On my plate

Saturday, April 18: Sometimes the days go slower than my Aunt Joan’s Hondamatic, a tiny brown bubble of a car from the 1980s, top speed about 60/kph. Other days are like the Hondamatic in the hands of a hoon.

Today, it’s the latter (slight exaggeration on the hoon thing) but time flies. There is a good start at 9am, Kim Hill on RNZ interviewing American author Ann Patchett, who wrote The Dutch House, one of my favourite books from last year. Patchett was to have been at next month’s cancelled Auckland Writers Festival, and now she’s on the line from pandemic lockdown in Tennessee. She speaks about the security of being in her beloved home, it means more to her than ever in this crisis. It is, she says, “the shell of the turtle that we are”. I tuck the quote away, love it. My home is my precious korowai. Especially now.

From then on, the day is as social as it gets in lockdown, as friends come bearing gifts. There are food drops from Denise (hot cross buns); Angelique (more beautiful field mushrooms and the last of the season’s sweet corn); and quinces and a lemon from neighbour Mary. All this, I hasten to add, is done with physical distancing and careful management of packages and produce. Plus there is a serendipitous driveway conversation with Anna, Mary, and Rosie the dog. I’m smiling as I finally head to the kitchen to chop, dice and slice, deal with the new produce. Coffee will be on me for many people when we get out of lockdown.

Late afternoon, there are Zoom drinks to attend, and this includes a music quiz run by Lynne. She sings the first line of 13 songs she’s picked; we guess the title and the singer. Damn. Not my forte, I’m musically challenged and at the bottom of the heap.  We Zoom out to cook dinner in our bubbles.

Food matters: at my place it is homemade creamed corn, inspired by Angelique when she dropped off the fresh cobs. Husk the corn and slice the kernels off with a sharp knife. In a heavy pot, melt butter and olive oil, sizzle a spring onion or two, chopped garlic and bacon (optional but excellent). Stir the corn kernels into the butter and oil and cook for a couple of minutes to release their juices. Add a dessertspoon of flour, mix through, and add milk, a little at a time, until you get a creamy texture. Season with salt, pepper, parmesan and chopped parsley and serve over orzo, toast, anything, with a green on the side. A topping of toasted breadcrumbs is good, too. The fresh corn is wonderful but next time I’ll use the can of whole-kernel corn lurking at the back of the pantry.

Friday, April 17: About 10 years ago, Bill went out with his trailer and returned with six large-ish feijoa trees. They’d been discarded by someone he knew who’d changed his mind about feijoas, and they were free to a good home. Bill had it in mind that they could be the start of a community orchard in the reserve that is part of our subdivision. Our neighbour, Lindsey, helped us plant them that day. Lindsey had more tree-planting nous than we did so under her tutelage we dug, planted, and pruned them tightly. There were six trees and it was quite hard work. We did five and Lindsey and I decided the sixth was too puny to bother about and we dumped it. Bill went back later, retrieved it and dug it in. He watered them through their first dry summer and they sulked for two or three years before producing modest crops.

Nowadays, they don’t hold back and it’s raining feijoas at our place. I’m revelling in their distinctive pineapple-y flavour and jelly-like texture. The first mouthful each season is sheer delight. Bill’s gift to our neighbourhood feels particularly significant this year; there are 15 households who (if they’re feijoa-lovers) have fresh fruit on hand in lockdown. Wish we’d done more on the community orchard idea.

It’s a fruity day. I pick a big bag of feijoas then do a phone interview for Nourish magazine with Colleen Bourne, the volunteer co-ordinator of Community Fruit Hamilton. Colleen organises volunteer picking teams that rescue fruit that would otherwise go to waste. It is distributed to families who can’t afford to buy apples, pears, persimmons, citrus, feijoas and more, for their families. Colleen and her crew do great work.

Just before dusk, I go for a walk in the neighbourhood. I scarcely need to look left and right when I cross Te Aroha St at 5.30pm; the sky is moody, the silence is golden. I hear birdsong where there is usually the thrum of cars idling in a long tailback from the Grey St roundabout.

On the way home I step onto a carpet of feijoas on the footpath. An adjacent tree is shedding its crop; they’re everywhere, they’re everywhere. And, sadly, this season all the kids with feijoas in their gardens can’t set out gateway stalls to make a bit of extra cash.  

