The end of WMPC???

And yet again there has been a lull in the movement that is Where's My Pork Chop? Just like the aftermath of a party, the good intentions and ideas behind this little project now, seemingly, lie littered on the floor amongst streamers, fag butts, chicken bones, empty wine glasses and empty tupperware boxes. As always it's fun at the time, chatting, laughing, drinking, doing the hokey cokey with my fellow bloggers. But lately whenever I go on these mad expeditions or food swaps, I keep finding myself perched on the edge of the bed nursing a fuzzy head the next day, fingers over my eyes, thumbs rubbing my temples desperately trying to get the ol' grey matter going. At the root of this particular hangover lies a simple question that I ask myself before sitting down in front of the computer. 'How am I going to write this one up then?' It's probably something that a lot of bloggers ask themselves, wanting to keep their posts fresh and original. Personally, this has meant going off on whimsical flights of fancy, scribbling down nonsensical journeys into the inner gubbings of my mind and sometimes the content is not always related to food. And as a result this has started to become a bit of a mute point when it comes to writing up a WMPC post. Brainy from the Numbskulls is starting to run out of ideas to put in the suggestion box. I don't want to say for a second that the party is over because I love meeting and connecting with people under this wonderful umbrella of food. But I think for WMPC to continue, I need to focus a bit more on the blogger and about reviewing the meals they send my way, to be perhaps a bit more succinct and not get too tied up in trying to fire off some witty parable. So there, I've said it. WMPC will carry on but in future it will be short, sharp and to the point.

And besides how could I even think about jacking it all in? Especially now that WMPC has gone international! Yes I received my very first food package from abroad (well second if you consider Scotland) way back in December all the way from Holland! Boo Yah! Man, it's a druggy cliche but the shit that Luc Martin sent me was amazing. I haven't had this much fun since the time I swallowed 12 space cakes at Glastonbury '94 and ran off to the Green Field wearing my sister's dress, screaming that I had transformed and shrunk into Willow Ufgood. It took my mates 3 hours to talk me down from an ancient oak tree that night but we still laugh about it from time to time....................... (stop it FU, stop it)

Erm yes, so I am now swapping food across the seas having engaged and bonded with Luc over the magic of Twitter. In his blog Roast Chicken and Red Wine, Luc displays a fondness for the unusual and is therefore a man after my own heart. For instance, his account of cooking hare is both funny and informative in which he praises the flavour of the animal whilst all the while highlighting the necessity of using a clothes peg when preparing it. And Luc certainly knows how to get the most out of ingredients. In return for his food packages he requested that I send him the finest black pudding in all off Laaandan Taan. After much deliberation (maybe too much) I couriered over some slices of blood sausage from Stornoway and a selection of Henderson's mini black, white and chorizo mixed puds, all purchased at Borough Market. Over a period of about 5 days, I could only watch my screen in amazement as he tweeted (with pictures) various meals, all with a black pudding element. Ribeye burgers topped with black pudding, eggs benedict and black pudding, black pudding on pizza and finally steak and black pudding...pudding. I really didn't think I had sent him that much. But he obviously enjoyed it for which I am glad as this iron-rich, colon busting package was sent in thanks for the Dutch goodies Luc had sent me a few weeks previous.

Unfortunately I wasn't so creative with the smoked salami-type sausage and pancetta that he sent me, along with some aged Gouda cheese and yep you guessed it, some black pudding. We received the package during the full on festival of gluttony that is Christmas so rather than knocking up some fancy meals like ol' fancy wooden clogs Luc, the FU clan used the meats and cheese to graze on as we were want to do throughout the whole fattening period. The charcuterie was very good indeed and survived the journey well, the sausage was smokey as to be expected but also with a nice spice. The aged Gouda really was interesting as this was quite hard and salty, similar to Parmesan in some respect and totally different to the creamier, rubbery texture I have encountered before. The closest I got to cooking and conjuring up a meal was when I fried the black pudding and constructed an open sandwich using a slice of rye bread, some of the cheese and a fried egg. Typical hangover breakfast material really but the blood sausage with delicious. Dense, iodine and supreme savoury. I am bit perplexed in fact as to why he was so eager that I send black pudding his way.

