Oof January, you were loooooonnnng. And I heard on the radio earlier, that it had rained every single day of the month here in the UK. Not that I didn’t realise that. My driveway, which isn’t tarmacced and is an earthy track really, is like a skid pan for hippos. I’d make the Top Gear team very proud with some of my 360 degree turns in my little VW Polo.

But I do have an issue with January and the negativity surrounding it. The endless memes mocking that we are only on day 186 of the month, cut to the quick. You see January is my birthday month. Not only that, but it’s the 31st of January - yes tax return day! As if things couldn’t be worse. The last day of a month that everybody seems to hate, can’t wait to see the back of, and then us freelancers have to tot up how much we need to hand over to HMRC - talk about insult to injury on a day which should be full of cake and party poppers. And yes, I know, the organised people amongst you have that money tucked away in a high interest ISA. I, on the other hand, always end up on my birthday in a slightly sweaty state, realising that the Italian mini break could have gone a long way towards this bill. Which is why now is the perfect time, to bury my head in the sand, and to plan another one (yes, yes, of course I paid).

For the last few years my friend Paula and I have tried to get away in February, usually in search of some winter sun. After that weather bulletin today, I am reassured we have the right idea. What a boost to the system escaping from the norm can be. Like an intravenous shot of vitamin D. So far, we have been to Lisbon (where I dragged her to the cod museum - it was brilliant 😁), Seville - picking oranges from the trees with José from Gospa Citrus, and last year Malta.

Paula is, for me, the best type of mini break companion as she is completely happy for me to lead and her to follow. The first few years of my working life were in the travel industry, probably where I got that bug for seeing the world. Moving into food only enhanced that desire - new places AND new dishes. What could be better?

The planning of a trip is all part of the enjoyment for me. Hours on the internet are spent (some might say wasted…) researching restaurants, markets, transport, local traditions, festivals. All of that awakens my senses and I guess that’s why after a drab, grey, very wet January, it seems the perfect time to hop on a plane (or a train) and escape for 72 hrs.

This weekend Paula and her husband Gary are in Malta. She loved our break last year so much, that they are recreating it - literally. Down to the same restaurants, walks and day trips, and it could not be bringing me any more joy, watching this mirror image unfurl. Chortling away as she sends me the photos like a “Where’s Wally” game. Couldn’t love these two more. Evidence below 😂.

This year Paula and I are off to Olhão in Portugal. A new destination for both of us and I have already spent far too much time in the research process. Of course, I have found a traditional cake that should be in all of the bakeries when we arrive in the lead up to Easter, as well as the classic pastel de nata. The Folar de Olhão is a layered affair, resembling an English pork pie on first sight, but then opening up to something more like a breakfast bun with thick layers of cinnamon and dark sugar. I feel obliged to try several of these to report back to you all. I wonder if Gary and Paula will be eating the same in 2027 ♥️

I am in Sicily. It has become one of my favourite places to visit and I am extremely lucky to have friends who live here. They live on a hill near Capo D’Orlando with a view that takes your breath away overlooking the Aeolian Islands. The lunch table set above will never not fill me with joy - pinching myself constantly.

To arrive here I fly into Palermo and take a slow but efficient train along the coast to their nearest station.

Some might find this journey too much after a flight but I love it. I sit and watch and take in every little detail of being in a new country just hours after leaving home.

Observations this time:-

• The two young girls in the station under the ‘Non fumare’ signs enjoying a few puffs of cigarette - defiance.

• The tourists (me included) grabbing an arancino for the journey ahead - we are in Sicily after all.

• The citrus groves with mandarins just turning and lemons still to ripen but if you squint you can spot their abundance amongst the glossy, verdant foliage.

• The families on the beaches nestled under a bright fringed umbrella sharing lunch, much of it brought in plastic tubs from home.

• The washing on the lines low down in houses and high up in apartments (all of which are built with their own washing line). Saturday must be the day for towels and sheets.

• The fishermen sorting nets and making little adjustments to their ancient boats.

• Tall Cyprus trees and Norfolk pines unfamiliar to our coastlines.

• The couple and their dog enjoying the inflatable paddle board.

• The brightly coloured, almost fluorescent bougainvillea which always make me think of Mediterranean holidays.

• The nudist who found his own secluded patch of beach but was happy to give the Messina train a little show.