Food matters: I’m making feijoa chutney, of course, and this year my foodwriter friend Lucy Corry passes on a new recipe. Lucy writes an excellent food blog – thekitchenmaid.com – and she warmly recommends Funky Monkey Feijoa Chutney from another website, thisnzlife.co.nz. I like it for the name alone, and will chop my feijoas immediately I’m finished with this.

Full attribution: the chutney is by Kristina Jensen, who shares the recipe on https://thisnzlife.co.nz/ You’ll see her full story there.

Chunky Monkey Feijoa Chutney

Kristina says the beauty of this recipe is how easy it is. Most of the hard work is done during the soaking phase, the flavours seeping in overnight to create the beautiful flavour, wickedly satisfying texture and aroma. It is a two-step, skin-on chutney with bite.

Makes: 4-5 x 400g jars (approximately)
Time: 3-3.5 hours hours (plus resting overnight)

INGREDIENTS
1kg feijoa (approx. 30-40 fruit,
depending on size)
2 onions, chopped
1 small lemon, zest and juice
2 fresh red chillies
1½ cups brown sugar
2 tsp garlic salt
½ cup red wine vinegar
1 tbsp sesame oil
1 tsp cardamom, powdered
1 tsp cumin seeds

METHOD

The night before you make the chutney, top and tail the feijoas, cut them in half, then into quarters, then into 7-8 slices.

Place in a large casserole that has a lid (or use a roasting dish, covered with tinfoil) to keep the moisture in. Add the onion, lemon zest and juice.

Chop the chillies finely (de-seed them if you wish) and add them, followed by the rest of the ingredients. Stir, cover, then let it sit overnight.

The next morning, place the casserole or dish in a pre-heated oven (180°C) and cook for 2-3 hours. Stir every half an hour. It will thicken and turn a dark-brown caramel colour.

Pour into sterilised jars. Keep it hidden in a cool, dark place for a couple of weeks to let the flavours really meld into each other.

Note: also check out Jan Bilton’s excellent (and easy) Feijoa Kasundi, another favourite. You’ll find it at eatwell.co.nz

Thursday, April 16: My day is geared around watching the Prime Minister at 1pm as she steps through what Level 3 will look like, ahead of her Monday announcement on what happens next. Jacinda’s briefing is thorough, working through wide-ranging, complex details. On an entirely personal level I’m relieved to hear that there is some understanding around the social/mental health needs of “older New Zealanders” and those with underlying health conditions. The intention is not to keep us in lockdown for months. I’d certainly like to have the same carefully managed/cautious movement as everyone else, when the time comes.  I’m waiting for Monday to hear more. Today feels better than yesterday. There are lots of phonecalls and messages around my network; we’re still in this together. There is also a Zoom catch up with members of Foodwriters NZ; the common – and sobering – experience is of work is tailing off in the wake of the media meltdown.

Around lunch time, a tui feeds in the kanuka tree beside my deck. There’s just a beautiful bold bird and me enjoying the serenity of this tiny patch of urban bush. Small blessings.

Food matters: this morning I thaw an unlabelled bag that I think contains another chicken carcase, I have chicken and corn chowder in mind for dinner. The bag turns out to be gnarly scraps that make the rubbish bin go whiffy, frozen ahead of collection day and long forgotten.

I’m reminded of a comment I saw online from English foodwriter and TV presenter Nigel Slater:  “Found a jar of something in the cupboard during my ‘corona clear-out’. Homemade, no label. Been eating it on toast for breakfast. Not . . .  a . . . clue. Nice though.”

Damn. I put the scraps bag back in the freezer for the next rubbish day, examine the fridge contents and settle on chickpeas and carrots as the core of a savoury one-pot dinner. Amalgamating a couple of recipe ideas. Place chickpeas in an ovenproof dish with chopped carrots, red onion and garlic. Mix in a generous teaspoon of cumin seeds, freshly toasted and ground, a sprinkle of salt, a dash of olive oil, a handful of raisins or sultanas and some chicken stock. Cover with a lid or foil and cook at 180 deg C for 30 minutes, uncover for 10-15 minutes to let carrots and onions caramelise a little. Add a handful of chopped green beans at this point, and a few black olives if you have them. Check seasoning and serve over couscous – or rice, orzo etc – topped with chopped feta, lots of fresh herbs (mint is good) and a squeeze of lemon. A tasty shiraz on the side is warmly recommended.

