When I began this blog, as one of my four followers may, or may not, care to remember, the point was to write about food writing.
Derivative, yes. But incredibly enjoyable.
I have since realised a couple of things:
1. I've been doing far too much cooking for anyone's liking.
2. I need to focus more on the delightful writing, and name my blogs accordingly for ease of reference in the future.
I might go back and rename some but I'm not quite decided on that.
I am decided though that making all these damn cakes and tarts has made me incredibly porky so from tomorrow I am going to give up food entirely and survive on a diet of food writing alone (she writes with one hand clutching a pie).
I will keep you posted on whether this works or turns out to be as impossible and dangerous as it sounds.
For now a frollick through Heston Blumenthal's In Search Of Perfection (Bloomsbury; £25) from 2006, which tied in with his TV series.
Look at the photo above. Look long and hard. No cheating.
You guessed correctly: it is a pleasing pile of perfectly cooked steak. A good fatty cut just as I like them (always go ribeye if you can; fillet is for girls and the clueless) and pink in the middle. I'd actually go more bloody, but that's just me.
So who'd have thunk it took 30 hours of cooking time, an oven thermometer, digital probe and blowtorch to prepare what takes most people a few minutes on a decent griddle pan?
It has to be Heston.
The conceit of three Michelin stars and Fat Duck famed Heston's In Search of Perfection is that he picks eight British classics - the food we eat most, not necessarily of British provenance - and goes in search of the ultimate example of each dish: eight earnest foodie adventures to track down the best ingredients and finest cooking methods so that we comfort-food loving civilians can cook up the ne plus ultra dogs bollocks version of our favourite food.
Or not. Because even though I swore to myself I would have a bash at at least one of the eight - Roast Chicken & Roast Potatoes, Pizza, Bangers & Mash, Steak, Spaghetti Bolognese, Fish & Chips, Black Forest Gateau, Treacle Tart & Ice Cream, even the bangers and spag bog are so darn complicated I decided any attempt to emulate Heston ran the risk of making me a very angry little cook indeed.
Instead I just revelled in his attention to detail, taking solace in the fact I'm not the sort of pedant who would faff about with these absurdly complicated recipes, which call for 50 Euro chickens (the famous Bresse chickens, mmmm), paint guns and soda siphons.
But what Heston has done here, in a book which is essentially just the obligatory spin off from the TV show, is rake up a little food history - what we Brits love eating and why - and remould it according to contemporary tastes and availability, and of course daft don't-try-this-at-home techno whizzery jiggery.
This makes it a great read for greedy types (though may I suggest you skip the actual cooking method bits).
Yet I'm not entirely with Heston's choices. I do love a pork out on proper fish and chips and pizza is my favourite "junk" food, but seriously, who would make this stuff at home?
No one, unless you're trying to entertain kids by scattering ingredients on a ready made pizza base.
And no crumble? Or fruit pie of any sort? But we do have a black forest gateau?
Anyone who enjoyed a slice or seven of this cake in the eighties or nineties knows full well it came out of a Sara Lee box, which itself had come out of the freezer.
Where is the roast beef and yorkshire pudding?
I am guessing the great man corrects these omissions in the follow up book, but what he does deserve a highly commended for is creating a hefty scoop of ultimate food porn. It's ideal as by-the-side-of-the-bed gluttony, split as it is into the eight self-contained adventures.
What's more, In Search of Perfection is as close as I'm going to get to the afterglow of a family Sunday roast chicken and treacle tart on this boring Tuesday afternoon, punctuated only by some crappy crudites and the low fat and low fun dinner I'm going to eat now, at six pm, because those crudites for some reason left me feeling rather hollow.
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