• The three older ladies who had been on a day out to Cefalu, dressed smartly in silk tops and gold bracelets who were already discussing what was on the menu the next day.

• The young girl who carried a beautifully packaged tray of pastries but who could not resist and slipped out a small biscotto for her journey and carefully folded the paper back into place so that nobody would know.

• The older man who would wake with a snort and a snuffle every now and then - hopefully he is going to the end of the line.

My station nears, Anna will be waiting for me. A week of swimming, eating, markets, chatting and chilling lays ahead. Lucky me.

I don’t read books. That’s not to say I can’t, obviously. Nor is it implying I don’t own any. I do. A lot. Admittedly the majority are cookery or food related books, of which I have hundreds. It’s what I do after all, and no matter how much technology advances and we are urged to conduct every aspect of our daily lives via a screen, I still love the feel and look of a well composed book I can look through every now and then.

Who doesn’t love to pore over weighty work from a favourite chef or cook and drool over photos of new dishes or unfamiliar ingredients, planning when or where would be the perfect moment to add to your repertoire. I cannot escape seeing news of pretty much every cookery book that is released. As Vice Chair of (an organisation with nearly 600 members) I get to hear most days, of something exciting being drafted, or going to print, or being celebrated at a launch. Despite a self-imposed embargo, it’s sometimes just too hard to resist adding to my collection, especially as I understand how vital it is to support authors nowadays.

So when I say I don’t read books, I am alluding more to novels or fiction or biographies rather than books I can dip in and out of. I try, boy do I try. When packing for a holiday I unfailingly think “right, I had best take a book” knowing full well that said book will remain unopened or perhaps at most, be flicked through, before it is packed again for its return journey.

At school I managed to get through a few, but never properly fully, and when it came to exam times I would simply learn the key parts and hope upon hope that’s that what the questions would be about. And mostly I got lucky.

The issue I have is a racing brain that seems to find it impossible to switch off. Not something that needs diagnosing I feel, I just have a busy, full life, and therefore a busy full mind, that really struggles to apply the concentration required for a complex novel or life history. On the (many) occasions I have tried, I will be sailing through the pages and suddenly a character will pop up and I won’t have a clue who they are or where on earth they’ve come from. “Gemma who? The doctor? What doctor?” And back I go, trying to eliminate the new beef dish I had been planning in my head for a supper club which caused this blockage in the first place (whilst noting that paprika would be a great idea). And thus I start again and the process continues until I give up on the poor book and just go off and make the damned beef dish instead.

You might think all this is an odd trait for a writer. But my writing style is also a little odd I believe. When planning an article or a recipe, I don’t make notes or prepare drafts. Well, actually yes I do, but in this busy old head of mine. I ‘write’ the piece several times, correcting, adjusting, tweaking and then when it’s finished in there and I’m ready to go, I sit at the computer and out it all comes, tumbling from memory into neat perfectly practised little paragraphs. Maybe that’s how everybody does it, but I suspect not.

Anyway, this is a long lead up to tell you something rather exciting and that is, this week, I read a book. In fact that’s not true. This week I read two books. I hope you all let out a little “yes Julie!” then, like I did when I finished them. Er hem. In two hours. Yes in just two hours with tea for the first and in bed for the second, I read two whole books.

Here’s the thing. The genius ploy. These were tiny little books. That come in their own paper case with a couple of beautiful postcards, as that is their size. Books with not even 80 pages each.

The creator of these little gems (ooh salad tonight…) is the wonderful, vivacious, beautiful who I met in person last year at the Guild awards. Leyla was our presenter for the night. She held that stage and conducted the proceedings with such a natural, warm, funny manner, that you could not help but be enchanted by her. 

I subsequently followed her more on Instagram and via her own Substack “A day well Spent” vicariously enjoying her travels and work. I remember during lockdown she had posted a whole series of tips for growing and preparing fruit and vegetables called #pottopickle and I would eagerly keep checking to ensure I hadn’t missed one. Thanks to Leyla I had some great successes and am now hooked - spending the afternoon chatting to my tomatoes in the greenhouse just today.

