Another Simple Pasta Recipe.

I first came across the combination of cavolo nero with pasta thanks to Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers of The River Café . Nowadays, this kale-type cabbage is an essential crop at Haddock's; I have about a dozen plants. The leaves, when stripped of their ribs, cook very quickly, almost like chard. They have a delicate flavour, and a silky texture.

For this simple dish (for 2) I use about 10 'shredded' cavolo nero leaves, a dollop of green pesto, a spoonful of capers, about 8 black olives, some garlic, a couple of anchovy fillets, a few chilli flakes, plenty of good olive oil, and a splash of white wine to loosen.

The whole lot is heated for about 2-3 minutes, then the cooked spaghetti thrown in and tossed. As with most pasta, it is served with parmesan or grana padano cheese.

Although I still eat them, I'm becoming less enamoured by the standard beef and tomato based pasta sauces.

This simple recipe, above, is both delicious and cheap. What could be better?

From Weed, to Food, to Weed again.

These wretched ground-hugging weeds, some of which I've found growing to a diameter of about 4 ft, have decided that the newly turned soil up at the barn is just perfect for them to establish themselves 'en masse'.

I was recently showing some of the more invasive individuals to a friend (St Theresa of the Floral Tribute), when she just happened to remark that it might be edible. Well, as you can imagine, this got me very excited.

I looked it up on Wiki, watched a short YouTube film about it, and eventually decided that 'Yes', it was definitely PURSLANE.

Greater knowledge than mine suggested that both the red stems and the small paddle-shaped leaves are edible. So I picked a plant with large leaves, and had a go.

Frankly it's DULL, uninteresting, nondescript. It has no real flavour, and to be perfectly honest I'd only eat it in a dire emergency; although I understand that it does have some favourable nutritional qualities.

It has now (disappointingly) re-joined the ranks of inedible 'weeds'. If anyone can convince me otherwise; I'm always open to being convinced!

Neighbours; doncha continue t' luv em?

We've done our best to hide the ghastly Orange Wall (in two years time it should be almost invisible).

We've paid (€40) to have the water meter and tap repaired (that HE smashed), but still no sign of the 'hand-on-heart-promised' replacement insulated cover (that HE also smashed).

We put up with the daily noise, the daily 'white van' invasion, and the daily sour-faced looks.

And now that winter approaches, every other day we have to put up with belching, industrial-scale, smoke filled air (above). Now, even HE seems to be concerned, as he's taken to wandering about after lighting-up, looking anxiously up at his chimney. My photo from Monday doesn't do it justice!

All that, and because I'm an 'anything for a quiet life' sort of bloke; I still say NOTHING.

Maybe one of these days I'll lose my rag and just go bleedin' bonkers; it's about time!

N.B. Monsieur Clever Cloggs has installed a HUGE ship-sized furnace in his cellar (to heat water), but connected it to the tiny flue of a bedroom fireplace in the room above. I wonder when he'll realise that the two just weren't meant for each other!

Wood smoke is Carbon Monoxide, and Carbon Monoxide is not only toxic but also highly combustive. I'm expecting explosions (there's already been ONE). CO has a Lower Explosive Limit (LEL) of 12.5%, and an Upper Explosive Limit (UEL) of 74.2%. Good Luck.

Seanad Éireann.

                             
                                   

Ireland is sounding increasingly sensible. They voted last Friday NOT to abolish their upper house; The Senate.

It's true that it's always been an odd-ball political institution. It has no real powers; only to temporarily halt a Bill's progress. But, regardless of its ability to only fire blanks, its basic annual cost of €20 Million, is not a vast amount of money.

Maybe the strangest attribute of The Irish Senate is its method of electing members. Of the 60 members, you can only vote for 6 of them if you have a degree from one of two designated universities. Now, what could be more Irish than that!

Oh begorrah; Ireland just wouldn't be Ireland without those pesky Leprechauns making up some of the rules.

Toussaint.

There is one annual event on the French calendar that really gets on my bloody nerves; it's called Toussaint, All Saints, or All Hallows, take your pick.

