We cooked spiced and baked chickpeas for pre-dinner nibbles, and a tarte tatin for dessert, followed by a selection of cheeses from Neal’s Yard Dairy. But the centrepiece of the meal was a slow roast rib of beef. The rib was from the Cow Club cow and survived a few months of freezing incredibly well, though it did take the best part of a day to defrost!

In order to get the best out of the meat we slow roasted it Heston style, following the recipe from his new book Heston Blumenthal at Home, which is surprisingly accessible! I’ve already made mental notes of a few recipes I can try without needing to invest in any heavy machinery.

You can see the recipe here, but in short we slow roasted the meat at 60°c for around 4 hours until the core temperature of the meat reached 55°c – a meat thermometer is essential! The result was fantastic; succulent medium-rare beef that was unbelievably soft. A million miles away from the dry leathery grey stuff that you so often get (and which I’ve so often made!). There was something very weird about having a piece of meat in an oven for a few hours and still being able to lift it out without the use of oven gloves. But the low heat and time spent waiting was well worth it. So little moisture escaped from the beef that there was next to nothing leaking into the roasting tray. The meat was amazingly juicy, and the fat was just breaking down and was like intensely flavoured jelly. Amazing! Time permitting, this will definitely be my cooking method of choice from now on.

The sauce was beautiful too; a punchy mixture of reduced beef stock (we used Heston’s stock from Waitrose, but only used 1kg, as I couldn’t bring myself to pay £12 for 2kg of stock which I would then reduce down to 500g!) shallots, butter, dijon mustard, tarragon, chives, white wine and parsley. I tried in vain to find some bone marrow… but alas, we had to make do without.

Sadly, I was so excited when it came to cut the beef that I forgot to photograph the final result, so you’ll have to make do with a picture of Heston’s and trust me that ours looked pretty much the same, except about a third of the size. We served it with Dauphinoise potatoes (oozing with gruyere), carrots, savoy cabbage and celeriac puree. Beautiful!

I’d never made one before, and was desperate to add it to our repertoire of Christmas baking; previous entries including Christmas cake, spiced biscuits, stollen and lebkuchen. Two problems, however, stood in my way.

First, there is a surprising dearth of good panettone recipes around. None of our cookbooks contained one, hardly any of our usual go-to-websites had anything to offer (other than recipes for dishes using chopped up shop bought specimens) and one promising version we did come across bore a host of comments saying that it didn’t work. And second, we don’t own a panettone tin; who does?

So I was thrilled to stumble across this blog, which solved both my problems in one fell swoop. Not only was the recipe a great success, but the suggestion of cooking the panettone in an Ikea cutlery container was inspired!

I must admit, I’m not much of a baker. I’ve made a few cakes here and there (most of which have been successful), but this was my first serious foray into the world of breadmaking. We made three; one as a trial run and the other two as gifts. Each took around 8 hours in total, but it was well worth it for the satisfaction of being able to hold a beautiful, buttery, fragrant, handmade creation. I shall certainly be making them again, and I understand that they can be traditionally eaten at Easter as well as Christmas – a perfect excuse, which I intend to exploit!

Below is the recipe, accompanied with pictures. I’ve not changed it much from @maisoncupcake’s version, (except removing the chocolate chips and adjusting the fruit quantities accordingly), but I have annotated it with a few tips of my own and the odd thought here and there.

Enjoy!

Panettone
Makes 1 Large Loaf 

Ingredients

7g sachet dried yeast
400g strong white bread flour
75g caster sugar
2 large free range eggs plus 2 egg yolks at room temperature
3 tablespoons lukewarm water
half teaspoon vanilla extract
finely grated zest of one unwaxed orange and one unwaxed lemon
half teaspoon salt
175g softened unsalted butter
90g sultanas
90g mixed peel, chopped
40g unsalted butter to finish 

Method

Mix 125g of the weighed flour with the yeast and sugar in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the centre. Mix the two whole eggs with the water and pour into the well. Using your hands or a dough hook, mix the flour into the liquid to make a smooth thick batter. I used my hand, which was infinitely more satisfying than a hook. Just remember to remove wedding rings first; looking like you’re single for a few hours is far preferable to having crusty dough stuck around your fingers! Sprinkle a little  flour over the batter to prevent a skin forming then leave in a warm place for around an hour or until the batter is bubbly.

