Author: jofreya

When I first started this blog an interested person said they would like to hear stuff about food. I am a huge foody person loving both to cook and eat out. I have done several cookery courses one at Rick Stein’s, three at Raymond Blanc’s and another on an organic farm in Oxfordshire . I have pretty much loved all of them except the last one and it’s easy to explain what I did and didn’t like about that one.

I’m an experiential learner backed up by reading material. I learn very little from watching someone else do stuff. My brain just switches off. Years ago I remember asking my 14 year old niece how to do something on a computer, ‘oh you just do this, this and this’, she said, doing it….I learnt absolutely nothing other than that she was better at certain things than I ever will be. To be fair to Katy she had never taught anyone before and certainly knows her stuff these days.

Raymond Blanc and Rick Stein’s cookery schools are all about having a go and they are not all about creating cordon bleu cookery. You learn some practical skills and some very handy recipes that I have repeated again and again. One of the most practical skills I learnt at Rick Stein’s was that cooking is a chore if your knives aren’t up to scratch but if you have good knives many things become easier e.g. skinning and filleting fish if you need to do it yourself. Chopping things neatly and small etc. I am quite happy dealing with fish although this reminds me I must buy some tweezers for the kitchen for those bones that still appear sometimes and guests who don’t like dealing with them. The lesson about knives resulted in me purchasing a set well beyond my budget then and now and twenty years later I still own and use them…and sharpen them regularly .

The organic farm place (I was so unimpressed by part of it that I cannot remember it’s name but I do remember Oxfordshire) started well. We were all told to grab a basket and to come out into the fields. There we not only saw all the produce growing but were encouraged to pick, dig and fill our baskets. What a brilliant start to the day. I remember being particularly impressed by the cucumbers as I had never seen them growing before and it was lovely to be able to pick gooseberries too as they seem quite hard to get hold of these days. But then, sadly, it all went down hill.

The rest of the day consisted of a wise cracking chef talking his way through preparing stuff, cooking it and then giving it to us to eat. Absolutely hopeless as far as my learning skills go. To me that would be the same as going to a music workshop and never having a play, just listening and watching. I know people do do that but it’s most definitely not for me.

Consequently I remember very little about that afternoon other than I think Mackerel was involved and maybe horse radish…I may have made that up actually as I do know that that is a good combination …..but how long does it take to cook a mackerel filet? That can’t have been the entire afternoon and I remember nothing else. Well one more thing. We were allowed to take all the organic vegetables we’d picked home with us. Fab. I would have called that a ‘How to pick vegetables on the farm’ day…not a cookery day. I no doubt enjoyed the food. When don’t I? And I have always been served good quality wine on these things. I should hope so too as generally they cost a fortune. I’m usual driving but a glass thats’ very nice is ok with me.

What brought me round to thinking about food this week was something we ate over the weekend . In London in Archer Street is a wonderful Italian restaurant called Bocca di Lupo. ( http://www.boccadilupo.com ) . It is a bustling place that serves small plates tapas style or larger ones if you want them. Whatever the ragout is that’s on on any day is always delicious….that’s a handy hint for the meat eaters and there are lots of fish and seafood things and loads of vegetables. I love it but it’s not quiet so don’t go there if you want an intimate chat or if noise is an issue for you. They are some tables that you can reserve or, our preferred place, is to sit at the bar watching the chefs and bar staff working and seeing all the exciting things being produced. I have been there four or five times now and would go back there in a heart beat.

Several times running they have a radish dish that has truffle oil on it….what you say some radishes and a bit of oil! What’s so amazing about that? Several things actually. It looks beautiful. They slice the radishes very thinly and they are different types and colours which makes for a very pretty plate…..and there’s truffle oil. Sounds easy but it took us two goes to perfect this without seeing what they actually do.

Just near to where I live most of the time our small garden centre has closed and turned into a much larger one. Like most of these things there’s a lot in it you never knew you wanted or needed and still don’t and the produce is highly and often over priced. But what you do get is a choice of some things that you don’t see else where. They sell bunches of multi coloured radishes and that’s what inspired us to give it ago. These radishes are all small but the ones in Bocca di Lupo vary in size like the big white mooli you get in Asian supermarkets and others too. So we knew it wouldn’t look quite the same but it was the taste we were after. We got home, sliced them thinly, poured on the oil and then were faintly disappointed. It had a nice crunch but didn’t pack a flavour.

