as she so easily creates a bountiful feast for six people. I know it's only a T.V. programme but I really imagine her to be like that all the time, even down to the silk dressing gown she wears to go and snuffle a last mouthful of goodness out of her fridge before she retires to bed.
Stupidly, around two weeks before such a soiree I envisage myself to be exactly the same - food easily prepped, looking so delectable it is hard to resist, a house free of all useless contents, looking shiny and clean but comfortably lived in and myself groomed to within an inch of my life, no hair out of place and my dress making me look eye catchingly gorgeous. Every time I unseemingly fall into this trap when in my harsh reality it couldn't be further from the truth.
I take this opportunity now to apologise in the lack of posts in last couple of days. My intention was to give you a running commentary of my perfectly planned (how could anything possibly go wrong?) dinner party. As you can probably tell, given that it is Monday morning not quite everything went according to plan.
The intention of the dinner party was to thank close family for looking after our menagerie of animals while we were away. It was also an opportunity to show off some of my culinary skills I'd picked up on my Italian journey (I promise to stop going on about it after this post). To make things even easier I had even practiced most of the dishes beforehand giving me complete confidence that the night should run with out a hitch. The plan was to have chicken liver pate for starter (a typical Tuscan antipasti), mixed mushroom ravioli for main and mint choc chip ice cream and Cantuccini for dessert - not a complicated menu but one that I knew would satisfy my guests. That is, all apart from one - R.
Throughout the week I kept wondering when he was going to quiz me about the type of food I would be serving at the weekend, knowing that when he found out that; 1. We would be having pasta for a main course and, 2. It didn't include any meat he would find it extremely difficult to keep his opinions to himself. I already knew in my head what his responses would consist of, "PASTA, for a main course on a Saturday night with NO MEAT? You can't do that, there won't be enough and anyway pasta's boring, people don't want pasta, they want roast beef with Yorkshire puddings or steak with field mushrooms." Knowing him so well gives me the upper hand as I could build up a repertoire of responses ready to defend my menu down to the last vegetarian ravioli square.
However, this never came. Maybe he was too busy to even think about the weekend, maybe he'd forgotten or maybe he was actually beginning to trust me in my decisions when it came to food. Coming from a very strong farming background R has always been a classic meat and two veg man - not that there's anything wrong with this but it can get quite heavy and doesn't exactly do wonders for your waistline.
Being completely naive about food when I first met R, I easily succumbed to this traditional way of dining, quite often having the same monstrous sized meals as R. I didn't know even how to boil a potato but R took me under his wing and taught me skills that had been lovingly passed on to him by his grandparents who were locally well known for their award-winning jams and cakes.
Unbeknown to R he was unearthing an currently dormant volcano inside of me and I have him to thank for awakening a fire inside of me that never goes out.
Anyway, getting back to the dinner party, I had pre-planned everything down to the very last detail, pate was to be made the day before as with the Cantuccini, pasta dough and foccocia dough was to be made early Saturday morning, finishing both off in the afternoon then the ice cream was going to churn while we finished off our main meal, that way it would be served just like the soft geleto you can get in Italy - with things so precisely planned how could any thing possibly go wrong?
Friday night I went to bed feeling very chuffed with myself. Having never made pate before I consulted a few different recipes to eventually come up with my own (something I never start out to do but it always turns out that way), which turned out very successfully and the Cantuccini baked just how I wanted them to. Part one and part two of my plan were complete.
After a very early start on Saturday morning, two batches of dough, one pasta and one foccocia were completed (and so was my morning workout after kneading two big batches of dough!) so off I glided to the shops to get some last minute fresh ingredients at the same time wondering whether I should curl my hair or not to get the complete Nigella look.
R decided to accompany me, which is slightly unusual as he gets so frustrated by "Saturday shoppers", particularly the ones that frequent our local supermarket. About halfway through the morning just as I was directing him towards the third food shop of the day he dropped the bombshell.
