Having a Welshman to tea? First, don’t tell A.A. Gill. Second, make these. (A Recipe from A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Classes (by Charles Elmé Francatelli, 1861); adapted for the modern kitchen).
Dear Rennie,
As wedding season rapidly approaches, I find myself performing as a bridesmaid at no fewer than five events this summer. I have no desire to have my Aunt Lorna point out, again, that whole ‘always a bridesmaid’ business because frankly, I’d rather be sampling the delights of the field than allying myself with one single bull, as it were. So. If I’m doing the seating chart, how can I arrange things to suit my needs? Isn’t there some sort of hierarchy I could rely on to sort the swains? I’m sick of jordan almonds. I’m ready for filet.
Yours truly,
Bridesmaid In Northern Grand Oaks
I am a word person. As far back as I can remember I have derived an immense amount of enjoyment and amusement from taking a word, bending it and folding it, and then trying to stick it somewhere interesting.
You could have another live-blog of something on the Food Network. Or, you can have this. Ours involves substantially more alcohol. And Culture. And Latin.
A Recipe from A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Classes (by Charles Elmé Francatelli, 1861); adapted for the modern kitchen, should you find yourself in need of an economical supper.
Nuts of all varieties. Raisins. Butter-cream frosting in the shape of carrots or bunny rabbits. Butter-cream frosting in general. Too much sugar, too few carrots. Layers. Cream fillings. White cake. These are all things that have no place in carrot cake. And I should know, because I can say with a confidence I reserve only for food that is tears-in-my-eyes, clutch-my-heart, knee-shakingly good, that I am in possession of the world’s most perfect carrot cake recipe.
Sometimes, the truth is ugly. Sometimes it involves a bus and the number that comes after 1.
The madness continues, with the first part of the Knight’s Tale, here retold as the Frontman’s Tale–wherein saving noble maidens from injustice is transformed into the equally heroic act of saving a fellow band from ales of dubious quality. (Ed: The sticker offer, for those interested, is still good–send your mailing address to ‘[email protected]’ upon completion of any of these sections, and receive a limited edition sticker, from our hot little hands to yours!)
I’ve been nattering on about brown bread lately. And I blame a guy whose last name is Zamboni.
My name was Tree, like the woody plant; first name, Fig. I was forty-two when I was murdered on September 18, 2010. In landscape plans, most looked like me: foundation plantings with flappy green leaves. This was before fruits of all shapes and flavors started appearing in grocery stores or on menus. It was still back when people believed things like that didn’t happen.