Then we had a brain wave…salt the radishes first and leave them for a little bit. This isn’t to draw out bitterness but to add flavour as the liquid that comes out is added to the truffle oil and bingo…a small, fresh, crunchy delight. I first had a heavenly experience with a radish in France. Someone served fresh french baguette, salty butter, a small dish of salt and freshly washed radishes. You dipped your radish into the salt and ate it with the bread and butter. Simple and yummy.

The success of the second attempt with the radishes made me realise that some of my favourite foods are very simple. Another fine example being sliced tasty tomatoes, sprinkling of salt, sliced fresh buffalo mozzarella, torn basil leaves and drizzles of very good virgin olive oil. I enjoy all the juices left on the plate (with some nice bread) as well as the actual tomatoes and mozzarella.

if the olive oil is good and you have something fresh and delicious to mop it up with that can be enough for me.

I feel fortunate that I don’t really have a sweet tooth and that I love fruit and vegetables. Yes I eat meat and yes I eat way too much of everything but I do eat a very healthy diet. There’s no doubt I could add the beans and lentils more often but I am conscious about trying to fit them into my diet and have done so twice this week without anyone being around to deal with the consequences. But one thing I have realised, in addition to the fact that simple tastes of good quality ingredients can often reign supreme, is that I love a lot of vegetarian food. Some of these things are just about discovering what it is about the flavour you’ve had somewhere that you love and then trying to source it. I remember that happened to me the first few times I tasted rocket. I had never seen it other than already mixed into a salad and had no idea what it was. I described it to Belen de Benito, the Spanish guitarist in my Europe women’s band Freyja one time when I was visiting her on the side of hill outside Madrid somewhere. She took me out into her little garden and there it was…I had to taste to be sure and wow was her’s fiery, rather like her. ….I then needed the English translation for Rugolo…hope I’ve remembered that correctly. Seems daft now as it’s used so commonly. Happily I shall be meeting up with Belen for a day in Madrid in a couple of weeks time…the whole weekend will be a gastronomic delight as I love tapas. You need it after all the wonderful museums have dazzled your brain.

One final thing – we’ll maybe two that involves good fresh ingredients and another absolute favourite of mine Dijon mustard. Don’t shout…of course I like other mustards but Dijon has a very specific flavour and I am almost addicted to it.

When you have salad in France, or when I do anyway, it’s always beautifully dressed and tastes fab. I never knew the key to the dressing until we did that at Raymond Blanc’s. I’ve done it so often now I can do it without thinking. I make mine in a jar so that I can give it a good shake when everything is in.

2 teaspoons of Dijon

2 tablespoons of water…yes water.

Half a tablespoon of white wine vinegar

Two tablespoons of a relatively flavourless oil…I use ground nut.

……..put the lid on and shake.

That wasn’t one of the two things but it is key to the first one I’ll mention. Avacado’s. One of my favourite ways of eating them is to slice them in half and get the stone out. Yes I do the sticking the knife in it trick and twisting. The stone always comes out but I always have a hell of a job getting the stone off the knife! Do you?

You’re left with two halves with a neat little crater in the middle of each. Fill each crater with the above salad dressing and serve with a spoon. One small point. Do make sure your avacados are ripe so that digging your tea spoon in is easy. Heavenly.

Right…finally the other thing I fell in love with in France when I was an aupair years ago was a salad that I had never had served in this country. I think it was because the magestic celeriac just hadn’t arrived on our scene then. Celeriac remoulade. Grated celeriac into which you mix something you have already mixed together I.e. mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, lemon juice (which also helps the celeriac to not go a bit brown) salt and pepper. I love it.

I still intend one day to go on a cookery course in Italy..Tuscany probably. I’ll let you know if that ever happens.

So there you have it. A Jo Freya blog about food. There may me others who knows and that was in direct response to me asking you what would you like to read about. Do feel free then to ask any other questions.

It would be wrong to blame the French actually and this definitely wasn’t the blog I was expecting to post. One of the main reasons for coming to France this time was because my eldest uncle thought, despite being Canadian and a resident of Canada, he would celebrate his birthday near Bergerac in France.