A few weeks ago teased her followers with a forthcoming big announcement. Straight away I guessed that it was going to be a move abroad as I could tell from the joy she had shown her audience, working on a farm with people living from their land, that this was really a dream of hers too. And I was right, as the exciting news was that she and her husband would be upping sticks this summer and setting up home in Portugal where they had bought a plot of land and were currently planning the home which will be built upon it. And on top of that she had written a book about the process leading up to it. In fact two books.

Straight away I put my order in with The Pound Project, Leyla’s Publishers, while, of course, wondering would I really ever actually read this book or would it just sit alongside the other non-cookery titles, for the occasional glance and flick through. But when the package arrived and I tore open the envelope, I felt a rush of excitement and anticipation. The minute I saw how small and manageable the books were I thought “I can do this, I can definitely read these”. And I did. I bloody did.

I saw Leyla again on Wednesday at this year’s awards (of course we were going to ask her back, what a delightful pro she is) and gushingly explained the scenario and stuffed a card into her hand, which was to both wish her luck for the future, but also to say a huge thank you for being part of what, for me, was a rather momentous occasion.

She was really chuffed and said that was better than any review *blushes*. The catch sadly, is that this was just a one off print run and I am not sure the books “Pathways” will be available again - sad, as now I want to share. But if you follow her on socials and on here at then you too can go along for the ride and this new Portuguese adventure. There’s much more to them than just that, but maybe I’ll touch upon the “Purposeful Living” theme another time. It’s beautiful.

A friend of mine came to stay a few years ago, a prolific reader, and as he looked at my shelves he commented, seemingly questioned, that all my books were cookery books. For a moment I felt embarrassed and a bit stupid if I’m honest “Well it’s my career and what I love to do, so .…you know” I didn’t want to admit the real reason. Well, he’s going to be in for a surprise next visit. Budge up Nigella, move aside Ottolenghi, we have to make room for Leyla ♥️

I wouldn’t class myself as a huge art lover. I don’t necessarily seek out galleries when I travel, although invariably, those I have visited, always take me by surprise in a good way. But certainly I can be moved by art. Occasionally I will see something, be it a painting, sketch, photo or sculpture, and it will touch me somehow and leave a lasting impression.

I like to draw and doodle and some would say we chefs are artists. Certainly we’re creatives yes and if wanting to make sure that a plate of food or the layout for a photoshoot is aesthetically pleasing, then perhaps that’s art.

When I moved to my house in Kent I made a point of not putting anything on the walls that didn’t have a deep meaning to me. Gone are the days of nipping to that oversized Swedish store, buying a couple of prints and leaving them hanging there for years, simply filling white space. I have some family photos which mean a lot, a few items made for me (this MasterChef card being one) an oversized poster of the cover of a favourite Diana Henry cookbook and several original pieces including the one above by a fellow Guild of Food Writers member, Angela Nilsen, which I adore. There is also a print by the hugely talented Koska (do take a look at her work). This piece talked to me as not only am I left in disbelief that someone can draw or paint like that, but this particular chicory is one of my favourite vegetables.

Recently on my travels, a couple of things got to me. The first was La Vuccuria which I saw in Palermo. At the end of my Sicily trip in September, I had one afternoon in the capital to ensure I made my early flight next day and those few hours were filled with so many sensorial experiences, I won’t forget them in a hurry.

There are three main markets in Palermo; Ballarò, Capo and La Vuccuria, in fact the tiny (excellent) Pensione I stayed in was called “Ai Tre Mercati” and it’s three rooms were named after said markets. As luck would have it I stayed in La Vuccuria which is also the topic of a famous 1974 painting by Renato Guttoso.

I only had a few hours in the city and it was a Monday so none of the markets were really in full swing. I spent my time weaving my way through the colourful, noisy, sometimes slightly rundown streets, stopping to grab some panelle (chickpea fritters) and a cone of fried fish and then worked my way across the city to the Palazzo Chiaramonte Steri. Most people visiting the gallery had come to see this famous artwork but our mini tour of the beautiful noble home, was fascinating and well worth doing.

The culmination of the guided walk through was being shown into a darkened room with just a few spotlights focussed on the impressive Guttoso piece, which was accompanied by a soundtrack of the busy market itself.