Thanks again Luc for sending your contribution over the waters and apologies to the delay in getting this post done. Believe me there have been many incarnations.

And lets get the International Preserves Exchange underway. Now that's something we could both get our teeth into.

And last but not least, let's get on with some more WMPC adventures, are you interested in feeding me?

Vac-packed goodies from the Netherlands

Hangover brekkie

Aged Gouda

Dutch charcuterie

Grazing

In too deep…

I don’t know what to do. I should have listened to the warnings. I should have seen the signs. I thought I knew how to handle it. But I was wrong.

They tell you to be careful on the internet. Careful about who you talk to. What you say. And be extra careful if you go to meet them.

And I was. Very careful. Public places. People knew where I was. Who I was meeting. It should have been fine. It should have just been the once. But no, I’ve not been able to keep away. I’ve had to go back for more, and more. I hoped this last one would be the one to finish it off. The one to expose the situation for what it was. After all the first time I met him he used a pseudonym so I should have known. But something tells me its not going to stop. Its bad; I’m married, he’s married. He’s got kids for goodness sake.

But still we can’t stop.

Swapping food.

Yes really. FOOD.

Because out there in the mad world of food blogging people seem to want to share. Not just their recipes or reviews in print. But real actual food that they’ve carefully grown or crafted with their own hands. And so I’m in deep because I like food and I like sharing. What started as a chance to bag a wild garlic plant for the garden, has turned into a whole host of meetings usually with some food item surreptitiously handed over: from cooking pork five ways for this project to learning the glories of real pie mash and liquor.…and well this. A reverse ‘Where’s my Pork Chop’ exchange, commonly known on twitter as rWMPC.

Of course we all know Danny’s onto a winner with his WMPC project, he gets his dinner cooked by some of London’s finest food bloggers (and a few hangers on like me) and he buys them cheap lunch or gives them a bottle of plonk. This guy’s no fool. And of course he claims he’s proved his own cooking credentials before with his rWMPC swap with Essex Eating. But I’m not buying that. I mean they are both called Dan, they are both from Essex, they pretend to go to the same events, they tweet from the same train home, and to my knowledge they’ve never been seen in the same room at the same time. So you know, I think they are the same person, its obvious, well maybe at very least related in some way that means Dan 2 isn’t going to say Dan 1 can’t cook and vice versa…..I’m suspicious and so I coolly volunteer to be rWMPC participant number 2. Danny is rather evasive and it takes me quite a number of months to finally pin him to a date….is this because after all he can’t actually cook I wonder.

And so at the allotted time on the allotted day we meet again at Liverpool Street. No flowers this time. We pop to a nearby pub. Get some beers. Talk food experiments. Then Danny rummages in his bag and whips out a foil tray.

OMG it looks like something from the Chinese takeaway could be lurking inside. Then there is a bag that apparently contains Dan’s nemesis, or did he say something for which he’d had to conquer his nemesis. I can’t quite remember. Because by this time I’ve realised I really am going to have to eat this, I’m accepting food from a bloke from Essex who I know very little about, no real idea where he’s been or what he gets up to and to cap it all I suddenly notice with his glasses he has an eerie resemblance to Dr Crippen.


Way’s of getting rid of the food and rustling up a similar meal spool through my head, then I can claim I ate it, write the post and be done. I hand over my rWMPC gift of homemade damson vodka. And nonchalantly we stroll off to get our respective trains home.

Once home I peak inside the parcels properly. We appear to have some homemade pasta, ah so that’s what all the muttering of nemesis was about, Danny’s fear of the pasta machine.


And in the foil tray we seem to have something that resembles some form of ragu, possibly with sausage in or possibly just some sauted off chopped up remains of Dan’s previous victim.


And a little pot of allegedly freshly grated parmesan, though it looks remarkably like the pre grated stuff they sell in the supermarket.


