“The flavour and fragrance of coriander is disliked to such an extent by some that it is capable of turning otherwise gastronomically adventurous types into overgrown toddlers, clamping their mouths shut and making scrunched up faces at the very thought of a sprinkling on their chilli con carne.”
(NB, not actually my thoughts. Taken from: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/aug/23/flavour-behaviour)
Every Sunday at the market I am tempted by (but resist buying) at least four stands selling freshly roasted chickens. They always smell amazing, but I am put off by two things: 1) the cost and 2) the cost. I haven’t lost my mind, I know I’ve just said the same thing twice, but it is honestly two different reasons. The expensive birds are REALLY expensive. Rachel bought one at 14€ at the start of the year and it was damn good, but I just can’t bring myself to spend that much on a chicken. That said, there is one stand that sells them at anything up to 35€ each. I’m sorry, I know animal welfare and good quality products are important, but for that much I’d want a gold-plated framed copy of its original birth certificate, family photos and proof that it had been fed on nothing but the purest, hand picked and prepared chicken feed. If I ever come into some extra moneys I’ll try one, but until then I’ll give it a miss thanks.
There are more affordable ones, but the problem with the cost here is that you end up with two for 10€ and I don’t need two. They’re OK, but not brilliant and usually a bit dry. Quality-wise, the difference between those and the 14€ chickens is immense. The problem is that I still convert the cost of everything I buy into sterling automatically and I can’t bring myself to part with £14 for a chicken, however good.
So to the reason for this post, the chicken I just roasted myself. It’s a long time since I did a roast chicken and it was absolutely worth it. I bought a 1.2kg chicken and popped 2 small preserved lemons, an onion and a few cloves of garlic into the cavity, before rubbing the skin with Maldon salt and black pepper and dotting it with butter. It sat on a bed of more garlic, 2 carrots and a few potatoes that had all been peeled and chopped into big chunks. The oven had been heated to 240C and was immediately lowered to 200C when the chicken went in to be cooked for 90 minutes, getting covered with foil halfway through the cooking to stop the skin burning.
While that was doing its thing, the only other part of the meal to worry about was the gravy. I love a good gravy and hate resorting to ready-made-just-add-water granules, although I’m not ashamed to say they do get used if I’m feeling lazy. I thinly sliced a large white onion and cooked it over a low heat in a drizzle of olive oil until it was soft and translucent. After about 45 minutes, I added a good glug of madeira and left it to simmer away. Now, I am beginning to worry that this blog is turning into an advert for a certain black, gloopy Unilever product, but I have always, always added Marmite to my gravies, despite my better half’s hatred of the stuff. Given that I am now the proud owner of a taster jar of the new Marmite XO, I decided to try that and see if it made any difference. I popped a heaped teaspoon of it into the onions and stirred until it had all melted together, before turning off the heat and waiting for my chicken.
After an hour and a half, the chicken was removed from the oven and left to rest while I finished off the gravy. The vegetables came out of the roasting dish and were left in the oven to keep warm and the dish was put on the hob. The roasting juices were mixed with my onion/madeira/Marmite mix and stirred for about 10 minutes until thick and dark.
Meat and two veg sounds standard, but my god it was good. Simplicity can be utterly wonderful if done with care and attention. As much as I enjoyed my soufflé last month, it was faffy and not something that I would choose to do on a regular basis. This was just delicious. The skin was crisp, the meat moist and tender. And the gravy was the best I’ve ever made. Quite possibly the best advert ever for throwing out the granules, but that will probably never happen…
After a week of waiting terribly impatiently, the time finally came to taste the mysterious new blend of Marmite XO. It was still sitting patiently in its box; I could almost hear it calling out to me to not wait for the others, to give in to temptation and try some. But no, I remained strong, resolute despite my rapidly waning willpower.
The first thing to consider was how to taste it. For some of my guests, this would be the first time that they had tried any kind of Marmite at all. It would be too much of a risk to just hand out spoons, I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting any if it transpired that they were haters. So with the encouragement of Rachel, and the knowledge that they were the perfect accompaniment to classic Marmite, I mixed up some pikelet batter and cooked them off after it had bubbled away for a few hours.