It was a huge painting taking up most of the wall and there was so much detail that you needed a good while to absorb it all. Funnily enough some of the vegetables, particularly the fennel, made me think of Anna Koska and her work. I hope she’s seen this masterpiece. Apparently the man in the yellow sweater is Gattuso himself, the older lady in black behind him, his wife, and the woman in grey represents a lover. The food is powerful but she certainly dominates the canvas, guides you in even. I couldn’t walk away. I would have happily sat there for several hours had the next tour not started. My eyes flitted from side to side, up and down, corner to corner, and each time I spotted something new. What an incredible piece. Such detail. Talk about still life - this felt like hectic, real life and transports you right there amongst the sellers and stalls. I reluctantly moved on but vowed that I would return to Palermo soon, not only to have another look at the painting but to see the market in all its glory and soak up the atmosphere that Gattuso captured so perfectly here.

Another little favourite was spotted in the Picasso museum in Malaga. First of all the various mediums he worked with, surprised me. I didn’t realise that Pablo had painted, screen-printed, sculpted, sketched and etched. It was all there - genius really. But the thing that made me smile the most (and came home with me) was this little note book and the black and white photo of the maestro himself. First off, I am a huge Breton top fan so the stripes made me very happy. But, oh those ‘hands’. Bloody brilliant and out loud laugh inducing. Apparently his photographer friend, Robert Doisneau, had arrived at the artists house and these bread rolls were on the breakfast table in a basket. They were particular to Nice and were called “Main de Nice” (hand of Nice), perhaps a play on Pain de Nice. Picasso told Doisneau that the local Boulanger called them Picasso’s hands as they were so fat, like the artists arthritic digits and in that moment this wonderful shot was composed. How he is keeping a straight face I don’t know. I don’t think I shall ever be able to every time I look at it. I have decided it deserves a little frame and shall sort that soon.

As an addendum I also fell in love with the photography of Joel Meyerowitz in the same gallery, but shall save that for another day once I have delved further into his world.

Now, what do you have on your walls?

I am back in one of my favourite places. At the beautiful Sicilian home of my dear friend Anna and her husband Bill. My third visit. The first in 2021 was going to be an unknown really as this would be the only time we had really spent more than a full day together. We have the kind of friendship where you keep in touch regularly and meet up every now and then, but you know there is a special bond that is there, whether you are with each other in person or not.

I had met Anna many years before through our mutual friend, larger than life New Yorker, Frank, at her cookery school in Beaconsfield “Italian Secrets”. Frank had Italian heritage, in fact the Palamaras hailed from Lipari, coincidentally an island I can now see from the bedroom in which I am staying. Frank and I would sometimes cook together and often compare notes on Italian food. He introduced me to my first cannoli from a small bakery in the Big Apple and his children and I wolfed down a huge tray together. Having scolded him once for using tomato sauce from a jar, he now makes a fantastic sugo.

Frank wanted to introduce me to his friend Anna. He was so obviously enthralled by this most talented cook from Milan whose classes he had taken to improve his culinary prowess. “You’ll love her, I know”. He wasn’t wrong. We clicked immediately. Vivacious, funny, opinionated, passionate, beautiful Anna then became my friend too and over the years, after she had bought her little piece of paradise in Sicily, we mused about me visiting, but somehow it only happened recently.

Naturally, when I arrived in September 2021, I also fell heavily for this magical place she and Bill have chosen and worked so hard to make perfect. But it’s not only the house, which is a dream, but the entire area; the beach, the markets, the food, the people. There was, unsurprisingly, no issue with us spending a week in each other’s company. We talked about life and Italy and, of course, food. We swam together, shopped, we walked (with her sweet dog, Paco) we cooked (just a little) and before I knew it, it was time to leave.

Last year Anna reminded me that ‘my’ bedroom would be ready for another little sojourn, so who was I to argue? A couple of weeks before I was due to arrive I had this persistent sore throat, which got worse and worse, and by the time I had plonked my suitcase in the room with a view, my tonsils were so inflamed that I was finding several things uncomfortable to eat. This did not bode well for a week in such gastronomic surroundings. Luckily, the traditional lemon or pistachio granita for breakfast, was most soothing although the lemon stung a little. I even tried gargling with sea water as we swam most days, but oddly enough gulps of the Mediterranean were not going to cure a cancerous tumour, but I hadn’t discovered that piece of news by then. Anna insisted I return to the doctor once home.