Wednesday, April 15: Today seems hard. Can’t quite put my finger on it but I’m aimless, missing my old life, feeling the pinch of confinement. It may be the change in temperature, the chill and rain, and I don’t get out for walk. I do pilates, a phone interview for a potential story, talk to friends, my sons and grandkids, Netflix at night, and finish an absolute page-turner book, Nothing to See Here, by Kevin Wilson (thanks, Aimie). I almost read it in one big gulp.

So there is plenty to do but I’m talking to myself firmly all day: this too will pass. Maybe I’m worrying about what may happen next, waiting for the PM to tell us the next move on lockdown levels, and what the recommendations will be for my age group.

Late afternoon, on a whim, I clean out the booze cupboard, the dark cavernous area inside my grandparents’ old sideboard. One end holds a collection of dusty crystal glasses – whisky, sherry and liqueur – which back in the day were standard wedding presents from one’s parents’ friends. They were well used in the 1970s but not much after that. I wash them carefully, count 10 sherry glasses. Megan is correct, I really don’t need the blush pink ones in the window at Smiths General Store.

There are equally dusty bottles of liqueurs and port, and Prenzel Butterscotch Schnapps, for goodness sake, that I don’t remember buying. Good for next fruit cake? Tucked at the back is a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin with a modest amount available.  I generally only drink gin on holiday but I bung it in the fridge, put a bottle of tonic in the freezer for a bit, and at 6pm I pour a perfect icy gin, livened with a slice of lemon. The first aromatic mouthful transports me to the golden summer at the Mount, just gone, to long lazy evenings with family and friends at Tay St, and Oceanview Rd, and Muricata Avenue, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Comfort cooking: my mother’s caramel scones can brighten a dull day. The recipe is too big for a solo bubble but Richard has just done a batch for his family. Mum’s recipe (below) doesn’t give mixing or cooking instructions because she assumes people know this. But bake at about 200 degC for 10-15 minutes, according to Google and Richard. The meat dish is important because the buttery filling has potential to overflow into the oven.

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Tuesday, April 14: Oh my goodness, such excitement. I get to drive my car. The sense of freedom is huge. I haven’t taken it out since my flu injection about two weeks ago. This morning it’s only a short hop, as per the rules, up Ruakura Rd to collect two baskets of glorious potted basil from my ex-neighbour Diana, at Hilda Ross Village. They are too heavy for me to carry home on foot so hence the car. Diana is an amazing gardener and her creative space is a bit confined nowadays. So she buys old baskets at op shops, layers them with newspaper and potting mix and plants them with herbs, rocket and other greens, and gives them to friends.

Today’s sweet-smelling summery basil – defying the seasons – is for me and Anna. I park across the road from Diana’s unit, she does careful handover of the baskets, and I take a photo of her through the fence with my phone to text to her daughter in Auckland.

Of course I can’t possibly go straight home because my father always said a car needs a decent run every now and then. I can’t remember what the consequences are if this doesn’t happen but on the strength of Dad’s long ago advice, I do a bigger loop around the neighbourhood and feel the better for it. Maybe that’s what he meant, he was thinking more about the driver than the car. Then one basil basket is delivered next door to Anna and Guy’s house, where Tom is celebrating his 15^th birthday in lockdown.

The basil is just in time for lunch, the Italian favourite bruschetta that channels the colours of the country’s flag: grilled, oiled bread piled hot from the oven with chopped tomatoes, feta,  sweet-smelling basil leaves, finely chopped garlic, salt and pepper, and a touch more olive oil.

Beauty spot: I finally tackle the eyebrow tint kit. I gingerly trim my eyebrows in the manner that I’ve seen professionals do then I read the instructions a trillion times and brush on the colour cream and developer gel. It is a modest success; the left eyebrow turns out better than the right, which is a wee bit patchy. Now that I know what I’m doing, I may have another go at it.

More bad news: the media continues to bleed. NZME announces today it is axing about 15 per cent of its workforce (200 people) and asking staff to take pay cuts as its advertising income looks to have been halved. NZME owns the New Zealand Herald, radio stations and various regional papers. It is another bleak day for the industry, in the wake of the Bauer magazine fall out and Stuff cutting columnists and contributors. Some of the financial difficulties go much further back and are now exacerbated by the pandemic crisis. It seems ironic – and hugely worrying – that the biggest story of this century may be the one that sinks more highly valued titles and people.