I’m still a bit concerned. It’s a lovely idea this food swap. But you know who is the guy I’ve accepted it from. Then my husband points out that since Dan has already scoffed his way through the WMPC dishes I prepared for him (actually we don’t know he has he just SAID he had) we should get on with eating these. The hunger gets the better of the dithering. We heat up the ragu, we boil water and cook the pasta. Into some bowls and parmesan on top. Voila (except its not French of course). We eat. It’s good. Very good. The pasta is just right, not to fragile but with the lightness and silkiness that homemade pasta has once the nemesis has been beaten. The sauce is rich, earthy and robust. The sausage turns out to be fennel, for which marks are deducted by my husband as he doesn’t like the flavour fennel (something to do with ouzo and greek holiday I believe). I however, am rather enjoying it. The parmesan doesn’t have that weird smell that pre grated usually does so I’m guessing it was truly grated by Dan’s own hands, I still knock marks off though because personally I’d have liked an enormous lump of top notch parmesan to grate myself but there you go in the world of ready meals you can’t have everything. And even after this feast there is enough ragu for me to have for lunch later in the week by which time the fennel flavour is mellower.


Maybe Dan can cook after all, or maybe just one of them can. Because yet again they weren’t both there to hand over the food so Dan 2 could have cooked and Dan 1 delivered it. Or Dan’s wife could have cooked it. Or his mum. Or his Nan. Or some fab secret ready meals service in Essex.

Nothing much is proved. Dan may be able to cook. He didn’t go all Dr Crippen on this occasion. What I do know is that the food I got to eat was pretty darn good and if that’s not a reason to continue meeting I don’t know what is.

Scores out of 10:
Pasta: 8
Ragu: 9.5 (7.5 from fennel hater)

Linda - with knife and fork

Well I really don't know what to say.

I am torn.

On the one hand, it's obvious that you enjoyed my pasta, my homemade pasta which pleases me immensely and then you go and say that I look like Dr Friggin' Crippen? The ragu gets a stellar 9.5 rating on the richter scale but then you infer that "nothing much is proved" and that quite possibly I have got someone else to cook your rWMPC meal?! Furthermore you dare to suggest that Essex Eating Dan and I are one and the same person??!! You actually think I am related to that hairy oaf???!!!

I am beside myself with outrage.

I need to lie down.

Keeping The Faith

"You have never tried pie and mash?! Then, my girl you have never lived!"

And so these were my thoughts after making arrangements with Carla of Can Be Bribed With Food for a WMPC swop. I've been preaching about the goodness and greatness of P&M for many years now to anyone who would care to listen. In my opinion, this age old East End speciality is truly manna from heaven, a gift from the cockney gods to the people of London taaan. I grew up on it and I'll eat it once a week if I can. It is fantastic. And this was a perfect opportunity to add another number to the flock.

In order to describe this unsung wonder of the culinary world, just think of a pie that is mainly constituted of minced meat from an unspecified source. Don't bother asking about its provenance because nobody knows, which adds a certain mystique. The pie will be often constructed with pastry that is pale, soggy and flaccid. Unless it's been burnt, then the crust will shatter over your jumper and carbon will stain your tongue. You don't normally get anything in between. If you are lucky enough to get gravy, it will be pretty watery and tasteless. The mash though is often wonderfully woolly and dense. The responsibility of it's creation is usually down to an old lady called Doris who works in the back of the shop, pouring industrial sized boxes of Smash into cavernous vats. She gets paid tuppance an hour and has to shakily scale very tall ladders but she loves her job. The green liquor is the by-product of a thousand eels that have been boiled in water until their flesh turns to mush. The eels, bones and all, are removed and chopped parsley and flour are thrown in and the stock is reduced until it forms a gluey sauce which is poured all over. Once placed at the table, it is then to be smothered with malt vinegar and white pepper. This is your basic plate of pie and mash.

Having just described this beautiful meal in such a manner, I am of course doing it a supreme disservice. But I had a problem you see. All of a sudden, my credibility was at stake. Given all my shouting from the roof tops, I suddenly became worried that Carla wouldn't enjoy it and overzealously started to deconstruct my beloved P&M. OK I went overboard with the paragraph above but given it's simplicity, would Carla understand my passion for the stuff? I was also mindful of the fact that she had lived by Lake Garda in Italy (via Panama) for the majority of her life. After organising our meeting, I got an inkling that she would also be introducing something from her childhood and believing that Carla's Italian food heritage was far richer than mine, I started to panic. It was really strange but in my head, I really was beginning to run it down. How could my boys own staple compare to anything that Carla would have eaten as a little girl casa posteriore*? Talk about sleepless nights. However, I should have kept the faith because as far as I am aware, Carla thoroughly enjoyed her first visit to Clarkes of Exmouth Market. She did comment that the liquor didn't really taste of anything to which I responded "that's what the vinegar is for!". The only minor snag was the fact that Carla seemed to have trouble keeping hold of her cutlery. I was worried that I was going to leave the cafe with a fork embedded in my forehead at one point, such was her gesticulating during conversation but it was all in keeping with her Latin spirit.