The rest as they say is history. But what an incredibly short historical tale. Within one year, to be referred, diagnosed, treated and to be told “for now there is no evidence of disease”. Incredible. The NHS has many critics and yes, there are holes and faults, but I have only praise for how I have been dealt with in these past few months. On top of which it hasn’t cost me a single penny.

So here I am again, back in this glorious place, looking slightly different with what I call my new ‘chemo hair’. “Julie, you must book immediately when you are told you can travel”. Oh ok Anna, if you insist. And what a tonic it has been already. Toes in sand on the beach and cold dips in the pool. A visit to the market where I wanted to buy and cook with every ingredient and where the vendor says “tasting is free Signora” - definitely not used to that. Drives to hilltop villages with spectacular views, drinking bitters in a bar which is straight out of a movie. Brioche and granita, croissants filled with jam, peaches sweeter and juicier than would seem possible.

I am only half way through this recuperating trip and already feel so rested and joyful. Tonight we are off to a restaurant run by young siblings, with a zest for life and good food and it’s porcini season. I cannot wait and could not be more grateful for this wonderful friendship and the generosity offered to me.

P.s As an addendum I forgot one teeny tiny (literally) negative and that is the dastardly mosquitoes here. Not gangly critters like I am used to, but the smallest little black fighter bombers who swoop in and almost have the audacity to loiter for a while whilst sucking on your sweet blood and leaving the itch from hell behind.

I suppose it’s a small price to pay for a slice of heaven.

(Photo by Bruce McMichael )

The Anglo-Italian food community lost one of its brightest stars this week. Not a Michelin starred chef (although her talent in the kitchen was highly revered) nor a prolific food writer, but a modest (although never not outspoken) cook of the people.

Carla Tomasi was one of life’s naturals in the kitchen. She would mock your foam or smear and your sous-vide machine would no doubt be reshaped into an automatic water dispenser for her many beloved cats.

A Roman who moved to London at 18, Carla was owner and head chef at the Frith Street restaurant in Soho in the early 80’s and gained the respect of her local contemporaries including Jeremy Lee, Anthony-Worrall Thompson and Alastair Little. Unknowingly it was at the latter’s Tuscan cookery school ‘La Cacciata’ where I first met Carla in 1997. I had won a week there as part of my MasterChef prize and Carla was helping in the kitchen prepping all of the ingredients for the classes. I remember watching her lay out the abundant market haul with love and care. Washing aubergines and peppers in a huge, deep sink and patting them dry so carefully, as if they were precious jewels. Because to Carla they were.

Years later (when she was back in Rome at her late mothers home) with the introduction of social media, I started following this wonderful Italian lady who grew all of her own fruit and vegetables in her ‘orto’ and whose cooking just made me smile. Her hands appeared to work magic with everything she touched and it was only then that we made the connection of our past ‘path crossing’ and became great friends, albeit virtually.

Most recently when I was unwell and she too was struggling, we would swap notes about hospitals and, of course, food, appetite, nutrition, taste. She laughed when I said I could only taste broccoli and lemon curd. Her message was Carla all over.

In 2017 I was booked onto a cookery class with Carla and Rachel Roddy at La Latteria in Rome and it was one of their ‘Market to Table’ classes where you would spend a couple of hours picking ingredients at the mercato in Trastevere, then wander back across the bridge to the school and cook a delicious lunch together. I had just had surgery on a previously broken foot and it was all due to be sorted by the time of my trip, but sadly one little bone wasn’t playing ball. My consultant said I could go (wearing a walking boot) but it would need to be an R and R trip rather than a running around town visit. I cancelled the class with huge regret and sadness and vowed I would book again another time….

Having FOMO I did actually make it to the market on one of the days, with my lovely friend Francesca supporting me as I hobbled round, and I went to one of Carla’s favourite fruit and veg stalls run by Filippo. This dark-tanned, white haired, handsome Roman with twinkly eyes, looked at the huge bag of apricots I had chosen, winked and said “da me €1” - the best apricots I have ever tasted in my life, for several reasons 😁

(Me buying the apricots in Trastevere)

Over the past few years I would comment most days on Instagram on one of Carla’s posts. I attended a few of her “Chat and chop” talks during lockdown which were always fascinating. She was the most generous person when it came to her cooking, sharing recipes, tips and notes to a huge number of her followers, often with a voice note left in her warm, husky tone which reassured you immediately, that whatever she was telling you, was going to work.