My guests began arriving at 7.30pm sharp, armed with many questions: “What exactly is Marmite?” “How do you normally eat it?” “Are you actually wearing a Marmite necklace?” (Yes I was.) “What on earth is a Marmart kit?” (For those who are unaware, a Marmart box is shaped like a giant bottle of squeezy Marmite and contains a table cloth, spreader and two toast templates.) I explained as best I could, but decided to let the XO speak for itself. A video of the tasting session can be seen here.
Fiona thinking about Marmite
To begin with, I read the Marmarati oath, which is as follows:
I hereby and hereon solemnly swear on celery, yeast extract, riboflavin and vitamin B12 to keep the following oath and agreement:
I promise to do my duty to my Head of State, Country and Marmite.
I swear to be faithful and bear true allegiance to the Marmarati.
I will defend the ebony elixir against all conspiracies, protect its distinctive flavour and honour its orb-like jar.
I will reject any second-rate pretenders.
I will never reveal and forever conceal any secrets, arts, parts or points, of the society of the Marmarati.
I promise to spread my dark and sticky mistress throughout the land, as well as on toast.
And finally I swear never, ever to consort with members of the Marmaladi.
Following my declaration, I passed around the XO-covered pikelets.
And the verdict? Absolutely worth the wait. It’s different, but not too different to not be Marmite. I think it has a stronger flavour, but without the bitterness of the original. As I expected, most of the tasters were not keen, but that just means more for me, which is great! My long-suffering, Marmite-hating partner said “I never thought I’d find something that I like less than normal Marmite.” At least it proves that the Master Blender responsible for this product hasn’t let the famous divisiveness slip!
All in all, I was very impressed and would recommend that when it hits the shops next month, Marmite lovers go and stock up, and the haters should at least try it!
Thanks to David for the use of his shiny new camera and Pascal for the mercenary/missionary title!
Having a happy post-XO moment
To any readers unfamiliar with TwoTrackMind, please quickly cast your eyes over the post entitled “What’s in a name.” Over recent months, I have also revealed the full extent of track #3. Whilst technically still a second track thought, as it is food-related, my love of Marmite is so immense that the only way I can now accurately describe my addiction is to give it a track all of its very own.
I REALLY love Marmite. My friends know I love Marmite, and so do my students. I began a recent class with a group of final-years talking about the weather. Before I had told them the theme of the class, I asked them to think about stereotypes and asked “What to British people love to talk about?” I thought this would be straightforward, but was very impressed (and very proud) when, rather than saying “the weather,” I was given the answer “Marmite.” They know me so well! So imagine my excitement when, at the end of October last year, I became aware of the impending existence of a new, extra strong version of this most perfect of toast toppings.
I mentioned the competition when making pikelets back in November, and in the end my application for acceptance into the Second Circle of the Marmarati included three entries. The first was a collection of all my Marmite-related Facebook statuses and Tweets; the second, a video made from stills of my Marmite pikelet experimentation and the third was my favourite: a photo taken by Rachel of me choosing Marmite over everything else.
Never ask me to choose
My entries in, there followed a tense few weeks of obsessive voting and pestering of friends and family to help me gain entry into this most sticky of secret societies. Rachel’s dad deserves a huge thank you here as, from what I can gather, a large proportion of the votes were cast by him. Thank you!
Voting closed and I spent the following days wearing out the F5 key on my laptop and office computer, waiting to hear if my efforts had been enough. I did a dance around the office when the email arrived informing me that I had been accepted and to send my address so that the Marmarati could send me my prize, which arrived here in Le Mans yesterday, via my dad in Sheffield. (Thanks Dad!) So, knowing that a picture tells a thousand words, I will let the images do the talking for a while:
The Box of Joy
TWO Jars!
I was very, very happy that there are two jars. If it had only been the commemorative jar, I wouldn’t have been able to taste it. It did mean that I am now doubly excited.
32/200
So, the next thing is to taste it. I want to wait for the right moment though. Next Friday (12th February) an international gathering (British, American and French) will be taking place so that we can discover the new spread together. Watch this space!
It’s good to get out of your culinary comfort zone once in a while and try something new or a bit more challenging. With that in mind, I decided to have a go at a soufflé for the first time. I knew it wouldn’t be technically difficult, but was still more than a little bit apprehensive that I’d a) end up with a large dish of scrambled eggs, b) have a totally unrisen soufflé or c) both. Airless, slightly cheesy scrambled eggs does not sound overly appetising.