Stir in the egg yolks, vanilla and grated zest using your hand. I’d never realised until this stage that it was vanilla that gives panettone its trademark aroma. But that, coupled with the zest immediately made the kitchen smell of Christmas.

Gradually work in 175g flour plus the salt to make a soft sticky dough. This bit, I admit, gets a little tough on the hands. I’d suggest putting a cloth under the bowl, which will grip it and stop it moving, making it easier to mix.

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Next add the softened butter and work in with your fingers. Beat until the butter is incorporated with no streaks.

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Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and knead thoroughly by hand for 10 mins working in the remainder of the weighed flour to make a satiny soft pliable non-sticky dough. You may need to use a little more flour. Cover the bowl with cling film and leave to rise at room temperature until doubled in size, probably 2 to 2.5 hours. Don’t leave in a very warm place as the butter will melt.

Next uncover the dough and punch down to deflate. This is very satisfying. So much so that I photographed the process, enjoying the fist marks. Cover and let it double in size again (1-1.5 hours).

Meanwhile, combine the sultanas with the chopped peel. Stir in a teaspoon of flour to stop it clumping in the dough.

Given that we used our regular Ikea cutlery holder, we needed to sterilise it. To do this, wash it thoroughly and then put it in the oven on a low to medium heat to dry off.

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Prepare the tin by first greasing it, and then lining it with parchment paper. I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, so Helen did this bit brilliantly. She cut a circle to sit in the bottom, and then a piece of paper big enough to wrap around and fit inside the tin. Make it about 6cm higher than the tin. Fold a flap around 1cm from the bottom, and then cut slits about 1cm apart, all the way along. Put the paper into the tin so that the flaps sit flat on the bottom and then put the circle of paper on top, sticking it down with a little butter or oil. The paper should extend 5cm higher than the height of the tin.
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Punch down the risen dough again and turn onto a floured surface; sprinkle the fruit on top and work into the dough gently until evenly distributed. The dough gets quite tough, the more you work in.

All this time, try to keep the temperature in the room quite low, and don’t overwork the dough, as the butter easily melts under the heat of your hands.

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Shape the dough into a ball and gently drop it into the tin. This is harder than it sounds, as the dough stretches, the paper flops and the butter melts! I found it necessary to put the dough in the fridge for just a minute to stop the butter melting, before moulding it into a ball. Try to get the ball as smooth as possible. The third time I made this, I had a fold on the outside, which caused me some problems in getting it out of the tin (see below).

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Cut a cross into the top. On one of my attempts I cut the cross too deep, which meant that the top spread out a bit too much and didn’t keep its shape. Lay a sheet of clingfilm loosely over the top of the tin and leave for another hour or so until doubled in size again. I’d suggest putting the tin into an ovenproof dish, as this will catch any melting butter that seeps through. The original recipe didn’t mention this, but I learnt the hard way as I returned to find butter dripping onto the kitchen floor.

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Towards the end of the rising time, preheat the oven to 200c / 400f / gas 6. When ready to bake, melt 15g of the butter for finishing and brush it over the risen dough. Put a knob of butter in the centre of the cross.

Bake for 10 minutes or until just starting to colour, then brush again with melted butter. Reduce the temperature to 180c / 350f / gas 4 and bake for a further 40 minutes until a good golden brown and a skewer inserted to the centre comes out clean. After about 10 minutes the top of my panettone was going too brown, so I covered it in a little foil hat. @maisoncupcake’s didn’t need foil until about 30 minutes – it just depends on your oven, so keep an eye on it.

