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.