I regularly make focaccia and think of the message she left me “Julie don’t put the rosemary on first as it will burn, a big handful of fresh as it comes out of the oven’ Certo.

Her courgettes under oil are a firm favourite. Pickled cucumbers - the best (as she rightly says) The rice stuffed tomatoes with potatoes around them. Jams, chutneys, fresh pasta, simple cakes …the list goes on and on. Without realising it, Carla Tomasi exists in so much of what I make in the kitchen.

And it was her vegetable growing tips too that I shall treasure. Talk about green fingers. This lady had an entirely green body I think, as everything she touched flourished. Her tomato screen, which she used to keep her terrace cool in the summer, became famous on Instagram and I would have been proud to have grown just a tenth of what she did, but my lack of expertise didn’t put me off and with her little nuggets of advice, I have improved. Next year I am determined to make her really proud.

“The vegetable whisperer in Rome” as she nicknamed herself.

As I write that, a lump forms in my throat, as the thought of never receiving any more little voice messages from beautiful, kind, generous Carla, breaks my heart. And the planned day of cooking together this Autumn, after my cancer all clear, won’t happen. But her legacy really will live on. The outpouring over the last few days has been immense and so many people have these precious verbal notes, scraps of paper and recipes she had shared with them, so they too can keep a piece of her with them.

‘Alla prossima volta Carla’ until the next time. Sleep well dear friend. I’m off to make a focaccia.

Below is Carla’s recipe for pickled cucumbers (or bread and butter pickles) which are delicious and I know she’d be happy to share.

Bread and butter pickles - Carla Tomasi

Thou shall not have other cucumber pickle.. It is so good to warrant its own fan club. (Her words ♥️)

Needs some preparation a day ahead.

500 gr cucumber make sure they are not old or full of seeds- medium length cukes are the best

350 gr white onion

2 tablespoons of salt

500 ml cider vinegar

250 gr sugar

2 teaspoons of turmeric

½ tablespoon of yellow mustard seeds

2 teaspoons dill seeds

Bayleaf

Slice the cucumbers not too thick (just thinner than £ 1.00 coin and the onions half of that).

Place into a bowl and mix well with the salt. Cover and leave overnight in a cool spot.

The day after give the vegetables a good wash to get rid of the salt. May need few soak, rinse and drain. Keep tasting to see if you have a good flavor.

Leave to drain for a couple of hours because if the vegetables are still very drippy they will dilute the strength of the vinegar and the preserve will go off.

Put all the other ingredients in a saucepan and bring to the boil. Keep at a steady but low-simmer for about 10 minutes and then add the cucumbers and onions.

Bring it back to the boil and then place into jars. Pack the jars quite tightly. This pickle keeps well over a year.

It’s a phrase used so often isn’t it? “What a rollercoaster of a week” “Life is such a rollercoaster” I hear myself saying it regularly. Particularly so, during these last few months, although most of that ride was definitely on the downward slope while dealing with the effects and treatment of lymphoma.

But since Thursday last week, I feel like someone has set me off in my bright coloured chariot, sent me for a few head shaking spins and I am now stuck at the top for a while, feeling elated up here in the clouds, but with a teeny drop of trepidation in the wings.

On July 25th, at 3.15pm I was due my call from Elvis the oncologist, to give me the results of my final scans which I had had a few weeks before. For a PET scan (Positron Emission Tomography) they pump a radioactive dye into you (staff in full hazmat suits, it’s so dramatic darling) which they then leave for an hour to wend it’s way around your body, before you get rolled into the machine. Apparently, what this will do, is show up any fast moving cells and under normal circumstances you would pretty much only want those to be your eyes and heart, which are both on the move all the time and anything else jittering excessively could be a tumour or disease. This is also why you have to fast, as your stomach would be digesting the food and that motion, along with a sudden burst of insulin, would throw the readings off. I had my breakfast early on scan day and then went onto water only, for 8 hours. To bide the time I wandered round the garden, did some dead-heading and watering and then while perusing the greenhouse, I innocently plucked a little strawberry and munched it before the penny dropped and sheer panic set in. OMG, what have you done Julie Friend? Do I tell them? Will they see it through the scan? Am I going to cost the NHS a load of money and time by wasting my slot? In the end I didn’t confess and was a little clammy when the nurse asked the time of my last food, convinced my nose was growing like Pinocchio. I had checked with Dr.Google and was pretty sure that that minuscule morsel wouldn’t make a difference, but I must admit, when the phone rang that day I was slightly concerned I would hear the dulcet tones of Elvis uttering the words “now Julie …about this strawberry…”.