Remove from the oven and place the tin on a wire rack. Allow to cool for a few minutes before teasing it out of the tin. If your crust is fragile allow to cool further before removing from tin. This was not easy! You’ll need to gently, but firmly, hold the cake with one hand, and turn the tin with the other. On the third attempt, I’d had some folds on the outside of my dough, so there were some protruding layers of bread, which caught as I tried to remove it from the tin. A careful knife around the rim, a long long time twisting gently and one (mild) swear word finally got it out!

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Cool completely before slicing, or decorating, depending on whether this little beauty is for you or for someone else.

This should last about a week without going so stale that it’s inedible – however, I defy you to make it last that long!

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

I love This Is Spinal Tap, but it has a lot to answer for.

Truth is, progressive music is one side of my musical taste. The last ten albums I listened to were by Peter Gabriel, Adele, Alter Bridge, U2, Paul Simon, John Coltrane, Regina Spektor, John Mayer, Dream Theater and The Beatles. Only one of those bands is really progressive (I’ll give you a clue, it’s the one you’ve never heard of) but if I did have to nail down one genre of preference, progressive rock would be my choice… sans mythological lyrics, general weirdness and Stonehenge replicas.

So this week a colleague (with a discerning musical taste and an open mind) happened to mention that he didn’t really know anything about progressive rock, and I leapt on the opportunity. I took it upon myself to educate the poor chap, whether he wanted education or not, in the finer details of progressive rock. I made up a playlist, jotted down some listening notes, and inflicted them on him…

The initial results were better than expected, with him enjoying not only the first recommended song, but a couple of albums by the first band too. I’m not sure how deep into the education he’s got yet: I like to think he’s savouring it… And so I decided, why not road test my Progressive Education Plan on a wider audience?

Here are some initial thoughts and recommendations on how to get into progressive rock. It’s not exhaustive. I steered clear of things I knew I had no chance of selling!! I didn’t go too far back in time; though I did include one Rush track and one from Yes. I didn’t bother with any of those so called classic bands like Jethro Tull, or Caravan or Gentle Giant, partly because I find their names embarrassing (reminding me of cornish comedians, mobile homes and the green sweetcorn man) and because I find their music a little embarrassing too! I’ve even left off some of the real classics who I do very much enjoy: Pink Floyd for example, and to a lesser extend Rush and Yes. My aim was not a complete education in all things progressive, just a window into the contents of my ears… if you know what I mean!

I’ve left it more or less as I wrote to him, with just a couple of tweaks, hence some of the personal references. Load up the playlist, Give it a go… let me know how you get on:

My Progressive Education Plan

What draws me to progressive music is the intricacy of it. I love listening to stuff that is complex, which really shows off all the instruments, and which does stuff I could have no hope of playing myself. I tire quickly of listening to music that is predictable, unremarkable, and which the average busker on the street could replicate without breaking into a sweat.

I love the long songs, and the complex changing of time-signatures, but (and this is key), I love it when it’s done so naturally that you barely notice. That’s a real skill, and that’s why I like each of these bands here, and dislike many others. As well as being highly skilled musicians, most of the guys on this list are great songwriters too and have a feel for how to write a well-crafted track that doesn’t sound too jarring.

So here are some suggestions for a first foray into progressive music:

I’d suggest starting with a kind of quasi-progressive group like Porcupine Tree. Weird name, but by progressive standards it’s remarkably tame! There are some obvious progressive elements to their music: long songs, concept albums, odd time signatures, atmospheric sections, but also a lot of their music is just straightforward good song-writing. I imagine their style will not feel a million miles away from many of the bands you tend to listen to.

Start off with the track The Sound of Muzak, which is a great song in a weird time signature (also – the subject matter is the commercialisation of music, so I thought you’d appreciate that!) If you like this, I’d recommend checking out their album In Absentia, and then Deadwing, which is a bit more progressive and a little heavier.