"What actually are we having for tea?"
I knew it was coming so I was prepared for him as I confidently gave my answer.
"Are you sure that will be enough for six people?" - If there was a defining moment when I could say every thing started to go wrong this was it.
I had not planned on his response, even though I was pretty sure that I had enough food to feed ten people, the seeds of doubt started to spread in my body as I frantically racked my brain trying to think of something else to serve. My leisurely walk around the supermarkets had taken a downward spiral into a stressful trip barging my way in and out of the crowds.
Back home I decided to calm down before carrying on with my preparations, giving myself half an hour to resume channeling Nigella I found some peace in flicking though one of her books. Inspired again, I made the ravioli filling and the custard base for my ice cream. I was back on track as parts five and six of my plan were now complete.
After unforeseen problems at work, I arrived home a little later than planned but undeterred I started to roll out my masses of bright yellow pasta dough. Having used the machine on a few occasions now I was well aware on the process of rolling, folding in half and rolling again although this time something was not right. The machine seemed to be making a grinding noise and was becoming extremely difficult to turn. Feeling too proud to ask for help, on hearing the noise R quite casually called in the kitchen to see if I wanted any assistance. Trying not to sound too needy and desperate, I politely said, "Yes please" and waited for R to come in and see I had managed to get pasta flour to encase even the smallest crevices of our kitchen. R took over the pasta machine and I started to make the ravioli.
"It's broke" said R as he picked up the bolts from the floor.
"What do you mean, "It's broke"? "It can't be broken, I've got pasta to roll out and people starting to arrive in an hour!" I said with my voice starting to screech and get a little bit piercing towards the end. There was no snappy comment back from R (which was well deserved given the arsey tone in my voice) instead he just continued to help me. One of us holding down the machine, while the other fed the pasta dough through and turned the handle. It was at this point I received a text from one of the guests saying that they would be arriving earlier, I think they got the message when I so pleasantly replied back, "Not ready for you yet. GO TO THE PUB".
With fifteen minutes to go, I scrubbed the bits of pasta dough that were stuck to the side and the floor and mopped up the flour which had some how managed to get in the living room and made a dash upstairs to wash my make-up stained face and changed into something that I hadn't spent the afternoon wiping my hands on, emerging downstairs just as the first guest walked through the door, even managing to light a candle on my way through.
Was there enough food? Of course there was, as there always is. I could have fed another four more couples, Did I look effortlessly glamorous? Not quite how I pictured myself to look, but I did manage some mascara and some perfume. "I don't know how you do it all" said one of my guests as she saw the spread I had prepared, "Oh, it's easy really" I pleasantly replied as I turned and faced my kitchen units downing an exceedingly large glass of Rioja.
Chicken Liver Pate.
Seriously consider this dish as it's so surprisingly cheap to make but tastes as if you've spent a fortune on ingredients.
500g chicken livers - green sinew trimmed off
Olive oil
100g butter at room temperature
A couple of sprigs of thyme/rosemary/parsley or sage - what ever you've got available
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
2 shallots, chopped
A good splosh of Vin Santo, brandy or white wine (optional)
Salt and pepper
Rinse your chicken livers under cold water, then pat dry with a paper towel.
Heat the oil in a pan on a medium heat adding the chopped garlic shallots and herbs.
Cook for a couple of minutes until they begin to soften, then add the chicken livers, salt and pepper and cook until they are no longer pink in the middle (around 10 minutes), then, if using, add your alcohol and allow it to soak up all of the juices in the pan and reduce slightly.
Remove from the pan and place in the blender and allow to cool .
Once cooled blend for a few seconds before adding chunks of the butter and blending again until smooth, cheaking the seasoning as you go along.
Remove to a serving dish, if your wanting to keep the pate for a few days it is recommended that you place clarified butter over the top of the pate and allow to cool in the fridge.
As I knew this pate would not last much longer than that night I didn't bother.
looks fab Amy xx
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