My first issue was knowing that I’d have to stick to a recipe. No playing about and experimenting with a first baking attempt. Rifling through most of my cookbooks didn’t really help, until I remembered that I’ve got a copy of Larousse Gastronomique. Until now, I’ve only ever used it as an encyclopaedia, rather than a recipe book, wistfully flicking through the pages at complicated, yet amazing-looking food. I figured that this food bible would have at least one recipe I could use.
Larousse Gastronomique - the foodie's bible
I was right, and it didn’t look too complicated either. So off I bimbled to Monoprix to stock up on eggs, milk and gruyère. Gruyère cheese was quite difficult to find, hidden amongst the many varied bags of pre-grated (or rapé, cue childish giggle,) emmental. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the price under the packet said €15.66, until I realised that that was per kilo and that each piece was individually priced. Panic over, I went back home and had a quick power nap before hitting the kitchen, giving my eggs time to reach room temperature.
Before I began work on the soufflé itself, I made the sauce to go with it. In olive oil and a knob of butter, I gently sautéed a finely diced onion and 3 cloves of garlic with a small amount of chopped leek and a bay leaf for about 30 minutes.
Onion, garlic and bay leaf
Cook sloooowly
Cooking slowly meant that the ingredients wouldn’t darken in colour and I wanted to keep my sauce as close to white as possible. I made a béchamel sauce from 20g butter, 20g plain flour and roughly 150ml cold milk, before seasoning with salt and pepper. I then stirred in some madeira wine and about 3tbsp water. Once the onion mixture was cooked properly, I mixed it into the sauce and put the whole lot through the blender before putting to one side to be reheated before serving. (Putting out of reach as well as out of the way – it was full of yum!)
Next up was the soufflé. I buttered and floured the dish and turned the oven on to pre-heat. I separated 4 eggs, beat the whites until stiff (titter!) and grated my gruyère. None of this electric whisk malarkey for me. Oh no, I was going to do it the old fashioned way and use a hand whisk. Ouch. The last 6 months away from pulling pints and changing barrels have left my arm considerably weaker than it used to be. Time to get back behind a bar, methinks (but that’s another story for another day children.)
Stiff eggs
Gruyère rapé
As if one lot of béchamel wasn’t enough for one evening, I made another batch, with twice the quantities of the first lot, this time seasoning with salt, pepper and nutmeg. This is where I started to witter a bit. Mixing my egg yolks into the sauce, I was worried that this would be the beginning of that steep descent into scrambled egg territory. But no, so far, so smooth. Good good. I melted the cheese into the mixture, then gently folded in the egg whites, leaving me with something that looked like slightly lumpy custard. This was then spooned (this post should turn into a game of “how many double entendres can Fiona fit into one article”) carefully into the buttered and floured dish.
Raw soufflé
La Roux - Not Bulletproof
This then went into a hot oven for 30 minutes, with me under strict instructions from Larousse not to open the oven door under any circumstances. I did briefly consider sitting cross-legged in front of the oven door watching to see if it would actually rise, before I remembered that I had other things to cook as well.
I’ve got one of those traditional metal steamer thingies that you put in a saucepan, thereby stopping me from purchasing an electric steamer that I would never use/would take up too much space. It’s really good and apart from the occasional not-putting-enough-water-in-the-pan-so-the-pan-boils-dry-and-smells-bad issues, it’s completely fool-proof. I diced carrot and turnip and left them to do their steaming.
Steamer
Yummy market veg
Oooh, I forgot. I’ve got a new pan! My Dad came to visit before Christmas and treated me to this wonderous piece of cooking wonderfulness that is a shiny new, 30cm diameter, heavy-based Tefal frying pan. I love it. It’s actually too big to fit in the drawer where I keep all my other pans, but I don’t care because it means I can keep it on the hob and just look at it. The last bit of my meal involved slowly cooking sliced leeks in said shiny new pan for about 20 minutes until tender, but not too soft.
Shiny lovely pan
Lovely leeks
Lovely leeks in shiny lovely pan
With about 5 minutes left until the moment of truth, I started to put it all together. I ended up having to use cold plates because I was so scared about opening the oven door and incurring the wrath of the gods of Larousse. I put a splodge (technical term) of my now-reheated onion sauce on the plate, and layered the leeks and the steamed vegetables on top, before adding a bit more of the sauce. The plate didn’t look terribly colourful, but that was deliberate, honest.