Despite the danger of flying objects, it was great having a chat with Carla over lunch, which of course is part and parcel of the WMPC project and I was thrilled to hear stories of her growing up. By the sounds of it, she was quite the handful in her yoof. Like the time she went shopping with her Daddy and upon seeing a dolly demanded to have it on the spot. Upon having her request denied, there was much stamping and screaming until her Dad picked her up, plonked her in the car and drove home with Carla creating all the way. Once home, he picked her back up, calmly walked into the house and into the bathroom, plonked her under the shower and turned the cold tap on. Apparently a lesson was soon learned. Given that I have two little 'uns that are slowing evolving tempestuous personalities of their own, this was valuable information. Soon it was time to go back to our offices but not before Carla gave me the run down on the food she had made me. Which was Italian Sausages on a bed of Puy Lentils and Pink Peppercorns to be served with bread and dollop of homemade Salsa Verde (from a nice large jar of the stuff) . For dessert she had made me a crostata, an Italian baked tart that's normally reserved for birthdays. I felt honoured and was very impressed with the careful instructions she gave me for heating up and serving the salsa verde. "Make sure you take it out of the fridge at least 20 minutes before you want to eat so it gets to room temperature". I could tell that Carla was obviously passionate about her food and dare I say it, slightly nervous that I would enjoy it although I doubt that she put herself through the mill like I did.

So later that evening in the office, following Carla's word to the tee, I drizzled some of the olive oil that covered her salsa over the lentils and with the sausages, heated it through in the microwave. And oh ye, it was good. Very good. Just hovering my nose over this rustic looking dish as I trotted over to my desk got me salivating to the point of distraction. Not my distraction mind, my work mate',s who pointed out that I had dribbled on my shirt. The sausages which came from Le Marche, central Italy had a wonderful warm spiciness with possibly a hint of nutmeg and were quite coarse in texture. There were also quite salty but as Carla had gone easy on the seasoning, everything balanced out evenly. The lentils had a nice subtle flavour of red wine vinegar with the peppercorns creating lovely fragrant pops of heat as I chewed my way through. The bread was soft and fresh, fantastic for mopping up but the real star was the salsa verde. I do like a good SV and I've made it a few times myself to serve up with fish and chicken but I can honestly say that this was far better than any of my previous efforts. It really punched through with a strong zest or tang rather and complemented the sausages perfectly. I found myself smearing it over the remaining bread after like an ravenous giggling hyena and had to show some restraint as I knew that Mrs FU would like to try it too. So with a heavy heart I placed the jar in my bag (it lasted one more day). The crostata with it's pretty criss-cross finished off my meal just right. The pastry was light and flaky with the apricot jam filing adding a sweet, fruity touch.

Thanks Carla, I shall be putting in my order for some more Salsa Verde soon, it really was the "business"

*This translation for “back home” came from Babelfish and is therefore, entirely unreliable.

Italian Sausages on a Bed of Puy Lentils with Salsa Verde

Apricot Crostata

Where's the A to Z?

I have a profoundly inaccurate sense of direction. Stop and ask me the way to the Liverpool Street and it is highly likely that you'll end up in Uxbridge. Alright, that last statement might be a little over the top but there have been a couple of occasions when I've sent a tourist on their merry way and thought afterwards "oh no I meant to say right". This is terrible but I have actually bumped into a fellow pedestrian who recognised me and stopped to remonstrate the fact that I'd given them the wrong instructions a few days previous. I, in no uncertain terms, argued that I had never seen him before in my life, called him an "idiot" and stormed off before he could register that my beetroot-red face and smell the faint involuntary flatulence emitting from my posterior. He was a big hairy scaffolder and scaffolders can be scary blokes you know. So, the moral of this tale is never listen to or accept advice from me when lost. Ask a community police officer for directions, that's all they're good for anyway.

