...But is it boltered, or weltered?

My kitchen looks like I've been reacquainting myself with my knives, by means of a frenzy of incompetent butchery that's left splashes of blood absolutely everywhere, myself not excluded.

This is not in fact the case.

I made ricotta hotcakes for lunch, with bacon and appples fried in cinnamon butter. Only there was some of the mixture left, so we thought we'd have a second round with berry compote.

I have in fact written an entire blog post about the differences between British and American preserving habits. One of those is the two-part lid system that is standard over here, where there's a separate ring that screws down over the flat seal of the lid.

Um, guys? How are you supposed to get that flat sealed lid off, given that there's no way to grip it, because the twisty part is separate? Me, I went at it with a tea-knife; and I didn't think I was gonna be able to shift it at all, until suddenly of course off it came. With something of an eruption of blood-red berry compote, all over everything.

I may have to amend my post, to add yet one more reason why I favour the British system. In the meantime, I must go and clean. Everything. But seriously: is there a technique to breaking that seal, or does everybody just grit their teeth and stand over the sink and ply a knife and hope?

Things come together

Beef in cider. Who'dathunkit?

The Spaniards, apparently: this is a recipe that Eat Your Books found for me in a book of my Spanish collection. And it turned up because I was searching for turnip recipes, because I have to feed the surviving yogis tonight and I'd come home from the farmers' market on Saturday with a dozen little white pearls that I'm assured are Japanese turnips; and I thought I'd do something dark and solemn with star anise and daikon, but no! Cider! And an apple garnish!

It's simmering now on the stovetop, in the Le Creuset casserole that I bought, ooh, round about thirty years ago; I certainly had it in '84. It was the single most expensive kitchen item I possessed, even though I got it for half price because it's brown, and who wants brown when you're buying Le Creuset? Well, I do, for one. I love my casserole, despite the chips and the stains and the broken handle; how many pots do you use for thirty years and reckon to go on using for thirty more? It's one of the things I most fretted over shipping; and it's here now, it's making its first American dish. American Spanish, not to be confused with Spanish American.

It ought to be ox cheeks, but they didn't have ox cheeks in the supermarket, and they did have extraordinarily cheap sirloin; so it's big fat chunks of sirloin, and we'll see how that stews down. In cider (and a splash of cider vinegar, that too). I've cooked chicken in cider, and pork; I would not have thought of beef. Tho' I've been to a sidreria and drunk cider straight from the barrel. I think they fed us fish, some local delicacy fried crisp?

And I'll mash some potatoes and celeriac to go with, and roast some brussels with apples alongside, and if it's all horrible they can have pizza. Snf!