Mum had come to my house for a few days first having never seen it. It is in a department called Ariege which is in the South of France right in the middle of the long bit that’s stuck to Spain. It’s an old school masters house and therefore what they refer to as a ‘character property’, blue shutters and tiled floors, roses in the garden and verdant countryside due to the moisture coming off the mountains. That part of the visit went well.

On the Saturday morning we set off to Bergerac and checked into the Hotel. A twin room to save on expense. We had lunch, a stroll around the town, a tiny bit of retail therapy and then we had a short rest before heading out for the evening. However, despite a lovely evening all didn’t go 100% perfectly because I didn’t sleep very well. I felt claustrophobic and I am not good sharing a room with anyone to be honest.

I arrived at breakfast very dopey and uncoordinated. They had a teapot system for tea with a machine that dispensed near enough boiling water so that you could at least get the water onto your tea bags straight away. Mission one accomplished. Mission two involved popping a bit of milk into my tea cup…..hardly difficult and achieved with ease. The next thing that happened was a conversation about how the bottom of the cups appeared to be square and the indentation in the saucer appeared to be round. I said, ‘ ah ha, not quite as it seems if you look at the bottom of the cup and tipped it up to show Mum the underneath and poured the milk all down my front. My sister let out one guffaw and seeing that I looked cross and upset tried to restrain herself. Apparently when I went upstairs she howled with laughter in an attempt to get it out her system before I came down again. I’m laughing whilst typing this because it was such a ridiculous thing to do. If you’re at all interested underneath what appeared to be a square bottom of the cup was a round small plinth that slotted onto the saucer. I had dressed already for what might be my party outfit for the day and now stood the chance of reeking of rancid milk for the duration.

We had arranged a rendezvous with my Canadian cousin Christopher and his partner Nicolette in a market in a medieval village. Issigeac I think it was called and off we went. We got parked and headed up the side of the road towards the village. There were cars heading passed us constantly so when I saw a footpath set back I set off towards it thinking, like a little row of ducklings, the family would all follow and we’d all be a lot safer. They all were. I, however, wasn’t. As I walked across the tiny bit of grass towards the path there was a monster hidden in the foliage. Unbeknown to me, lurking under the leafy grass was a circular bit of metal. It was one of those things off a plastic wheel hub only without the plastic attached. Totally invisible to the naked eye until I manage to hook my left foot in it and then on trying to free it hooked the right in as well and down I went.

So here I am. In a French hosiptial getting checked out. I have a swollen hand which I think is due to something that”s gone on in my wrist, my sternum hurts as I landed full frontal….although as someone said, at least that bit had some cushioning and my right knee is not behaving at all well.

I was seen by a doctor within 10minutes but I am now waiting for the next part of the process. This is taking a bit longer but there aren’t many here and it’s very peaceful. Tell you more later. …….it took 5 hours!

Ok the good news is there are no obvious fractures coming up on the X-ray but apparently hair line fractures are not always visible. So it’s painkillers and allow the healing to do it’s thing.

On the day itself I lay on the pavement/grass, like you do, going owe owe owe..leave me alone I need to think how I feel about this before anyone else joins in. A family trait. We don’t like fuss. A lovely french couple stopped to see what was going on but I being the only french speaker was having to intersperse my pained exclamations with french responses. They asked if I wanted them to call the ‘pompiers’ and at that point I had no wish to see a man in uniform and couldn’t mentally work out what use a hose and a ladder would be under the circumstances. Once the blood had returned to my brain I realised it was the equivalent of ringing the emergency services.

The do itself , with lots of family, many of whom I didn’t know, was a great success mostly due to the fab organisation of my youngest uncle John Molineux and the willingness of all to join in. John is a musician too and along with his solo projects and collaborations in Brittany where he resides was an accompanist for Brenda Whooton many years ago and did an album with John Renbourn, Jacqui McShee and others called ‘The enchanted Garden’. Look it up there’s some nice things in it. I played that night but having done one more singing and playing today I can safely say….IT HUUUURTS! That night the shock, lainkilllers and wine must have had a very beneficial masking effect. My gig on Friday my be seated…at least I will be and the audience.