Cake update: I’ve loved the reports and photos from friends who’ve made the Easter Cake, especially Barbara’s creative effort of bulking up the orange juice with cranberry juice and finding good use for ancient chocolate brandy liqueur and Tia Maria. Cheers to that!

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Monday, April 13: I have two actual appointments in my diary today. It’s been a blank slate for the past few weeks, now there is the excitement of bookings at 2pm and 5pm.

2pm: walk down to the Cenotaph in Memorial Park and meet my sister-in-law, Denise, at a safe distance. Although we talk on the phone we haven’t seen each other in person since before lockdown. The Cenotaph is within easy reach of our respective homes so this seems a good idea. Although it’s hard not to hug. When a light shower passes over, we retreat temporarily under one of the park’s mighty oaks … and keep talking, keep our distance, in strange times.

5pm: Wine O’Clock Zoom with friends in Whangamata, Hamilton and Auckland. Six of us check in, wine glasses to hand, all framed up on our screens. More pleasure and connection, trying not to talk at once, covering news of children and grandchildren, what we’re cooking, reading, watching on Netflix, and various worries about post-lockdown issues. Some of us have read today’s Stuff story on Hamilton restaurant Banh Mi’s concerns for its future. Banh Mi is a city favourite, it’s a sobering article. Like my earlier meeting with Denise, we keep talking, keep our (digital) distance, enjoy the company of dear friends, in strange times.

Treasures: The bathroom cupboard gets a going-over. Its depths are the repository for tag-ends of beauty products well past their use-by dates. There is a vintage find among the jumble: a purple-labelled Dymol bottle, with a tiny, sticky quantity in the bottom, and a faded price label, $1.25. Dymol was an emollient made at Irvine’s Pharmacy in Victoria St by three generations of family pharmacists, Neil, Graham and Bill. The formula was devised by Neil (Bill’s grandfather) in about the 1920s and it was made until closing day in the late 1990s. As the label says, it was for chapped hands and sunburn and it was a useful after-shave. Soothed any skin irritation, really. I also find a half-full pot of Irvine’s Pharmacy’s handmade lip ointment; it worked miracles on cracked lips and had a particularly big following among Waikato farmers. I wipe the dust off the Dymol and the lip balm and they’re elevated from the bathroom cupboard to new status in Bill’s collection of pharmacy memorabilia.

Treat: Anna makes a big batch of lasagne for her family, and a couple of individual servings. She and Guy arrive at my door with a fragrant golden dish, bubbling hot from the oven. The other small dish is earmarked for Guy’s mother Denise (the aforementioned sister-in-law). Such pleasure. As much as I like cooking it will be truly wonderful to eat something I haven’t made myself. All I need to do is assemble a green salad and pour the wine. Thanks, Anna and Guy.

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Sunday, April 12: Easter Sunday turns out to be a day of little treats. The first is a gold foil-wrapped bunny that’s hopped across the fence from Guy and Anna’s to decorate my courtyard table; I spot it immediately I open the door in the morning. My favourite Lindt dark chocolate, I’ll enjoy every  velvety mouthful.

The second treat is the self-indulgent chilli scramble I cook for brunch, continuing to replicate the dish I love on regular Sundays at Grey Street Kitchen. This week, I’m maybe a bit light on the chilli but the yoghurt mixed into the eggs adds nicely to the creaminess.

Moving on, the third treat is the surprise Easter package – comestibles and a most welcome book – left in my letterbox by Aimie. And close on the heels of this is a letterbox drop of rhubarb and kaffir limes from Rosemary and Neville’s garden.

There are also flowers: I walk up Ruakura Rd to where my ex-neighbour Diana lives at Hilda Ross Retirement Village. Conveniently, Diana’s unit is adjacent to the footpath and I phone ahead to say I’ll swing by and holler at her over the fencce. We have a stand-up meeting and she sends me home with a bunch of peachy pink Alstroemerias from her garden.

I walk down Te Aroha St with the flowers, trying not to feel like an escapee from a wedding party. A man on a bike calls out, “Aren’t you the lucky one?” Yup, sure am.