Second, I’d suggest trying Dream Theater who are the leading progressive metal band of the moment. Each musician is absolutely top of their game, and their music is very complex, often revolving around a lot of intricate soloing sections. I’ve suggested two songs, which demonstrate various elements of their style. The first is Breaking All Illusions from their latest album. It’s not too heavy, but is quite complex musically, with some amazing riffs, some quirky fun parts and an absolutely beautiful guitar solo. Then secondly I’ve gone for Blind Faith for no other reason than because it contains my all-time favourite keyboard solo from 6:12-8:22.

To follow up on Dream Theater I’d recommend their latest album A Dramatic Turn of Events which is relatively heavy, but fresh and modern, or one of their older albums like Scenes from a Memory, which is a concept album or Images and Words which was their breakthrough album – note, it’s a bit dated, so sounds a little cheesy in places, but still is quite amazing, and less heavy than their more recent work.

Next up, completely, unapologetically self-indulgent showing off: Liquid Tension Experiment. This is an instrumental super group made up of a few members of Dream Theater, plus a keyboard player (who wasn’t in Dream Theater at the time, but now is) and bassist Tony Levin.

I’d suggest trying Paradigm Shift, which is a relentless and ridiculously fast masterclass in showing off! It’s their first track from their first album, it’s very technical, but as a musician it makes me smile because it’s just so intricate and fun. Then I’d recommend their first album Liquid Tension Experiment. To be honest, once you’ve listened to one or two tracks you’ll have a pretty good idea of what their music is like since it’s all pretty self-indulgent.

Fourthly, a band which is less about showing off and more about crafting strong songs in the style of some of the more retro progressive bands: Spock’s Beard. Their music is typically more keyboard led, which is due to the fact that their (now ex) lead singer plays keyboards primarily, and other instruments as and when required. There’s a lot of Hammond organ, long songs, still complex, but more based around well-written song structures. There’s a clear Beatles influence to a fair amount of their song-writing, which I love.

I recommend starting with one of their longest tracks At the End of the Day. In some ways it’s not typical of all their stuff, since they tend to have plenty of short tracks on their albums, but most of the elements are there: lots of organ, quirky bass work, Beatles-esque writing, a range of music styles, some brilliant keyboard soloing, and a little bit of brass for good measure. If you want more from Spock’s Beard I’d recommend their album V, followed by Snow (for a longer concept album made of shorter songs) or Beware of Darkness (if you want something a little more retro).

Fifthly, a band called Transatlantic. These guys are a super group made up of the singer/keyboardist from Spock’s Beard, the drummer from Dream Theater, a guitarist from a progressive fusion band, and a bassist from a British group called Marillion.

Their style is a mixture of Spock’s Beard and some elements of each of the other bands represented, and is characterised by (very) long songs, lots of Hammond and keyboards, lots of jazzy guitar work, very-beatles-esque lyrics. I recommend starting with Stranger in your Soul – don’t let the 30 minute song length put you off! These guys are expert song-writers as well as technical musicians, so if you think of it like an album rather than a song, it’s full of catchy sections, and holds together brilliantly. Then if you can stomach it, one of my all-time favourite albums is called The Whirlwind, which is an approximately 76 minute song… it’s better than it sounds! Complex, brilliantly written, and I could listen to it over and over. If you want something with a few more tracks, then check out Bridge Across Forever.

Once you’re done listening to those 6 songs, you will have spent the best part of a day listening to progressive music!! And you’ll have a pretty good picture of the landscape of modern progressive music.

Good luck, and enjoy,

LT

Since Sir Jimmy Saville is no longer, and I now know that Santa never was, I have come to the conclusion that I have no other choice but to lay my wishes at your feet: I wish, Peter, for Christmas, or a Birthday, or just some random occasion within the next year, for an album of brand new Peter Gabriel music.