Any way the whole injury thing reminded me of another funny one that occurred in Holland. Michel Duyvers and I were playing for a group of dancers somewhere on the outskirts of Amsterdam. Michel plays in the Dutch band Maalstroom who I was collaborating with at the time. On leaving the event he and I we’re walking down the drive which was very dark. Originally the property had gates but they had been removed. Unfortunately they hadn’t removed the little metal bit that the two gates used to come centrally to in the ground. With no light on it you couldn’t see it. My foot caught it and as I was carrying all my instruments I couldn’t put a hand out or anything and the major part of the impact was my nose which split and poured blood everywhere.

The next day we had a lunch time concert. So, whilst I felt like I’d had ten rounds with Mike Tyson (who obviously came for a rematch this Sunday last) I got up, popped a cap on to hide my face and off we went. Music has a wonderful way of stopping you thinking about how you’re actually feeling. After that we returned to Michel’s and I went back to bed. As the day progressed I developed two beautiful shinners.

The following morning I had to fly back to England to open a domestic violence conference singing…..and no I’m not bloody joking. You couldn’t make it up could you. Graham, the conference organiser, came and told me I needn’t have come dressed for the part but apart from that barely anyone spoke to me. I’m guessing they had come to their own conclusions and thought they’d better leave me in peace.

The song I sang is off my solo album ‘Female Smuggler’ and is called ‘Roses’. Words by yours truly and fab tune by my brother in law, Barry Coope.

yours sincerely injured of Neylis.

Frustration, frustration across the nation. I’d actually written half a blog and tried to save it when I wasn’t on line and it got lost immediately. So now I start again. Don’t save Jo…wait until you are online and then save.

Ok – at the weekend I was in Adderbury delivering workshops alongside my sister and John Spiers. Whilst there I was wearing a blouse of mine that reminded me of cheese cloth…so called I believe as it used to be used to drain cheeses before they cut it up and sewed it into blouses……..hopefully washing it first. I asked Fi if she remembered cheese cloth, ” oh yes I used to have a beautiful pink and white striped blouse that I looked absolutely gorgeous in. But then being 15 and 16 we’d have looked gorgeous in anything really!” I sort of grunted in agreement but actually I had no concept of being anything that might resemble gorgeous to anybody until I reached my forties where I had finally learnt that I could charm people….little to do with what I looked like and more to do with how I behaved . In a blog in the past I remember telling the story of attracting my first boyfriend by standing on a chair at an event and singing. Don’t worry it wasn’t some random public area but an event where these things were not unexpected. The result had nothing to do with my physical looks then either but at least brought them then into perspective. Hard to miss in my case though many of you who know me will agree. I found in my forties that I often had a natural and naughty twinkle in my eyes that people liked and I also realised I could switch the sparkle on and off. The same sparkle you get when in love but with added mischievous. (Otherwise acknowledging I am an incorrigible flirt) Although mostly the sparkle is there and rarely switched off due to a lust and love for life. Realising that I had a certain amount of charm, for some people, enabled my self confidence to grow.

I have no memory of a favourite cheese cloth blouse myself but I do remember a pair of outrageous clog type shoes. They didn’t have a wooden sole or a leather upper. They had a two and a half inch cork sole and the bit you slipped your foot in was made of three stripes of brightly coloured plastic. Being vertically challenged I loved feeling taller. You’d think because of that I’d wear heels now but I find that the feeling of falling forward (not helped by a large bosom tipping the balance) and my ability to look like Les Dawson when walking in them have put me off. I could never master the model’s hip swing. As tights never seem to fit me properly and often wrinkle around my ankles you’d only need to add a crimpelene dress and out of date handbag and there you have it morphation complete Les Dawson otherwise known as Jo Freya or Jo Fraser as I was then.

My other memory is that I bought a pair of white cotton workers dungarees and then dyed them pink. On several occasions I’d go to take a ‘comfort break’, inadvertently flick the over shoulder straps down the loo, sit down and then wee all over them. No problem if at home where you could change immediately but hard to explain when in company like a-session coming back into the room with damp shoulders and a slight smell of ammonia. Sorry ! The saxophone slings I wear that you hook the sax onto to take some of the weight can also cause problems on the loo. More than once I have got them caught in my pants just before standing and gone in to a strange bobbing type dance as a result. Fortunately all without witnesses ……until now!

