Tag: house

Mushroom Kale Lasagna Rolls

Lasagna rolls are delicious and make perfectly portioned meals. I usually fill them with spinach in my popular spinach lasagna rolls^[1] but have been thinking of trying them with kale for a while. I can’t think of a better way to eat kale! These were wonderful, everyone in my home loved them and I will certainly be making them again. Try them for meatless Mondays!

Sorry I haven’t posted much this week. Hurricane Sandy did so much damage here on Long Island, and we are still without power. Many of my friends and neighbors lost their homes and cars, so I am grateful for the temporary inconvenience, I know it could have been a lot worse. It may be a while before we get our power back, but luckily I have a small generator which gives us just enough power to keep our refrigerators on, and limited access to some internet and television.

There is certainly no short supply of food in my house, thank God so we’ve been cooking up a storm! It’s also the only way to keep the house warm as the temperature has been dropping and keep my sanity. If you make these, I would love to know how you enjoyed them!

Mushroom Kale Lasagna Rolls
gordon-ramsay-recipe.com
Servings: 10 • Serving Size: 1 roll • Old Points: 4 pts • WW Points+: 6 pts
Calories: 258.5 • Fat: 8.4 g • Fiber: 3 g • Protein: 11.5 g • Carbs: 30.5 • Sugar: 2 g
Sodium: 208 g (without salt)

Ingredients:

10 (9 oz dry) lasagna noodles, cooked
2 1/2 cups marinara sauce
5 cups kale, stems removed, chopped fine
8 oz mushrooms, chopped fine
1 tsp olive oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
15 oz part skim ricotta cheese (I like Polly-o)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 egg, whisked
salt and fresh pepper
3 oz (10 tbsp) part-skim mozzarella cheese, shredded

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. Ladle about 1 cup sauce on the bottom of a 9 x 12 baking dish.

Place kale in a food processor and pulse a few times until chopped.

In a large saucepan, heat oil over medium heat. Add garlic and sauté until golden, about a minute. Add kale, salt and pepper and sauté about 5 minutes. Add mushrooms to the pan, cook until soft, an additional 5-6 minutes. Adjust salt and pepper.

Combine cooked kale, mushrooms, ricotta, Parmesan cheese, egg, salt and pepper in a medium bowl.

Place a piece of wax paper on the counter and lay out cooked lasagna noodles. Make sure noodles are dry. Take 1/3 cup of mushroom kale mixture and spread evenly over noodle. Roll carefully and place seam side down onto the baking dish. Repeat with remaining noodles.

Ladle 1 cup of sauce over the noodles in the baking dish and top each one with 1 tbsp mozzarella cheese. Put foil over baking dish and bake for 40 minutes, until cheese melts.

Makes 10 rolls. Serve with extra sauce on the side.

References

^{^} spinach lasagna rolls (www.gordon-ramsay-recipe.com)

Breaded scallops

Before we got married Giles would, every so often, disappear off to have lunch with a friend, huffing and puffing as he bundled out of the house, always in a fluster, worried he was late, barking on about how he didn’t want to go and god why did he agree to have lunch with anyone when he’s so busy… the last thing he would say to me, as he returned for the fourth time for some forgotten item, was that he’d be home at 3.30pm and we’ll have beans on toast tonight and watch an episode of whatever boxset we had on the go.

And then, without fail, he would go on a massive bender and not come home until 4am, calling at various points in the evening to say that he was just about to get in a cab, and then turning round and going back to the bar for another two hours before ringing again. “No really I am this time… I got distracted by that bloke, you know, that one with the face… I couldn’t find a cab… I’m coming.. on my way… [muffled] one gimlet please, Geoff…”

I used to get incredibly pissed off about it. It made me feel like such an idiot. And also, when he rang at midnight to say he was getting in a cab and then still wasn’t home by 2am, I would worry. Wouldn’t you? My husband never tells lies usually – there was no reason why I wouldn’t assume he was telling me the truth about the cab. I didn’t have a problem with him going out all night – who cares? – but why not be honest about it and I’ll make plans, too? Once or twice I’d even made him a nice dinner and had it waiting when I’d get phonecall no.1 of the evening from him, declaring that he was just getting in a cab and the dinner would sit there sadly until morning.

It took me a long time to get my head round how my husband really didn’t think he was going to go on a bender, even though it would have been obvious to undiscovered pygmy tribes that that’s where he was headed. I didn’t understand how he could genuinely actually feel like he didn’t want to go out and yet then, after merely spying a corkscrew tucked into a waiter’s apron, find himself weaving his way home at dawn, usually having lost his shoes but with his pockets stuffed full of £50 notes, which he’d won on Blackjack, somewhere – he could never remember where.