I’m sure I’m not alone in my longings. I am quite positive that if I put my mind to it, I could find at least half a dozen of my friends who would feel similarly. And the rest? Well… they just don’t know what they’re missing! But they will do Peter. When your new album comes out, I’ll invite them all round, lock the doors and crank it up to 11.

Peter, I know you’re probably not a sucker for flattery, but I might as well start there before I have to resort to more stringent forms of coercion. Up truly is one of the all-time great albums. I’m not just saying that. Perfectly crafted songs, oscillating between naked minimalism and dense, multileveled orchestration. The lyrics are fun, moving and dark in equal measure (well, actually let’s be honest… not many of them are fun!)

Every track is perfect: The angsty ‘Darkness’, the infectious grooves of ‘Growing Up’, the spine-tingling-soulfulness of the Blind Boys on ‘Sky Blue’, the beautifully disorienting drumming of the ‘No Way Out’ outro, the two-headed beast that is ‘I Grieve’, with its industrial-ambience and ridiculously catchy middle section, the Levin-fuelled grooves of ‘Barry Williams’, the soaring note-perfect vocals of ‘My Head Sounds Like That’, the many-layered and perfectly toned guitar work of ‘More Than This’, not to mention the Hammond breakdown at the end, the rich strings and haunting vocals of ‘Signal to Noise’, made all the more poignant by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s posthumous contribution, and the vulnerable simplicity of ‘The Drop.’ I honestly don’t think I’d change a note…

So all I’m asking, Peter, is for more of the same, or better. Please.

Don’t get me wrong, pretty much everything you’ve produced since has been far better than the mediocre output of almost every other artist and band around, but it’s time for something new. Sure, you can sing Arcade Fire and Neil Young, and Regina Spektor, and do a pretty good job of it too! Sure, you can rework your old material in new, beautifully orchestrated arrangements that make the hair stand on end on the back of my neck. You can sing with apes, and get mentioned in a Vampire Weekend track and win Grammys… All of these are laudable achievements, but where’s the new stuff? Where are the 130 ideas you’ve been working on? Where’s the legendary I/O album I’ve been salivating over in anticipation since 2004?

I understand Up took you ten years to perfect. I’ll do you a deal, I’ll stay off your back until September 2013, by which time you will have had a full eleven years since Up. But if I don’t get something good by then, you can count on me coming after you! The clock’s ticking Peter! I’d settle for just a song or two, in whatever stage of completion… go on, stick some on a disc and post them to me, I won’t share them. It can be our little secret!

Anyway, I guess I’d better wrap this up before I end up sounding a little like that guy in the Eminem song ‘Stan’ (what was his name?). You know… “I hope you can’t sleep and you dream about it. And when you dream I hope you can’t sleep and you scream about it”, that kind of thing. I’m not crazy. I’m not about to offer to call my first child after you (though in exchange for a signed copy of the new album and a gig ticket, I might consider Gabriel as a middle name). I’m just a poor, eager fan, listening to Up, getting nostalgic, and writing letters that’ll never get read. But since Santa failed to give me a Mr Frosty and Saville never arranged for me to feed lions in a zoo, I’m quite used to writing unrequited letters…

Yours hopingly, longingly, jadedly,

Liam Thatcher

p.s. – I just realised, I quoted an Eminem song, the lyrics of which mention Phil Collins by name. Sorry about that. I hope you’ll forgive me, and please rest assured, Collins is top of the list of names I would never consider inflicting on any future child or pet!

p.p.s – Best not to tell my wife about this letter. She already thinks I’m a little bit strange…

About a week ago I wrote an article over at whatyouthinkmatters.org entitled ‘Who Would Jesus Punch?’ trying to model how to begin thinking biblically about an issue like violence in sports. It generated a little debate (and even gained a response from the venerable otter St Stuffed Shirt. I’m honoured, I think) and as a result we’ve started a little mini-series on issues surrounding Christians and violence.