Nearly there...
So, after cooking for two hours, the alarm went off and I was suddenly too scared to open the oven door. I knew if I didn’t though that the soufflé would burn and it would all smell bad and that everything would be a bugger to clean, and everyone knows how much I need my kitchen to be spotless, so I went for it…
Joy! It had risen! After a quick photo, and wanting to show off before it went all droopy, the soufflé was on the table. And lo! it was good. The gruyère was perfect, just strong enough to make its presence felt, but not too overpowering and went pleasingly well with the onion sauce. The recipe’s timings were spot on, making it light and airy, but still moist in the middle. I’m still wearing my proud grin face now.
Fiona's first soufflé
Are you in the sheet of ice and snow that the UK has become?
Or out of school because the central/south US doesn’t know how to handle sub-zero (F people! that’s COLD) temperatures?
Or like me, just staying out of the snow to fight a cold? Well, you’ve come to the right place to warm up.
After lying in bed for most of the day wishing food would appear, I finally got up and scrounged around. So, here are the directions for your own hot, simple, and adaptable Tibetan-inspired soup. If you have time to make your own dough, ignore me entirely and just make Thenthup. But if you can’t be bothered, try this:
Sautée onion in olive oil- about half a medium one chopped up. Add a clove or two of chopped garlic and about an inch of chopped up ginger (I used preserved ginger that Fi made). Add 3 sliced up mushrooms and stir until they have softened. Add one small or half a large chopped up zucchini (if you don’t have zucchini, just add spinach towards the end for something green, or peas might even be nice) and cook until it begins to soften. Next, add about 2.5 cups (I used glasses from the cupboard) of water, about a teaspoon of dried chives or some fresh green onion if you’ve got it, a bouillon, one diced tomato and a dash of soy sauce.
Boil for a bit to break up the bouillon and then when everything else seems well cooked/mixed together, throw in some noodles- I used fettucine kind of style long flat ones broken into small bits and cook just until the pasta is done and enjoy.
Cold Day Soup
Asking my students this question didn’t lead to much great insight.
“I like kebabs and MacDo best.” or “I like pasta.” Some of my 2nd years did come up with a few dishes that are specialties of the area, in their defense.
College kids might not always be the best source for recipes, so I was pleased to find a book at Doucet that is recipes from just this region of France (Maine). It has old pictures of Le Mans and other area cities, talks about food in general, and all the ingredients should be things I can easily find.
It’s much easier to get fresh seafood in Le Mans than in Oklahoma and I’ve bought delicious apple juice at the market recently. So I decided to give the mussels in apple cider a try.
The recipe was simple- sautée échalotes (actually, it specifies belles échalotes) in butter. Add dry apple cider and chopped parsley and the mussels. When they just begin to open, add 3-4 cloves of chopped garlic and put the lid on to steam the mussels until they open all the way up. Remove from heat and add a spoon of crème fraiche.
Mussels in Apple Cider Sauce
Simple and delicious. To go with my very French meal, I made a salad with very American Ranch Dressing. Hey, ya gotta have balance, right?
I really enjoy Thanksgiving. It’s always close to, if not on, my birthday. It’s a break from classes and that sign that you’ve almost survived another semester. Of course, that often means that finals and papers and projects are looming, but this year I’m not a student so while I did have to work the absence of pressing deadlines was not missed.
And oh yeah… it’s a harvest festival with lots of food. Just say the word Thanksgiving and try not to drool. Pretend you can’t smell pie in the oven. Go on. That’s right, you either can’t do it or you aren’t American. If the latter is true, I highly recommend you hurry up and make friends with one of us and try to get an invite to next year’s feast.
Thanksgiving is, of course, also about family. Since all the Americans here are obviously a long way from our families, it just made sense to get everyone we could together and celebrate with our friends. Well, it turns out we have a lot of friends so it was lucky David has a large apartment and friendly roommate.
The planning began about a month in advance when one of my students brought me a Dr. Pepper and explained that he bought it at an import store in Paris (why don’t I own one of those?!). Early in November we went to Paris for an overnight Tim Burton film festival and our first stop when we got there was L’Epicerie Anglais. The store is much tinier than it looks on-line. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more spacious phone booths. But the walls are packed with the bits and bobs Anglophones miss when they relocate to France- peanut butter, Pop Tarts, Marmite, Reese’s candy, Mt. Dew… the list goes on.
