Rhubarb and Orange Tart

I have brought the sweet little bunch of outrageously pink rhubarb up to Derbyshire with me, its colour flushed the same as my cheeks when I stepped off the train into the biting cold. It's hard to believe that I'm still in the same country; the other day in London I was wearing a skirt. Fresh air though, relief from the Big Smoke. My cold is already better, although my nose is running more than yesterday. My mum made a risotto tonight, which was just what I needed, velvety and enveloping and soft and nubbly.

The rhubarb needed eating immediately, no longer so crisp and snappy as it was when I bought it on Friday. I wanted to show off its shameless Ann Summers hue and fresh flavour, so I made a rather summery tart, with a curd made from the candy poaching juices and the fruit, lightly poached, piled on top. Sexy.

Rhubarb and Orange Tart

Sheet of puff pastry, ready-made or home made (how very virtuous of you if you manage the latter), rolled out a bit

Juice from the poached rhubarb (see below)

3 level tablespoons cornflour

2 egg yolks

A small knob of butter

Forced pink rhubarb (catch it quickly as its season, January, is happily behind us for the most part), cut into short chunks

Orange, juice and some segments

Juice of half a lemon

200g caster sugar

A vanilla pod, split and seeds scraped out

Trace a rectangle about half an inch from the outside of the already-rectangular sheet of rolled-out pastry, like a picture frame, with a knife, not cutting through the pastry all the way. Bake at around 180C, for the length it takes you to prepare everything else.

Put the sugar in a dry saucepan and let it melt and caramelize slightly. Tip in the rhubarb chunks, at which point the caramel will harden and splinter. Don't worry! Put in the vanilla pod too, and the scraped-out seeds, and the orange juice. Don't stir, but shake, as the rhubarb will break up which you don't really want. As soon as the caramel has dissolved again, take it off the heat. Let it cool a bit, then tip gently into a sieve to crain off the juices. Set the rhubarb aside.

Put the cornflour in a bowl and add just a bit of the juice to make it into a smooth paste. Then bring the rest of the liquid to the boil in a pan and pour it over the cornflour paste. Put this mixture back into the pan and stir constantly for a few minutes, tasting at intervals until there is no trace of cornflour-flavour. Loosen it up with a bit of orange juice if needs be.

Take out the pastry case, and if there are any gaps seal them with a clementine or tangerine marmalade, or apricot jam; if not, you risk having a soggy pastry case floating on a bit of rhubarby juice. Spread the curd on top, and then the rhubarb on top of that. Scatter a few segmented (pith- and peel-less) oranges on top if you like, to make it go further. Put back in the oven for a few minutes to meld all the flavours, then serve quite quickly with dollops of thick Greek yoghurt, Total brand is best. The sweety-like flavours really will put you in a mood for summer, or at least spring, and I bet you a wardrobe re-assessment, resulting in the putting away of heavy woollens, will follow, however badly judged it turns out to be.

Valentines' Day

This year, Valentines' Day fell on the 15th for me, or at least celebrating it; The Boy being unable to skip his Friday morning lectures in order to travel down on Thursday evening. No matter, a sumptuous gift from Rococo sorted him out just fine. It's my absolute favourite chocolate shop, on the King's Road and also the world wide web, selling all sorts of fabulous confections; from exotically flavoured solid bars (sea salt, basil and Persian lime) and truffles, hand-painted figures, and old-fashioned friends such as aniseed balls, all crafted with a quirky humour and of exceptional quality. For special treats really, as fabulousness, quirkiness and humour all appear to come at quite a price, especially when so beautifully packaged. Brownie points for me, though.

In return, less romantic if only for its practical nature, was a goodly amount of cash to take to Borough Market, to buy the ingredients for what I planned to be the most ambrosial dinner I had ever cooked for him. I dreamt up the shopping list during a French lecture on Cubism - where better to seek inspiration? - and set out on Friday morning, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, for my treasure hunt.
I had planned to meander through the market whose nooks and crannies I now know so well, but hadn't reckoned on how busy it would be at 11am. I have noticed myself adopting the prejudices I had noted in fellow local market-goers, and was taken aback by myself for cursing the teaming hoards of 'gastro-tourists' blocking my path just a bit more grumpily than usual.
Taking into account the business of the place, I decided to make for the fishmongers I told you all about last time - 'Shellseekers' - just in case some shelfish shopper had decided to buy up all those lovely hand-dived scallops. Wasted fears, though; there were plenty left, all live and kicking. One of them tried to snap at my hand as I stood admiring the glistening pile, so I picked it up along with three other enormous beauties, a few handfuls of clams, a couple of red mullet and some shrimp, to give it its watery payback. I was pleased, too, that I was recognised warmly by the guy I'd chatted to for so long last week who had that morning dived for the very scallops we would later be eating. This farmers' market lark; it's a beautiful thing.
A dash to the butcher's for a rack of lamb, then round for some herbs, bread, cream and butter and some rudely pink forced rhubarb, all stuffed into a non-plastic shopper (natch) finished off the trip in a sudden hurry. Oh, and a few interesting beers for him, and a Jurancon for me, to wash all the loveliness down.