Matthew Hosier kicked off the series yesterday with ‘War and Peace pt 1′, providing a brief historical overview of the debate on war and pacifism: a particularly helpful read if you don’t have the time or inclination to dip into the voluminous sources from the early church and theologians of the middle ages. And today the first of my posts has gone up: ‘The Right to Bear the Sword the State has’, looking at Yoder on Romans 12-13 (see what I did there?) It won’t answer (m)any of your questions, but hopefully will raise one big fat one at the end, to which I’d love to hear some responses. (Pop them on that site rather than here, so everyone can join in the discussion)

The series will continue all week… Enjoy

To whom it may concern,

On the morning of Monday 24 October I found myself unexpectedly unoccupied, and so decided to sidle up Shaftesbury Avenue on the off chance that I might be able to procure some day tickets for Jerusalem at the Apollo Theatre.

The air was crisp and autumnal, the sunlight peeking tantalisingly through the clouds, and it was a real pleasure to saunter through the heart of the city. Not even the already-established queue outside the theatre could dampen my spirits as I daydreamed of the fun I might have on my day off: perhaps a nice espresso in a quirky Soho coffee house, a walk over the Thames, an afternoon on the Southbank, all topped off by treating my wife to an evening of theatrical entertainment. But I digress…

The 50 minute wait was a blend of trepidation and excitement. Would I be one of the lucky few able to get a ticket? I waited and hoped, charged with a nervous excitement, and so imagine my joy when I reached the front of the queue and discovered that there were, indeed, tickets available! I was over the moon. Not literally, I must point out, knowing, as I now do, how fluidly you at the Apollo like to treat the English language.

The helpful young person in the box office pointed out the available seats on his lurid-coloured two-dimensional chart. Balcony, Row A, seats 11 and 12, in case you’re wondering. And then he admitted ‘the view is a little restricted.’ Now I’ve been to plenty of theatres in my time, and have sat in many a ‘restricted view seat.’ My experience has varied: on occasions the view has indeed lived up to its name, perhaps with an overhanging balcony, or the odd handrail in my peripheral vision. At other times, whatever obstruction may have been in the mind of the vendor was really utterly unnoticeable and I have had a whale of a time. But knowing that ‘restricted’ can be a flexible and multifarious term, I asked just how restricted the view was. 

The answer was as follows: “I admit, you can’t quite see all of the stage. The line of sight is slightly obstructed by a lighting rig.” 

Well, in the moment, overcome as I was with the excitement of having made it through to the front of the queue to watch a play I’d been longing to see, I thought “that doesn’t sound so bad.” Never did it cross my mind that this might be a masterful display of that linguistic tool known as ‘understatement’; and an unparalleled example at that! I snapped up the tickets and quipped: “Well, I’d rather see most of the play than none of the play.”

They chuckled. I chuckled. Deep down they knew.

'Restricted View'?

Now, I am not the tallest man you’re ever likely to meet. My mother is a miniature 5 foot 2, but thankfully my father’s genes balanced me out, and placed me somewhere in the middle. At a relatively average 5 foot 11, therefore, I do not consider myself to be dwarfed or stunted in any way. But even a man of my average stature was unable to see over the rather excessively high wall that sat before me. 

Of course, I am quite aware that none of today’s staff would have been involved in the building process, so I hardly expect to be able to write to the person responsible for seat installation in 1901. But I was baffled by the thought that for 110 years you have been selling seats with a view of nothing but wall. It wasn’t an unsightly wall, it has to be said; just not what I had expected to see. As I sunk into my seat, I resigned myself to the thought that turn of the century theatregoers must have been in the region of eleven feet tall, and that it was a cruel twist of human evolution than rendered these seats useless for the modern man.