So in addition to some Reese’s cups and Ranch dressing (Newman’s… not as magic as Hidden Valley), I bought a can of pumpkin puree. At the same time my friend Manu was visiting her boyfriend in Vermont and brought me back some French’s Fried Onion Rings.
Everything was ready, but my immune system didn’t get the “Big day coming, work extra hard!” memo and I woke up on that 4th Thursday of November with no voice.
Could I be sick? Of course not. It’s THANKSGIVING.
So I went to work with hot honey ginger tea in tow and wrote on the board “I can’t speak. We’re going to play Pictionary.” And my Thursday lot is pretty good, so they did as they were told and enjoyed it. It was pretty pathetic though. At one point our marker died and I found a room free with a chalk board to use and I had to write a note “We’re moving to 305” and have a student read it to the class.
By my last class – 2 hrs of applied language students – I had gained enough of a voice to function with my planned lesson, but just barely. But don’t worry I was not going to be sick.
After class I ran to the butcher and ordered a huge pork roast and he told me how long to cook it, but I wasn’t sure about the temperature so I put in a whispered call in to Dad. Dad always knows.
I soon realized that my little oven couldn’t handle squash, green bean casserole, pie and pork in the short time before I was meant to be at David’s. So Fiona kindly agreed to let me dump the squash and pumpkin pie ingredients on her. She’d never so much as tasted pumpkin pie, but we had directions and the woman has magic powers. As you can see, the result was spectacular.
Fiona's Pumpkin Pie
I told Fiona I would marry her was after she made homemade chicken soup in the dorms 3 years ago and after tasting this pie, I have to say that the offer still stands. Some people marry for money, stop judging me for being willing to marry for food. Food is not the root of all evil. Besides, she’s got herself a nice Matt, so maybe I’ll marry for love after all.
Anyway, I rushed back home from Fi’s and made a cranberry sauce out of cranberry jam, OJ, and chili peppers. My other sauces were utter failures, so we won’t get into that. The sauce came out very nice even though it was made with the jam. It was just too expensive to buy plain cranberries in France.
For the green bean casserole I made cream of mushroom soup from scratch by sautéing the mushrooms in butter, adding flour and then stock and cream and some salt and pepper. I just eye-balled it and happened to make just the perfect amount. I was pretty proud of this. My pork roast also came out just right (thanks, Dad and butcher guy!).
Finally, we loaded everything up and headed to David’s. With the help of Sophie, he was making corn chowder which I would be happy to eat once a week for the rest of the year (hint, hint).
Corn Chowder
About twenty people came- half of us were Americans and the rest were English, German and French students we’d invited. The potluck menu ended up consisting of:
pork roast
roasted chicken
chicken salad
smoked salmon and herb cheese
green bean casserole
sweet potato casserole
mashed potatoes
roasted squash
corn chowder
green beans with bacon
spinach and bacon
homemade mac and cheese
stuffing (dressing, technically)
fruit salad with cream and snickers bars
pumpkin pie
apple pie
bread
wine
beer
The Feast
It was a wonderful night with plenty to be thankful for. And I didn’t see coming, but I woke up the next morning with a raging throat infection. Luckily, no one seems to have caught anything from me and my denial.
First of all, I would just like to point out that my compulsive kitchen-tidying is not due whatsoever to any love of cleaning. I HATE cleaning. I just really, really like my shiny red and black kitchen and can’t stand to see it a mess. So there.
Anywho, as Rachel so correctly pointed out in the previous post, I very rarely actually use recipes when I’m cooking. What I cook is determined mostly by how motivated I’m feeling at the time. As much as I love to cook, like anyone I have moments when I just cannot be bothered and just want something quick. That said, since moving here, nothing is horribly quick, as my kitchen is a microwave-free zone. There is absolutely no temptation to bung a tasteless, preservative-filled,* “convenience” (although how eating that many chemicals and who knows how much salt can be convenient is beyond me,) meal.
The other thing missing from my kitchen is a freezer. Now this I do miss. Mostly for the peas. Frozen peas are incredibly versatile. They can be added to so many things, and they’ve always been a constant presence in my stock of food. Until now. The colour of a canned pea is so very unappetising. My lack of freezer also means that I can’t store food when I make too much, which happens on a regular basis, as a direct side-effect of not using a recipe. So I’ll end up eating the same meal two days in a row, rather than a few days apart. Not the end of the world, but irritating nonetheless.