In the morning, he would tear at his hair and tremble and shriek about what an awful time he’d had, how terrible he was feeling and how he was never, ever going to leave the house again. Wretched confessions rolled out; he’d passed out on the stairs, in a ditch, in a doorway, he woke up and someone was taking his photo with a bloody iPhone, he spoke for hours passionately to that awful bloke with the face.

He was reformed, changed. It was over between him and late nights. And then it would happen all over again.

After a good year of this sort of nonsense, I realised that the thing to do when Giles had finished his work for the week and was off out for lunch of a Friday, was to ignore his protestations that he’d be home at 3pm, make up the spare room, dig out some takeaway menus, pick a film to watch and settle in for a nice night in on my own. Once I went out with friends without telling him, got reasonably drunk myself, came back in the small hours and was STILL in bed before he stumbled in.

He’s much better about all this since we had Kitty. But the thing is, unless my husband goes on out a bender every so often, he goes a bit mad.

He will claim, over and over again, that all he wants to do is bath Kitty, make dinner, watch something on the telly and go to bed and read his book. But after a straight 6 weeks of this, he starts to lose it and fray round the edges. If he was a parrot, he would start pecking out his feathers. He becomes catty, stroppy and unmanageable. He mopes about the house like a depressed King Kong. He starts wailing “Are we just going to go to bed at 9.30pm every night for the rest of our lives??”

At which point, I send him off out of the house and tell him not to come back until morning. Like on Thursday, when he left the house at 12.30pm for lunch and didn’t come back until 3.30am. He’d had strict instructions to sleep in the spare room but he decided that this was not on and so came in and got into bed, waking me up. Then he woke me up further at 5am when he needed to wee, battering the door jamb with unsteady shoulders and stepping heavily on both outward and homeward journey on the really creaky floorboard that we both hop over in the night (when sober).

The next morning he was as contrite and pliable as a feverish child, his eyes trembling with pain as he tried to recall exactly what happened to him between 8pm and 3am. “And I think I’ve lost my black jumper,” he said, sadly. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible person,” he added, wringing his hands together.

And just like that, he will be good as gold for at least a fortnight. Tee hee.

But when he is not on a bender, or revving up for a bender – and is instead feeling uxorious, he often cooks for us. I am a terribly resentful cook, finding the whole thing an awful drag as I do it all the time, while my husband revels in it, when he has the time to do it, and cooks generously and imaginatively.

Anyway the other night he made us a starter of breaded scallops, which he found in Nigel Slater’s fast food and they were really great

1 clove of garlic, crushed
finely grated zest of one lemon
3 tbs chopped flat leaf parsley
75 room temperature butter
black pepper
1 quantity of scallops – about 3 handfuls small ones?
1 beaten egg
fresh breadcrumbs or medium matzoh meal would work just as well
butter and groundnut oil for frying

1 Mix the garlic, zest and parsley into the butter and season with black pepper

2 Dip the scallops into the beaten egg and then roll them in breadcrumbs

3 Heat some oil and butter in a pan until you have about a cm in the pan. Heat until hot and then fry off the scallops for about 3 mins each side. Set aside

4 Chuck out the oil and butter and then heat your garlic/parsley/butter concoction and spoon over your scallops when midly frazzed and melty – about 30 secs.

Eat and wash down with an Alka Seltzer.

Mango salsa

SORRY NO PIC, BLOGGER PLAYING UP. COMING SOON. IT SORT OF LOOKS LIKE A BOWL OF CHOPPED MANGO WITH GREEN AND RED BITS IN IT. VERY NICE. YOU CAN FIND SOMETHING SIMILAR BY GOOGLING “MANGO SALSA”

It’s been an epiphanous week.

It started when my nanny got flu. “I can come in, I suppose,” she said faintly down the phone last Monday. “My temperature is only 103.”

“No you’re alright,” I said. And then started to panic about how the fuck I was going to cope alone, no nanny, no cleaner (holiday) no husband (out covering the Olympics) no mummy (holiday) no sisters (holiday) no local friends (holiday – and I don’t have that many anyway) for an entire week.

I won’t lie, I have never looked forward to being in sole charge of Kitty. It’s a thing that depresses me – both spending a lot of time alone with her and also being depressed about being depressed about it.