Baking: Everyone’s using their stockpiled flour on homemade hot cross buns this weekend. I never have much luck with them so I make the fruity Two-Cup Wonder, repurposed for Easter with whatever dried fruit I can muster from the pantry. The last gasp of sultanas, currants, dates, apricots and raisins. It’s a big cake but it’s a keeper and it will go for weeks. The recipe did the rounds of friends (and the internet) some years ago but in case you missed it …

EASTER CAKE

(Incredibly easy fruit cake, aka Two-Cup Wonder)

1 kg mixed fruit (any kind)

2 cups orange juice

2 cups self-raising flour

Optional: 1 tsp cinnamon or mixed spice; slosh of brandy or rum (or port, sherry, dregs of old bottles etc)

Soak the mixed fruit in orange juice and brandy/rum overnight or for a couple of hours (it doesn’t seem to make too much difference).  Stir in flour and spices. Add a little more liquid if the mixture is too stiff. Turn into a tin lined with baking paper (I use a 20cm round tin for a higher cake but it works with 23cm, or a medium square tin) and bake at 160degC (fan, 170 non-fan) for about an hour, or a little longer. It’s ready when a skewer comes out clean and the cake is pulling away from the sides.

Note: I don’t have orange juice at present so use Barkers Blood Orange Cordial and water. And my hand may have slipped with the “slosh” of port!

Saturday, April 11: On my way to make an early morning cup of tea I notice (not for the first time) a pile of ironing all higgledy-piggledy in the guest bedroom. I ask, if not now, when? So it’s a while before I’m back in bed with the tea but by 7.45am there is a neatly pressed collection of clothes and pillowcases to show for this random thought. There is no fixed schedule in my bubble.

 Next, the question of what to wear: every day, the answer is the same, anything that looks okay with leggings.

Honestly, as well as mooching, I’ve switched down several gears with clothes. My two pairs of stretchy black leggings are getting a thrashing, as are longish comfy tops that can reliably cover my bottom. You need this with leggings.

Leggings mean you’re dressed for anything in lockdown, walking, pilates, cleaning, jam-making, full stretch on the couch to read, and they’re presentable enough for an unexpected video call. It’s like a wearing a uniform, worthy but dull. To my huge excitement, I find a third pair of leggings today that I’ve completely overlooked. Getting the other two in and out of the wash won’t be so crucial.

I bought a green and black new-season dress a couple of weeks before lockdown and heaven knows when it will get an airing. I pull it out this morning to remind myself of what it looks like, tuck it back on the rack and reach for a blue shirt to liven the leggings.

Highlights: walking on a sparklingly sunny Waikato day, two lemons (absolute gold) left in the letterbox by neighbour Mary; and a memorable family Zoom event connecting Hamilton, Papamoa and Mairangi Bay.  

Reading: I’m just done with Thomas Cromwell, fixer and enforcer to the despotic, delusional King Henry V111. The seemingly indestructible Cromwell strides across the pages of author Hilary Mantel’s stunning trilogy, Wolf Hall, Bring Up the Bodies, and the monumental finale, The Mirror & the Light. I turn the last page of this reluctantly; Cromwell has sustained, enthralled and horrified me for two weeks of lockdown. I’ll miss him.

Cooking: Simple soups are a godsend, like this one today. In a heavy-based pot, gently fry a leek (or two, depending on the quantity you want) in butter and oil with a chopped, peeled potato (or two). Add about 600ml of chicken stock (or water), a tin of any white beans, drained, fresh thyme, salt and pepper. Simmer until potatoes and leeks are tender, blend, and serve with fresh herbs, sour cream or parmesan, and extra cracked pepper. I have a skerrick of Emme’s bread left to mop the bowl.

Friday, April 10: Sometimes in the dreamy, drifting moment of waking in the morning, I think life is the same as it’s always been. Then the realisation seeps in, no, I’m not going anywhere today, there’s no work, no play, and, this Easter, there is no trip over the Kaimais to the Mount.

I can barely remember an Easter when I’m not at the Mount. This year, our bach is rented for the winter and I’d be staying with friends, visiting my family in Papamoa, walking on the beach, a last swim if it’s warm enough, long dinners, laughter and good company. Raising a glass to our absent friend, Bill, who loved the Mount as much as anyone. “Let’s go across to the beach,” he’d say, “I can hear the sound of the surf.”

