The last time I did this traditional recipe from Burgundy was a couple of years ago, around this time of year… It was for an idea of a post for work, my vision of celebrating Easter I guess, with the whole egg thing and all that. Unfortunately, I did it on a “Good Friday”, where the whole of Ireland goes dry. The pubs are closed, no one drinks alcohol and meat especially pork is absolutely forbidden… Hahahaha… Hum… Sorry, I just had a moment here. So as I said, I meant well, but since my religious education is literally inexistent ( I have culture about religions, just no education), I unleashed the ire of Mujahideen of the Holly Bible… I failed twice, with the bacon and the wine… They came down on me frantically and verbally gesturing on the web like a bunch of sweepers around a Curling stone… Guys , I meant no disrespect, so sorry again hey?
Month: April 2016
The great thing about schooling in France has to be the canteen. No lunch box here, I am talking proper refectory, with chefs, commis and a couple of lovely dinner ladies. Believe me; I have eaten in worse restaurants, with worse service! The head chef, Mr Raymond, was a big brash colourful character, quite partial to kids who acknowledged and complemented on his trade; as a reward, he would look at you with a doubtful pouting frown and a raised eyebrow, before topping your plate with extra sauce or roasted potatoes.
Conchiglioni Al Forno
Sometimes, dinner ideas come in the weirdest kind of ways. For me, it happens at night, when my mind rambles between two dreams, remembering an anecdote or feeling a story germinating; I must admit, I have found myself waking up and typing a few ideas on my phone, fearing dawn would wipe them all out of my mind. “is it serious Doctor?”. But not this time. Last week, I was an absolute horror to be around, grumpy,grouchy, frustrated and ready to set off like a trapped animal. That is the consequence – at least for me – of tempering with the clock. “Putting the clock forward”, “summer time”, saving day light… What a lot of rubbish! And for 40 years, we have been, like sheep, putting our clock forward of one hour, for the next 6 months. The result? 4 days of pain, at the border of depression. On the third day, I decided that staying around wouldn’t do any good so I took my car, my camera and I headed west toward Sligo…