I publish a review of the stuffed haddock and biscuits

Regular readers have been breathlessly waiting for over 3 years for the review from the veterinary research histopathologist of the latest recipes to be pulled out of the box for the Marguerite PotLuck Project. Yes, ladies and gents, it's time for stuffed haddock and biscuits (but not at the same time).

Review: Filets d'aiglefin farcis

(I should add at this juncture that it was not possible to find aiglefin (haddock), so instead we used colin (coley - usually fed to cats in the UK and I can see why). The recipe called for "noix" (nuts) that I interpreted as hazlenuts, and butter beans were there none, so I used plain white beans.)

“Why ?” thinks the haddock (or hake). “Why ? Here I am, swimming in the ocean, being all fishy n’shit, and then this big net thingy scoops me up, squeezing me in with thousands of my neighbors (whom I don’t necessarily all like), then I’m flopped in a big vat (not particularly clean, thankyouverymuch), shipped to Neptune knows where, have to lie there for an undertermined duration on some scummy ice, then get sliced (oh dear, look what they did to my beautiful scales) and chopped up in little pieces, get scattered to the four winds, including in the kitchen of some woman who mixes me up with so much other shit that I don’t even taste like anything no more ?!? Oh the indignity.”

Thus spoke the haddock (or hake), and he does have a point. I mean, this dish is not bad by any means, but you wonder what is so wrong with fish that ole Maggie feels she has to add bread crumbs, tomatoes, beans (beans ?) and nuts (nuts ?!?) to make it interesting.

Grade: B-
Recommended: If you feel like going back to the seventies for a night, but are too old for coke or too squeamish for key parties.
































Biscuits au chocolat et aux noix

Marguerite says the quantities are enough for 50-60 biscuts, but you're looking in the bowl and thinking: that's enough for 12 bloody cookies, that is.

Then you remember that we are not in England in 1967 anymore, we are in North America in 2009, and that in England in 1967, a biscuit was not something that had to be the size of your face. You see she says that you should dole out "small mounds" (but in French) of mixture, so you do half teaspoons. And let me tell you, what comes out are smallish (but not that small - the size of the bottom of a small wine-glass, say), crispy-chewy biscuits that you can imagine having two of with a nice cup of tea or coffee. Biscuits, not cookies. Biscuits, English style. Not cookies, American style. Lovely. (And very easy to make.)

The Review

Hmmm, biscuits.

Grade: A+++
Recommended: make more, and bring to me. NOW

I have much to relate!

1. Recent visit to London;
2. Marmite products;
3. Review of stuffed coley/haddock;
4. Wedding Porn, Pt 2;
5. The miraculous power of eardrops;
6. The joy of the upgrade.

But not now, for I am 'jetlagged' and have knickers to wash.

I daren't look

Sweet Jesus and all his attending monkeys. The latest horror, brought to you via the Marguerite PotLuck Project (which, frankly, pisses on the whole "Julie/Julia" hoo-ha), is stuffed haddock on a 'bed of' butter beans. Except we had to use coley and navy beans.

It wasn't pretty. I can't give you the whole thing at once - you'll have to spend the rest of the day lying down with a 2 pint bottle of smelling salts and packet of biscuits if you'll have any hope of recovery - but let me prepare you by offering you the original recipe card from which said stuffed haddock was recreated:






















Yes, it can get worse. You wait till you see the recipe I played a joker on. It asked for a pound of lamb's liver and a pound of pork liver, and that was without the other ingredients.

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).