Today, the Mount is well beyond my bubble so I turn out (again) to walk in my neighbourhood, where the Claudelands Events Centre is now a Covid-19 assessment unit, and bold sandwich boards announce this at several entrances.  I’ve got to know Claudelands’ quirks, corners and side streets more in the past two weeks than I have in the 17 years I’ve lived here. It’s a mixed suburb of wooden bungalows, concrete flats from the 1960s and ‘70s, and a tonne of infill housing. I’m seeing the same faces on my walks, a woman with two large huskies, a young dad biking with his small boys, a man always reading on a comfy couch on his front porch. An overgrown garden is now neatly weeded and marshalled, a bonus of lockdown, a peeling fence is painted, there are trailers laden with garden rubbish in several driveways, waiting for the dump to reopen. Someone’s cooking a midday roast today. Its fragrance drifts through an open window.

Close to home, there are neighbours talking in the sunshine, tui clacking in the trees of A J Seeley Gully, and they’re also feeding in the kahikatea off our deck. It’s a good place to be. Although, sadly, our driveway drinks event tonight is cancelled on account of highly esteemed microbiologist Siouxsie Wiles saying this is not advisable in lockdown.

There is a quick soup for lunch (see recipe below), with a slice of beautiful crusty golden focaccia bread made by Emme, who lives next door. She delivers her treat warm from the oven this morning.

 And the really good news is that Penny’s chocolates land in Papamoa just in time for the weekend.

Happy Easter, Henry, Libby, Penny, all family and friends.

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Spur-of-the-moment soup: sizzle a peeled chopped potato, sliced garlic, spring onion and chopped broccoli in oil and butter in a heavy-based pot for a few minutes. Cover with chicken stock, add chopped blue cheese (I find a wizened leftover piece but it blossoms in the heat). Bring to the boil, simmer until tender, use a stick blender for a smooth puree, or a potato masher if you want it chunkier. To serve, stir in a spoonful of sour cream, if you have it, and chopped herbs.

Top tip: check www.mightylocal.co.nz for a list of great Waikato food and drink now available online. Collective lockdown initiative.

Thursday, April 9: Some days feel muddly and frustrating, some are enjoyable in a weird kind of way, always I’m blessed to have family, friends and neighbours in my loop, if not in my bubble. Actor Robyn Malcolm says something similar. I watch her this morning, talking to Stuff’s Carol Hirschfeld for the video series Inside My Bubble. Malcolm is pragmatic about lockdown; she feels pretty lucky when she hears how unlucky some people are. She says she’s doing okay at home, enjoying being with her two kids, staying in bed in the morning with a coffee, going for walks, just mooching around.

Mooching is a lovely descriptive word, a good fit with lockdown days, doing things slowly, without a great deal of purpose. I’m mooching more this week than I was last week, starting things, not finishing them, moving onto something else. The vacuum cleaner sits in the hallway, I intend to take it upstairs to sort out the dust under my bed. But not now. Likewise, the eyebrow tint kit so urgent a short time ago is unopened and my eyebrows are liberally speckled with silver.

When someone asks me what I did today, I can’t say straight off. Although the kitchen calendar says I was to be at the hairdresser’s at 9am, a sign of past times.

I’m living in the moment, trying not to think about what happens at the end, when we get out of this. At just over half-way, the statistics indicate some optimism about the success of the Government’s pandemic strategy. We may have turned the corner. The experts remain cautious, though; there are no assurances, we can’t stop now, and we could be cycling in an out of different levels of lockdown for months. Alongside this is the huge challenge that feels like a rock in the stomach, rebuilding every aspect of life as it was just a short time earlier: families, businesses, the entire economy, welfare agencies, health services, local bodies, media, agriculture, horticulture, tourism, airlines, communities, and more, are all deeply affected by the crisis.  So much support and goodwill will be needed.

 We’ll still be in this together.

Dog tucker: Lamb knuckles were strictly for the dogs on the sheep farm of my childhood. To be fair, my father had a hungry team of canines to feed so some of his homekill was always earmarked for them. Later, I find out what I’ve missed, the rich, meltingly tender meat that benefits enormously from slow-cooking.  Tonight’s dinner is a real treat: hogget knuckles from Anna’s parents’ farm, the dish cobbled together with various pantry items to hand. They bobble for hours in the slow-cooker, keeping company with a can of Italian cherry tomatoes, chopped onion, garlic and ginger, a generous tablespoon of tomato kasundi, and chicken stock. The meat falls off the bone, served in its red sauce over steamed rice and frozen peas. No extra shopping required, generous leftovers for future meals, and I have the delicious bone marrow all to myself. There are some benefits in a solo bubble.

To follow, Jackie’s excellent Louise Cake made with fig jam rather than traditional raspberry. And another fig drop to play with in the next few days. #kindfriends