I was so excited about the whole thing. Sauces, presentation and a chocolate pudding; I had it all planned to a T. But the way things work out isn't always how you had imagined, and you have to work with life as it happens. In the evening, my flatmate's hilarious boyfriend came round, and inevitably we finished every liquid element of the meal before any actual cooking took place.

The fish worked out well enough, steamed open in the oven with herby, winey, fishy juices. For the lamb, I went so far as rubbing the scored skin with a bit of chervil, salt and pepper and olive oil; sealing it in the pan, and roasting it to a surprisingly perfect pink. The vegetable accompaniments, all very interseting and well thought-out, did not fare so well - they are still in my fridge. Instead, I chucked together some interesting leaves with more oil and a bit too much lemon, sliced up the chops with not a bit of finesse; and we gnawed hungrily, and slightly drunkenly, on the whole messy lot. I think it was utterly fabulous; great fun and plenty romantic enough, but I can't quite remember.

A busy week

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been over a week since my last confession. But before you get the wrong idea, the week has not been spent on foodie regression; a seedy journey into the world of darkness and destruction, of kebabs and microwave pizzas. Don't even suggest it.
No, this week has seen me do more cooking than ever, with such a diverse array of meals as to bemuse even those with the most varied of diets. I have roasted guinea fowl, made a stock with its carcass, made a risotto with that (not good, tasting strongly and bitterly of some inedible offal that hadn't been so scrupulously removed - threw the whole load in the bin and went hungry that night). I have roasted a shoulder of lamb over faintly Greek-style potatoes, cooked up a Moroccan harira (soupy, spiced cheakpea and lamb soup - divine), baked rose-flavoured heart-shaped buns to take to my young cousins, divised a beautifully silky, rich sauce to smother over linguine, and finally polished off the blood orange granita that I made a little too long ago.
And yes, there has been a pizza. Ordered over the telephone, dropped off by a couple of decidedly non-Italian fellows (a betrayal of the company's name, 'Mario's/Luigini's/De Niro's Pizza, something like that), it was thick, bready, greasy - and perfect beyond compare after an evening spent at a grotty local bar, all 15inches of it soaking up the cheap gin and flat tonic.

On the plus side, there has been a trip to Borough (I go every week now), the most profitable yet. I bought more blood oranges, for juice, and some lemons and limes of course; as basic and necessary to me as salt and pepper. My cockles having been warmed by the recent Disney film of the same name, I had an overwhelming urge to make ratatouille, so I bought all those vegetables (aubergine, courgettes, peppers, tomatoes, onions and more garlic), wonderfully evocative of Provence in July. I re-stocked my supplies of chillis and lemongrass, and then went in search of the second fishmonger, which is to say not the one with the enormous counter displaying huge monkfish with their gaping, desperate jaws. My uncle had told me of the other, promising it was by far the superior, with the freshest fish possible. I wasn't diappointed.

I arrived when one of the guys was unpacking the fish and displaying it on the counter. The stall, by the way, is to be found around the corner from the organic stalls pushing wheatgrass shots like the Californian answer to the much less worky double espresso. This man was fantastic, as even though I'd explained that I wouldn't be able to buy that day due to a weekend away, he still spent a huge amount of time getting out various fish; stunning John Dory, or St. Peter's fish with the mark of the disciple on its side; gloriously fat, shiny mackerel and heaps of beautiful squid, their tentacles dribbling over the tiled floor. All the fish comes from their own boats in Dorset, and not from Billingsgate market, and the other guy there had hand-dived the scallops himself. Nothing could be better; this is the sort of thing we should fight for tooth and nail. What's more, it's not too expensive: the freshest, most glisteningy perfect stuff, like mackerel, £5.75 per kilo. Go there.

Finally, a quick foray into Neal's Yard for some Doorstone and Cornish Yarg, and a whizz by the Comte stall - such a fab cheese, I couldn't resist. Oh, and then a jasmine plant - there is sunlight now and it'll be beautifully abundant with some care. Moreover, it is the one scent my father, to whom I do not speak, could never stand, making it all the sweeter to me. Bittersweet perhaps, but not too bitter; I have my rich, velvety ratatouille to keep me sweet.