In a couple of weeks time, every corner of every petrol station forecourt, every entrance to your local supermarket, and every garden centre, will be awash with horrible bloody potted Chrysanthemums (see above), waiting to be carted off to the graves of departed 'loved ones', in time for the 1st of November. 

It wouldn't be so bad if they chose interesting plants, but it seems to be obligatory to use these small, often brown-flowered, unpleasant smelling, things, that make me feel quite ill.

Why not Roses, or Tulips, or Bougainvillea for heaven's sake? Why not dress the graves with multi-coloured bunting, or garlands of daisies? Or why not spread the ground with confetti, jelly babies, or chocolate angels?

No, it has to be those wretched, morbid, all-identical, melancholic, broken-winded, potted, bloody nasties.

I JUST DON'T LIKE 'EM.

It's been THAT time of year again....

                                  

Thank goodness that the party political conference season has now finished back in the UK. All that good old back-stabbing and bitching can be put to bed for another year.

There's been a lot of conveniently timed character-assassination bandied about; mostly by the right wing press. But nothing surprises me, in fact at this time of year I never cease to be amazed by the sudden revelations about both the extreme left and the extreme right; minor scandals so easily encouraged by those journalists who are hoping to make trouble.

Marxist Ralph Miliband, above with sons 'Red' Ed (the crazy looking one) and David, has been an easy target, and the recent publicity about his well-documented hatred of England has suddenly become quite controversial. Goodness knows why, as it has always been common knowledge.

According to his own writings, he hated Eton and Harrow, Oxford and Cambridge, the great Clubs, the Times, the Church, the Army, and the respectable Sunday papers; in fact he hated anything that had a whiff of scholarship, and/or high standards. However, he was always quick to take full advantage of what he hated the most, and both his boys (as one might expect) attended Oxford University's prestigious Corpus Christi College. Frankly, what responsible parent would NOT encourage his children to attend such an institution, regardless of one's silly political persuasions?

However, I wouldn't be writing this had it not also been divulged that dear Marxist Ralph, prior to his demise, had 'allegedly' signed over the ownership of his valuable London property to his two sons, thus saving them a fortune in inheritance tax. Personally I find this A VERY SENSIBLE THING TO DO (in fact I wish my own 'Conservative' father had done something similar), but if one is a hard-n-fast Commie, it does rather reek of two-faced tax-evasion and hypocrisy; almost a hanging offence in his Marxist manifesto.

Ralph's son 'Red' Ed (the crazy looking one) has gone on to become leader of the Labour Party, and his brother David (who was also a Labour MP) recently left the UK parliament to become President of the International Rescue Committee in New York, on a basic salary of just $500,000 (how DOES he manage!). He's now living off the generous donations of the man-in-the-street (who probably imagined the money going to certain 'good causes'). I wonder what his eventual severance payment will be?

One really has to wonder which particular example of Marxism 'Daddy' instructed his boys to follow; North Korea, crazy Cuba, or maybe good old Soviet Russia. One suspects he, himself, might actually have preferred The People's Republic of Sloane Square. Most of us certainly would!

Hypocrisy is alive and well in all UK political parties, and in most newspapers; we just enjoy it the most when it arrives in single file.

Flying Visit.

My youngest son Wills, and the lovely Kellogg (above), have been with us for a couple of days.

From Oz they have passed through Sweden, Germany, Holland, Belgium, France, and lastly Spain, visiting friends and seeing family. They fly back to Oz this weekend. I'd hate to think how much time they've spent in the air over the past few weeks.

Monty remembers Kellogg well. She helped nurse him back to health after his encounter with the Processionary Caterpillar.

A very brief visit unfortunately, but it has been wonderful to see them.

I shall not mention anything about babies or additional grandchildren, or even that her native Sweden would be a good place to deliver such things (her mother's in the business). I shall not even mention Spring (or even April). No, I won't.

Lola's a nice name, and I rather like Angelica too (Stop it Cro!)