What disappointed me most was this: I was specifically informed at the box office (promised, one might say) that my sightline would be obstructed by a lighting rig, and yet in reality I could see no such rig! Not, that is, unless I stood up and peered over the wall. What is the world coming to, when even the objects of obstruction are themselves eclipsed? I paid for my view to be obscured by lights, and quite frankly, I feel cheated…

In order to see anything that might vaguely be considered a theatrical experience (let alone a lighting rig) I had to perch on the back of my chair. Not, please note, the upturned, unfolded seat of the chair, but the very back. And there I sat, on a two-inch wide strip of wood, my head between the feet of those behind me, for the entire first act. I was not alone. Most of the others on the same row adopted similar postures, shuffling every few minutes as the strip of wood caused an unbearable pain in the proverbial. (I considered sneaking to the toilets and taking a photograph of my dented derriere to send you, but didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.)

At the interval, the audience members of Row A were conspicuous by their waddling. ‘A’, I have concluded, stands for ‘aviary’ since everyone who sat there was perched like a canary. A few of us, unable to bear the experience much longer sought other seats for the second act. We managed to find some spare chairs at the far side of Row C where we were able to at last have an un-impinged view of a lighting rig and roughly 60% of the stage. Even there we found many people around us grumbling at the views, and since nigh on everybody was having to lean forward in order to see anything of the stage, we still had to squat, stand, perch, lean or otherwise twist ourselves in some yogic fashion in order to see. One chap commented to me that this was the second time he had come to see the show, since the first time he’d bought a day seat and hadn’t been able to see anything. He’d paid double the amount this time, and found the view to be only marginally better. 

I often like to purchase a programme; something to keep which can remind me of the experience. On this occasion I chose not to, though I doubt the experience shall slip my mind for at least a week or so, since I now have back pain now as a lasting memento. And for free! How exceedingly generous of you…

That said, the play itself was very stimulating; audiologically speaking. If there are not already plans for a radio adaptation of Jerusalem, I do hope you will consider it. I would like to vouch for it making an excellent radio play, having been, albeit unwittingly, privileged enough to have experienced a sightless version.

So please do accept my congratulations for your remarkable linguistic gymnastics. You have successfully reworked and relativized the English language to a degree I never thought possible. Who knew that a phrase such as ‘not quite all of’ could actually mean ‘absolutely not one square inch of the stage’ or that ‘restricted view’ really meant I could hardly see more wall if you sellotaped bricks to my eyeballs!

With ‘not quite all’ of my best wishes,

Liam Thatcher

An espresso in a quirky little bar: single origin, Costa Rican – Las Lajas Perla Negra. Probably the oddest flavoured, most tongue-boggling coffee I’ve tasted in a while. The flavour lingers on, the liquorice bitterness enhanced and renewed by waves of fresh air as I breathe deeply, strolling over a bridge across the Thames.

Booksellers huddle up under Waterloo bridge, their cheeks a light red from the subtle sting of the wind. Tourists photograph skateboarders, BMXers and graffiti artists, honing their skills on the Southbank.

I’m sitting in the National Theatre, a great place to think and write. To my right I can see down into the foyer below; the drama students reading texts on the lurid green and orange sofas, like a giant cubist fruitbowl. The looks on their faces give away that they’re daydreaming of reading these lines on one of the stages just metres away. To my left I can see out onto the Southbank. Families enjoying the half term, kicking a football around; a strange flotilla of kick-scooters all lined up by the railings. Quite how, when and why they returned into fashion I have no idea!

And I’m just writing. It’s silent here, and light, and pleasant. And I have nothing in particular to do; I make a few tweaks to a talk I’m to give in a week or so, I jot down a few thoughts like these, and I just wrote the final chapter of my first book. Well, I say that with my tongue loosely lodged in my cheek. I have written no other chapters, nor do I know what such a book might be about. But if this little chapter would come anywhere in anything, it would most certainly be at the end. And so I, like the drama students downstairs, adopt a day-dreaming face and imagine giving a public reading on the little stage in the foyer. Nobody’s looking… what’s stopping me?

A young mother, trying to impress her son and reclaim her youth just fell off a scooter. She’s not hurt. She’s laughing. To be honest, she was doing quite well until she came off; scooting around whilst kicking a football. Multitasking.