Anyway, I digress. This post is actually about recipes. There is one type of cooking where a recipe is never, ever a guideline, ingredients must be weighed and measured and the final product cooked at the right temperature for the correct length of time. I’m talking about baking.**
I like to bake. I enjoy the almost therapeutic pleasure of beating ingredients together into a smooth, creamy paste, then watching the magic happen as this gloopy, wet goo transforms into something wonderful. This can only happen if the quantities are right. Tinkering with the flavourings and colourings of a cake is fine, but the basics are not just cooking, they’re chemistry. Stick to the recipe and you really can’t go wrong, believe me. There is nothing more disappointing than a cake that hasn’t risen, or a loaf that is more dense than a house brick.***
Yesterday was Rachel’s birthday, which called for a cake. Not just any cake though. This cake is quite possibly the most decadent dessert imaginable. “Death by chocolate” is not an understatement. It includes 4 eggs, 500g dark chocolate, 2 different types of cream and a heart-stopping amount of butter. I first made this cake for a very good friend’s birthday a couple of years ago, and the recipe bears the chocolaty smears to prove that it has been well-used. I have imposed a personal rule that I have to leave at least 6 months between each chocolate cake production for the sake of waistlines and to make sure it never becomes “just” another chocolate cake.
"The Cake to End All Cakes" - Rachel
Disaster almost ensued, and the air in my apartment turned a wonderful shade of blue, at the discovery that somehow my good quality 10″ diameter, 3″ deep cake tins have been left in Sheffield, leaving me only with one half the required depth. Cue utter panic. The cooking time for my cake was given for cooking it all in one go, and this was going to necessitate baking it in two batches. The recipe told me that this was acceptable, but didn’t tell me how long to cook it for.
I kept the temperature the same as instructed, and put the ultra-thin cake in the oven. After 10 minutes of watching it rise, and having convinced myself that it wasn’t going to pour over the edge of the tin to make me pay for leaving the good tins behind, I calmed down enough to leave it to bake and treated myself to another Marmite pikelet. Roughly half an hour later, a warm chocolate smell started to waft through the kitchen and I knew it was done. I can’t remember where, but many moons ago I read that once you can smell whatever it is that’s in the oven, it’s finished. I was right. A knife through the middle came out perfectly clean. I just had to wait for everything to cool down enough to repeat the exercise and bake the other half of the cake.
There is something intensely satisfying about making a cake icing (or frosting to the ‘Mericans) that is purely chocolate and cream. It covers the cake perfectly and cools to a thick, dull sheen. The cake must absolutely not be even the slightest bit still warm though, otherwise the result is a puddle of chocolate icing around the outside of the cake, and nothing left on top. Still tasty, but not as pretty.
In the end, it all came out as well as I’d hoped, and tasted even better. Although, I can recommend not eating a slice before having a Moroccan takeaway meal if you want to be able to move again on the same day…
Breakfast. I can’t start the day on an empty stomach, whether that means waking up early enough to cook up a feast or grabbing a pastry at the Boulangerie and running across the street to catch the tram (I figure that if I can at least get on the track in front of the tram, I should be able to negotiate getting on).
One of America’s greatest inventions is the diner where you can have breakfast all day and follow up your endless cup of coffee with a slice of pie. I’m a big fan of Anytime Breakfast, so one night I had Fiona, Sophie and David over for a big American spread. The menu included: bacon, scrambled eggs, coffee, juice, milk, coffee, and pancakes with maple syrup and strawberries and (amazing, rich, life-changing, local) cream.
Strawberry and Cream
The homemade pancake batter was so simple, I’ll never buy bisquick again. One of the pancakes even looked a bit like Jesus (or Darth Vader, depending on the angle).
Jesus Pancake photo by Sophie White
Sophie followed up my American breakfast night with an English breakfast for the four of us. The hearty spread included baked beans, toast, garlic mushrooms, bacon, sausage, grilled tomatoes, juice, milk, and a scramble with bell peppers cooked up by David.
English Breakfast
Two meals that are sure to help you make it further into the day than a pain au chocolat.
Next up: I make biscuits and gravy for the Brits because it sounds all wrong to them.