Also, should you ever arrange to meet me for a WMPC swop, don't expect me to know where Canteen is either. Even if I do suggest that it would be a good place to go and that I would buy you breakfast in there. As Mia from The Urban Foodie found to her cost last week. Although I was off work for the week, using up holiday to do some DIY around the house, I didn't want to cancel our appointment so I suggested that we meet early in the morning. That way I could get back home and still have the rest of day to stand in my front room to scratch my head and ponder. You know, I never did get any painting done. So I met Mia at our designated spot, Embankment at 8:45 sharp and with great strides and purpose, walked across Waterloo Bridge to take her to breakfast, having a good natter along the way. When we reach the other side, Mia then turns to me and says "so whereabouts is it? to which I reply "well it's around here somewhere". Actually all I really knew was that I'd heard they had a branch on South Bank, somewhere. Most likely a geezer in the pub told me. Desperate not to let on that I didn't have a clue where we were going, I decided that the best policy would be to run around like a headless chicken, dragging poor Mia left, right, upstairs and down the myriad of steps, byways and walkways around Royal Festival Hall.

After a short while, Mia decided that perhaps she should get directions off her iPhone. "Bloody hell, marvelous idea" I thought, "I should really get myself one of those". Once she found the Canteen website with a map she then handed it over to me. Which was a mistake. Perhaps Mia was trying to do me the good favour of letting me feel as though I was still in charge of the situation but I am dyslexic when it comes to maps. Hence, the poor directional skills. I am sure alarm bells went ringing off as I pointed at the small screen and asked "what do you think that big blue wavy line is?". She didn't have to tell me it was the Thames, the look she gave was enough. In the end, I admitted defeat and had to go into an Eat establishment to ask where the hell Canteen was. And of course, it was just around the corner. 20 minutes faffing about, running up a puff and it was just behind the bloody Royal Festival Hall. Still, nothing like a bit of exercise to build up an appetite.

Once we finally got in there, I have to say that breakfast in Canteen was very pleasant, despite being served by a waiter who clearly wore a string vest under his shirt. Mia plumped for Eggs Florentine and I had Eggs, Bacon and Bubble n Squeak and it was great to sit there having a chat with an absolute stranger. Even if I had to concede that she made the better choice and sat there quite jealous. It's OK she gave me a little bit of poached egg. But as I was saying, most of the contributors to WMPC I have met before but the only lines of communication I've had with Mia were via email and Twitter so it was nice to meet the face behind the blog. And what a blog too. OK, The Urban Foodie is the product of a MA in Web Design so as a food blog it does go beyond the realms, well compared to mine anyway! I'm not sure but I think the blog is relatively new, it certainly is very comprehensive with lots of information with reviews and recipes, you should check it out. And after spending 45 mins talking with Mia, it was clear that here beats the heart of a true epicurean with a lovely sense of humour. But then she'd have to after putting up with the initial farce of trying to find the place.

So what did Mia give me in exchange for brekkie? Sausages, that's what. Casseroled with butter beans, tomatoes, onion and fennel (you can find the recipe here) and it was fantastic, a super winter warmer. You could tell that the snags were of good quality, very meaty with a slight hint of pepper. The beans were soft and yielding and Mia had cut up the onion into fairly large chunks which had been gently caramelised, nice and sweet. Personally, I think that fennel seed is a great addition to any sausage dish adding a lovely hint of aniseed and frequently pair them up at home so Mia was onto a winner here anyway. She also supplied a side salad which I was very impressed with as the leaves, cucumber and tomato had been produced in Hackney, supplied by Growing Communities' scheme. Mia lives in the area and gets a box from them once a week. There were various leaves in the salad but the mizuna in particular was packed with mustard flavour which went down well with Mia's balsamic dressing. An excellent supper.

Thanks a million Mia and next time, you decide where we go, I'll just follow!

Sausage and Butter Bean Casserole

Autumn Salad from Hackney