I used to find London tiring; bustling, busy, impatient, heaving. And yes, it is all those things. But the fast pace just makes me appreciate the slow days all the more. Today I find it energising. There’s nothing nicer than just sitting, observing, writing, caffeinating and reflecting whilst the world rushes past. In just a few minutes, you can trip seamlessly from one world into another. Such beauty and diversity around every corner: representatives from every nation, each bringing a little thread of their own into the patchwork of our city: their foods, their art, their languages.

I wouldn’t swap it for the world. Why would I need to? The whole world is already here…

Last Friday, late at night, I took delivery of 5kg of prime beef from the back of a car driven by a South African. Payment by cash. I know it sounds a little suspect, but really it was all above board… This was the culmination of the very first Cow Club; a collaborative project to buy a whole 100% grass-fed Sussex bullock! It was an amazing sight: a car full of cow pulling up outside the house, and searching through the package to find out what cuts we had got was like Christmas come early! If you haven’t heard about the project, check out the Facebook page or follow on Twitter to find out when the next animal will be on its way Londonward from the countryside.

I have some grand plans for the meat… Particularly looking forward to a slow roast rib with celeriac mash later in the autumn (dinner guests are already earmarked and booked in, before you kindly offer your help in eating it!). But tonight was the first taste, and we decided to use some of the braising steak to do a Sri Lankan Red Curry.

The meat was brilliant: really flavoursome and tender, and without all that icky watery fatty nastiness that usually bubbles its way off supermarket beef. And it stood up nicely to the spiciness of the curry. Originally from Madhur Jaffrey’s Ultimate Curry Bible (which is by far the best curry book I’ve ever come across), this is a great, rich, medium-heat dish. The ingredients list may look a little daunting, but it’s worth the effort. And it you don’t have one of the more unusual ingredients, you can make do without, or substitute it… I’ve posted the original recipe below, though I made a few tweaks today, due to not having the right ingredients to hand. If you don’t have any pandanus leaf (as I didn’t today!) you can leave it out, and perhaps just up the fenugreek a little – though if you do have some, it’ll add a deep earthiness to the curry, so worth finding if at all possible. Brixton Market is my usual calling-point for all of these things… It hasn’t failed me yet! Also, I only had fenugreek leaves today, not seeds. Tasted fine…

Give it a go… and enjoy!

Red Beef Curry
Serves 4

Ingredients

450g braising steak, cut into 2.5cm chunks
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground fennel
1 tsp cayenne pepper (Feel free to decrease this a little if you prefer a slightly milder curry)
2 tsp bright red paprika
Ground pepper
3 tbsp corn or peanut oil
1 medium stick cinnamon
4 whole cardamom pods
1/2 tsp fenugreek seeds
4 tbsp finely sliced shallots
2 finely sliced garlic cloves
2 thin slices of fresh ginger
5cm piece of pandanus leaf
10-15 curry leaves (If you don’t have them, feel free to leave them out… though they are nice, and apparently they’re good for keeping your hair healthy?!?!)
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp lemon juice
175ml coconut milk, well-shaken

Method

Red Beef Curry

Put the meat in a bowl with the coriander, sum in, fennel, cayenne pepper, paprika and lots of black pepper. Mix and leave to marinate for 20 minutes (or longer if possible).

Pour the oil in a large, non-stick lidded pan, and put it on a medium heat. When hot, add the cinnamon, cardamom, fenugreek, shallots, garlic, ginger, pandanus leaf and curry leaves. Stir for about 2 mins, until the onions are translucent. Then add the meat and cook for about 3 mins, until lightly browned.

Add the salt, 350ml of water and the lemon juice. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to very low, cover and simmer for 80 mins, stirring two or three times, and adding a little water if necessary. (Mine pretty much burnt dry today, so needed a quick rescue attempt! But the disaster was averted…)

Stir in the coconut milk and bring to a simmer… check the seasoning, and serve with plain rice!