I’m sat today in my house in France with mother. Her first visit here so you may hear more about that. For some reason we were talking about sowing and cookery lessons at school. She said she rather admired the schools that had thought far enough a head to get you to make ‘pinnies’ in the sowing class which you could then wear in the cookery class. She said in her school she had to make numerous pairs of something that was called ‘pilch’. I have checked the spelling and that’s what she remembers. These were made from floral material, effectively a bloomer type under garment with elastic at the waist and then around the thigh bit. She has yet to meet anyone one else who has heard of pilchards…sorry that was spell check – ‘pilchs’. Anyone out there heard of them. Mum thinks it might be a generational thing. She is 78 years old born in 1939…… or indeed have you any other unusual garment common to your life that the rest of us may never had heard about?

I wonder if you could inadvertently put your pilch on sideways!

The kettle’s on.

As the life of a musician isn’t about routine when I can have a routine I am quite rigid about it with flexibility. What that means is that I am full of contradictions, like most people, but that the coffee should be ‘real’ and at 11 am. If it isn’t immediately on the horizon but is likely to happen sometime before 2pm I don’t panic. I do panic (ask Moirai) if there’s no real coffee. I drink two small coffees from an espresso machine. Too large to be an espresso so more like an Americano but not served in a bucket size like all chain coffee shops these days. Moaning older woman alert…..what’s wrong with good quality small coffees rather than over sized watered down shite the worst of which is the chain that starts with the same letter as shite…….and breath.

We have two types of coffee in our house and here in France. Real coffee otherwise known as Jo’s and ‘shite coffee’. That doesn’t mean you’ll get a bucket load but actually refers to that funny tasting stuff that comes in powder form out of jars. Never touch the stuff myself . Snob – moi!

So that’s one routine. The other is tea at 4pm with, as I said to Mum, ‘with the comfy chair torture’, ‘of course’, says she! If that quote means nothing to you you need to see if there are any YouTube clips of Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition sketches. Then it’ll all make sense. I am also a tea snob and of course now feel totally justified due to the revelation about plastic in tea bags. Yes, I drink my tea lose brewed in a pot and have tea cosy’s and tea strainers. We also have two types of tea. Jo’s tea and tea bags for those who can’t be arsed going through all the tea making paraphernalia.

I also prefer neat piles outside …..stop it…not those kind of piles….to cupboards where things have been randomly placed or shoved in. My partner is the opposite. This means cupboards fill up, the outsides look tidy and Jo is running around going where the f…ing hell have you put the so and so. The ‘stuff things randomly’ method means you end up buying more as you have no idea what you’ve got. Case in point. Mum has just helped me go through the cupboards here because between myself and my sister they have become, to my brain, illogical. The consequence…..I now discover I have two jars of cardamom. Fortunately they’ll keep and you can never have too many. One of my favourite flavours .

I am not altogether happy that the jams, honey and marmite are in with the mugs and tea cups but there is a logic there and you can now see clearly where the herbs and spices are, the sauces and additions (harissa, mustard, caper berry’s preserved lemons etc) pasta and grains, teas and coffees and cake baking type stuff. All good. Do I sound a little OCD yet?

We’re off in a minute as I am going to show Mum around Mirepoix. Then we’re heading to my friends Andy and Ros’s. They behaved like angels last night not only coming in and lighting a fire, turning heating on etc but making the beds and turning the the blankets on. The fact that they had done that last bit nearly made me cry with relief. Fab as the plane was delayed and we didn’t roll up until 00.40. I really can’t thank them enough.

Today is a topsy turvy day and fairly typically French. We manage to go on an expedition to Vals having planned to have lunch first and then see the extraordinary church which I knew Mum, who’s called Ruth by the way, would appreciate. I had checked the opening hours of the cafe. We got there in the pouring rain. Found the cafe which was very obviously closed and decided to do the church and then head home for lunch. On walking back to the car in slightly less rain there was a clear sign on the wall with the cafe menu on it saying open everyday from 29th March – or not! We then drove home in the dry!

In Carla de Roquefort, above where my house is, they have a little out door market every other Sunday in the summer months. I wandered up there on a non market Sunday for some exercise and there, all alone, was one market stall holder with a table laid with vegetables. I got chatting to her and she said we, I couldn’t come on market day so I thought I’d come today instead. There were no signs ups up and the little market place is not visible from the main village in fact it would only be visible from about two properties. So why on earth did she pitch up anyway? She didn’t seem at all phased by the fact no-one would know she was there. That I also find fairly typically french….and charming with it.