I try to organise a wedding

Regular readers will be aware that, when not cooking Marguerite Patten recipes (last night was something ghastly involving coley - report to follow), I am trying to ORGANISE A FUCKING WEDDING which is on 17th October, i.e. in about 10 weeks.

It is unlike me to shout, aware, as I am, that it is tiresome and immature and what you do when you don't write well enough to be able to make your point without recourse to random punctuation, but really! It is too much!

So far, I/we have managed:

1. To order a dress, for which I was measured yesterday. It is navy blue, not white, because I am not a virgin, and I am fat and nearly 40;

2. To book "venooo", find person to officiate (father-in-law, ex-diplomat, takes everything seriously, has beard);

3. To find out what is supposed to be said in a ceremony in Quebec (where you are not, by law, allowed to take your husband's name), which is all well and good but no use until the FUCKING PAPERWORK TURNS UP IN FRANCE which is where my father-in-law is;

4. Look at menooooos on "venoooo" list and choose things, hoping for a 'tasting' with a warty obsequious Frenchman at the end of the month;

5. Shout "let's have THIS FUCKING WINE" every time we drink wine, but make no actual choice;

6. Have theories about dance-offs, competitions, quizzes, etc on the night, but fail to do anything about it;

7. Talk endlessly about how I am going to make my own wedding cake(s), but in fact ask the "venoooo" about profiteroles;

8. Encourage the pathologist to find an outfit, which he has (he is having a suit!!);

9. Fret needlessly about music, etc, as this is the DOMAIN OF THE PATHOLOGIST and my brother, friend Louis, friend Christopher and indeed the pathologist himself (all ex-"disk jockeys" and thankfully not "cock jockeys", unless there is something they are all not telling me);

10. Send out invitations.

And this, my friends, is where there is nothing but delight. I won't show you the whole thing for fear you all turn up waving banners and shouting, but Dave Shelton, who many of you will know as the illustrator of the monkeys on this blog and (more importantly) author of Good Dog, Bad Dog, gave us a really wonderful wedding present. It is a picture of me, fez in place, hydrangea in hand, trotting off to marry the pathologist (who is depicted, as you will see), as a beaver.

How Dave Shelton managed to get a monkey and a beaver looking like they love each other and enjoy watching television and eating cake together I do not know, but he did. And even when I am fretting about stupid things like whether or not to do FUCKING WEDDING FAVOURS (no, is the answer), I look at this and everything is OK.

It is reproduced in smallish on the top of our invitation, and everyone loves it. But most of all, we love it. So, in a rare moment of genuine truthful emotion-type stuff: thanks, Dave.

I publish a second review from the pathologist

Regular readers will be aware that I am attempting to cook my way through a box of 1967 (rev. 1973) Marguerite Patten recipe cards (translated into Canadian French). So far, we are two recipes down, one of which has been reviewed by my consort (although equal in status), the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist.

Today, therefore - and following on from his review last night of Boeuf Braisé, I give you: the French-Canadian veterinary histopathologist's review of Marguerite Patten's ...

Délice aux Mandarines

When faced with Life’s troubling mysteries, Man (and his Lady) can choose different paths to follow. Most shrug their shoulders and go down to the pub* for a pint*. Others look for guidance to some imaginary Being in the Sky and whatnot. Some take refuge in drugs, sex addiction, Facebook, or worse (reading the Daily Mail). But some choose to face these mysteries head on: the few, the proud, the Scientists.

A scientist will not be afraid to ask questions, important probing questions, like Why? Why do people put mandarines in a can? Why do other people eat these? Why would anyone think that baking rice, egg yolks and citrus is a good thing? This travesty of a pudding* could in itself constitute an entire field of scientific inquiry. But to undertake this research would require very brave souls, ones unafraid of repeatedly mouthing said pudding, and of slowly blending with their tongues the bizarre mix of textures (all within the ‘moist and gooey’ spectrum) contained therein. Souls braver than I, that’s for sure.

This said, we did eat half of the damn thing in about 30 seconds.

Grade: C-
Recommended for: Weirdos, or very old ladies with no teeth

(*note the cunning use of british colloquialisms here, so that readers from Old Europe will not get confused).

I am faithful to Marguerite Patten

"Where's the angelica? I can't see the angelica." I am in an aisle in a supermarket in rural Quebec.

"What's angelica?", asks the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist. "It's...angelique". "Yes, minky, but what is it?".

I do not know what angelica is. "It is a sort of preserved leaf. I think. Maybe." "What sort of leaf?". "Don't know. A leafy leaf."

I subsequently discover that angelica is almost impossible to find, as well as being a sort of root thing preserved in sugar, but that is of no use to me; I need it if I am to accurately recreate Marguerite Patten's Délice Aux Mandarines. I give up and buy some of those awful green maraschino cherries instead - the closest thing I can find, both in colour (neon green), and spirit.

Time passes. Other ingredients are acquired with little trouble: turnips, carrots, leeks, onions, red wine, bacon, beef; eggs, sugar, tinned mandarin oranges and short grain rice (we buy arborio and hope for the best). But the recipe for Boeuf Braisé asks for something called 'shortening'.