At first it was ghastly. She didn’t seem to want to be with me any more than I wanted to be with her. I dragged her hither and thither in her buggy, shunting her quickly from one activity to the next, shied away from the tv like it was an unexploded bomb. If it got turned on, I fretted, it would never turn off again until she goes to nursery next September.

When Kitty would go down for her lunchtime nap I would get in to bed and pull the duvet over me, squeeze my eyes shut and think “Christ, how are we going to manage this?”

But by Tuesday afternoon I had it licked.

I don’t know if all toddlers are the same but Kitty has this incredibly short attention span, like a drunk, and what she likes to do is roam. So I turned the ground floor into a sort of toddler fresher’s fair, with small activities ranged around, from telly at one end, stickers, drawing and playdoh in the middle, the iPad somewhere around, books and rice cakes towards the kitchen, a paddling pool in the garden and her own mini-buggy with which to commute between these activities.

The telly was on all day, every day, all week, set to a murmuring background volume, tuned to CBeebies, although she was not, in the end, as interested in it as I feared. And anyway I ceased to care one way or the other. I let go. She ranged around, singing, talking to herself, talking to me, talking to the mirror, climbing on and off furniture, digging around in the dirt, flopping out on her beanbag in front of Mr Tumble, gorging on raspberries from the garden, vomiting dramatically and then saying “Oh dear!!” while she regarded the red puddle. Meanwhile, I found that I did actually have time to cook and the house didn’t fall into irreparable chaos, (although there has been an awful lot of scrabbling around for things at the last minute).

We had a wicked time. Honestly we did. I’m not just saying that, in some sort of “Ooo and then everything was alright” kind of way. It was great. I learned all sorts of things about her I didn’t know. It was genuinely hilarious. I didn’t miss any of the things I do when I’ve got a nanny. I realised, in fact, that I don’t especially enjoy myself when I do have that free time.

Like now. I am sitting alone in my huge, spooky house while Kitty is out with her nanny and 40,000 other Caribbean children somewhere in Peckham having an amazing time and will not be back until bathtime.

And if I think about it too much, I might get upset. So let’s go; let’s fly you and I away from this gloomy now, to a different time, back to 2006 when I had just started on Londoner’s Diary, which as I’m sure you know is the gossip page of the Evening Standard.

One day appeared a new girl in the editor’s office. The editor liked to have a lot of girls around and she was very mean to all of them. She thought she was in the Devil Wears Prada or something and that being mean to your assistants is terribly glamorous, but we knew that we were actually in a scummy daily newspaper office in West London and that people who are mean to their assistants are bitches who will rot in hell.

The editor’s girls didn’t usually last. They all had office affairs eventually, which then went sour, then they went on sick leave, then never came back. But Connie, or “Beautiful Connie” as she quickly became known, was different. She was smart. She couldn’t have been less interested in the skinny boys on news or any of the fast-talking, grizzled and jowly back bench. Her boyfriends were always incredibly tall mega-Sloanes that she’d known she was six, who thought journalists were dismal little people. Yet there was a steely glint in her sleepy brown eyes and a taut resiliance in her long, long blonde hair and perky tiny-flower-patterned mini dresses.

The editor had finally met her match.

She was my best – and, sometimes, only – friend at the Standard. I would often poke my head into the editor’s office, where she sat drinking pot after pot of fresh ginger tea that was so strong that when you drank it, it felt like your whole face was on fire and she would shriek, quietly: “ESTHER!! Oh my god I’ve just eaten an entire Bounty and TWO packets of Maltesers!!!”

I have been thinking about Connie recently because I came across a recipe for a mango salsa, which she used to make for me in the weeny galley kitchen of her top floor flat in Notting Hill. Roasting in summer and freezing in winter, (“I think another bad January might finish me off”), Connie’s flat was a miracle of survival, like those plants you get in the desert, or 100,000 miles under the sea.

Anyway she almost always has the ingredients in her kitchen for this spicy mango salsa, and it’s quite, quite delicious. My husband and I had this with a very rich jerk pork belly, which didn’t work at all, it was too rick and gacky and yuk. It would be very good instead with some plain steak, or a tuna steak (although these days one cannot really eat such things) or a plain white fish like turbot or pollock.

Makes enough for 2-3

1 mango – diced
juice of 1 lime
small handful coriander
a sprinkling of fresh mint
1 chilli – no seeds – chopped finely
1 avocado, diced
salt

1 Put everything in a bowl and mix