Now the business of book scribing is well and truly underway, we're having to embrace the laborious acts of weighing, measuring and recording every little pinch, splash and handful going into our pots. As regular readers will know, we tend to be a bit slap dash–leaving room for a cook's.

Despite gaining only a little pleasure from baking cakes, I do love the smell of a rich, buttery birthday present rising slowly and peacefully in the oven. Nothing follows a morning of meetings and emails better than tuning in to a Radio 4 afternoon play while whisking together.

Every now and then I feel like getting my hands bloody and cooking a meal totally from scratch, including all the gruesome stuff you would usually leave to your butcher. It seems only fair, as a carnivore, to go through this visceral process once in a while. My.

Hello all and happy new year! Christmas and its many distractions have rather got in the way of cooking and writing recently. The long and drawn out hangovers of the festive season, along with the good intentions of getting up from the sofa, mean that it's taken a good few.

Hello everyone. Don't worry, we haven't frozen to death in our gardens, we've just been run off our feet with Christmas suppers and their attendant duties. Ever since last year's excellent adventures in Brixton and Shoreditch, we've been looking forward to.

Feeding friends is one of the easiest things to do. On a school night, when the skies are dark and the tube is on strike, the fact that they're willing to schlep their way south for a bowl of something at the kitchen table is truly valued. The small kitchen.

As promised, I thought I'd slip in a recipe more in keeping with the Siberian winds and sheet ice outside. In this harsh climate, the thing to do is embrace your inner cave woman, abandon cold cutlery and devour plates of piping hot meat on the bone with your bare.

While Ellie was in Beirut and my other half was in Barbados, I was keeping it real in Blakeney. Mum, Alfred, the dog and I set off on a pilgrimage back to my homeland in a car packed to the roof with wellies, kindling, Earl Grey and.

Buying fish in Brixton isn't a particularly relaxing experience. If you end up in the wrong place you're likely to be jeered at and bullied into buying a limp old snapper with cloudy, bloodshot eyes and a forlorn expression – in fact the aggressive front of.