I do not ever want to have buy shortening again. It is a big block of fat (that you do not need to refrigerate and which lasts for at least a year), and if you look at the ingredients label, the ingredients are not things that you would normally want to put in your mouth.

I stand in the aisle of the supermarket and look at it, and look at the pathologist. "I am not using this. I can't." The pathologist sighs the sigh of a man who has realised he is destined to spend the rest of his life with someone who just leaves things lying around and doesn't pick them up. "You have to, minky. This is the whole point. You have to ... reach your limits and ... go beyond them. Face your fears. That sort of thing." "What, like sort of extreme cooking, but 1967 style?". "Yes, something like that." I put the shortening the basket.

Time passes. I am in the kitchen and the shortening is melting. It is big, and there is a quarter of a cupful of it (non-North American readers, if you need a conversion go here; no, I can't do it in my head). It melts and it is clear and it seems to be able to take a very high heat without burning or smelling weird. (Further proof, if we needed it, that is is made of recycled shopping bags and donkey's ears). I do what I am told to by Marguerite and feel the lack of certain things (more wine; garlic), but it passes uneventfully and when the thing is cool, I soak up the shortening from the surface with cunning use of doubled-over paper towels. What I end up with is a nice-enough beef stew the colour of baby poo.

The Délice Aux Mandarines is quite the thing. You make rice pudding (I had forgotten how very nice a plain rice pudding is) that you like until you have to add sugar and egg yolks (egg yolks?). You then pour the rice pudding over tinned mandarins (this is not a joke), and then - as if this isn't quite enough - you make one of those boring meringues that never does anything (just egg white and sugar), whack it on top, and bake it. Rice pudding and meringue makes no sense to me now, and I very much doubt it made sense then.

But enough from me, for now it is time for the first of two reviews, brought to you live by none other than the French-Canadian veterinary research pathologist who - as you will see - is perfectly bilingual.

The Boeuf Braisé

Browness. Browness incarnate, the Idea of Brown, Brown Immemorial – in the immortal words of Mallarmé, “le Brun Infini”. This is what this dish is about, Brownitude.

Oh yes, sure, it’s braised beef – note, not braised beef shoulder or beef shank or whatever - just beef. That is precisely what the recipe ingredients called for: ‘un morceau de boeuf’, i.e. a piece of beef. None of today’s usual bollocks, which undoubtedly would have read ‘ask your favorite butcher to select the nicest portion of the upper-middle interior loin of a first-generation Angus-Simmental steer that has been raised entirely on locally-grown organic swedish ryegrass while listening to Beethoven’ s Pastoral symphony’.

Screw that shit, Marguerite Patten says – you just get you some beef, I’ll tell you how to treat it right. And right she does, by turning it brown, and surrounding it with brown. Which is exactly what it tastes like: brown. Homey, comforting, down-home brown, like that sofa in the basement whose covers you really should wash but will never bother to. Sure, you can gussy it up if you want – add some fresh garlic, or some chili, or wine – but then you’ll lose its true nature: the beefiness of Beef, the browniness of Brown.

Grade: B+
Recommended for: Long winter nights



















Coming soon: The pathologist reviews the freakish rice pudding/meringue/mandarin combo.

I am off like a rocket

I am true to my word!! Only yesterday, I swore that I would start a dangerous game of Marguerite PotLuck riding, as I am, on the whole Julie/Julia film 'n' book frenzy.

The rules are simple:

1. The histopathologist I live with selects two cards at random from the box of Marguerite Patten recipe cards (1967, rev. 1973; $5);

2. Whatever the recipe, I cook it, and we eat it;

3. As far as possible, the exact ingredients listed on the card must be followed;

4. The resulting "dish" is photographed so that my loyal and frenzied readers may do a comparison with the original;

5. There are 10 jokers for things we really can't eat, e.g. brains in aspic or tongue terrine.

As an added bonus (and do please hang on to your hats, I fear the top of your heads may blow off with the excitement), the French-Canadian veterinary research pathologist will do a PotLuck Review.

The pathologist is also entrusted with keeping me on the straight and narrow. For e.g., this is the first card he picked out of the box tonight (and that I must therefore cook tomorrow):






















The words: "That's a bit pissing boring. I know, I'll pick another one", were met with: "What, you're breaking the rules already?", which reminded me how little backbone I have. As a result, I will be persevering with braised beef, even though it'll be 28 degrees tomorrow.

HOWEVER (sorry about the capitals but really, the next one is what this is all about), I have been rewarded with a magnificent pudding that involves angelica, rice pudding (made from scratch), tinned manderines and meringue. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, l give you:





















This marvel (and pray that I have the requisite Pyrex dish to do it justice), can be served either hot or cold - but Marguerite seems to prefer it "chaud".

Coming soon: I go to the supermarket and pray for angelica.

I have another conversation with the pathologist

It is the evening, and I am being picked up from the station. I get in the car.

Pathologist: Is there blood on my face?
Me: Holy fuck. Yes. There, on your forehead, and a bit in your sideburn. I'll get it off.
Pathologist: No no, not with your fingers and spit. I will go to the bathroom and do it.
Me: How ....?
Pathologist: ...There was a splooshy pig today and I was by myself.
Me: Ah.

Regular readers will be aware of previous incidents of this nature, and I can guarantee that this will not be the last.