But I didn’t. The call was late. Understandably so, as these consultants have lists so long and piles of files so high, many of them containing worse than bad news, that I don’t know how they do it to be honest. I certainly have no problem with them earning a large wage. They deserve every single penny from what I have seen. Give them and everybody down the ranks, a rise I say.

At about 3.50pm just as I was nodding off (I think the adrenaline was wearing off) the phone rang and Mr.Cool (consultants need to be more Elvis) said “hey Julie how’s it going, it’s Elvis” YES I KNOW IT’S ELVIS JUST TELL ME MAN! (that outburst was in my head not reality). Having explained that I was ‘slightly’ anxious he immediately reassured me and said that everything was clear, there was no sign of disease and I was in complete remission. We then went through the technicalities of the report and a few ‘do’s and don’ts’ although much of that was a blur, I’ll be honest. We discussed that my white blood count was lower than they would like but that I could probably reverse that with a diet of steak and spinach - not the worst prescription I have ever had. I asked a few questions then he bid me farewell and said he would see me in 12 weeks for more bloods. And that was that. Done. No medication, no nothing. Cancer - been there, done it, got the t-shirt.

Of course, as I put down the phone I burst into tears and sobbed into my cold tea for a short while before starting with the phone calls to family and friends to share my good news. It all seemed somewhat dreamlike.

Incredible really isn’t it? Less than a year from thinking I had horrendous tonsillitis to being diagnosed, treated and ‘cured’ (you can’t actually say cured until you have had two clear years). And it didn’t cost me a single penny. Privileged is an under statement.

I have been riding the high ever since. Life suddenly feels a lot lighter and happier and as if by magic the weather turned and we were blessed with a few days of sunshine. My lovely neighbour and friend Suzanne, insisted that I could not stay home that night, so off we went for a bottle of English Sparkling and a few laughs. Friends came by, more bubbles and flowers, and a few more dates with special people to share the news.

A couple of days later I had what I think was a panic attack while driving home from a bra fitting of all things (maybe the cost of my new underwear did me in..) but I think it was more about life getting back to normal again, along with the fear that it could all change once more. After all, it had crept up so quickly last time, what’s not to say it won’t come back again as quickly? I came home and relaxed for a while and made the decision that maybe a little post lymphoma counselling is needed, just to talk through these thoughts and concerns, so that’s what I’ll plan this week.

I have started a big house sort, a belated Spring clean if you like, booked a flight for a holiday to Sicily and then as a real boost and to continue with the highs of life, my niece gave birth to a healthy, bouncing, baby boy yesterday. She and her husband are rightly on cloud nine as this was quite the journey for them and I could not be happier (except for making me a great Aunt, which sounds about 90 😁).

And that’s what happens isn’t it, on this rollercoaster. You have to hold on tight during those lows because, as night follows day, you will have your highs.

Now I’m off to enjoy living again.

“And in the end it’s not the years in your life that count; it’s the life in your years” Abraham Lincoln

Teams of judging panels, from all avenues of the food world, spend many days working their way through the vast, eclectic mix of entries, often consuming the weirdest combination of foods and invariably (well for me anyway) after 8 hours at the tables, end up searching for the Gaviscon. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love doing this and I appreciate it is a wonderful and privileged ‘job’ to have but you can’t deny the stomach rumbling that ensues after a ‘tapas’ of smoked eel, brownie, CBD gum and sour plum Kombucha.

A product might not receive any award and the producer will just be sent some sound, constructive criticism on how best the judges felt their item could be improved for another time. As a co-ordinator it has been my role to make sure this wording is kind and helpful, remembering the many hours that will have been put in behind the scenes to get this to the table.

Some will get a one or two star award - both hugely respectable- and a few (and I mean usually less than around 300 out of 13,000) will receive a coveted 3 stars ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️. Let me tell you, when you spot one of these on the shelf whilst shopping, grab it. A whole room of chefs, journalists, producers, manufacturers, deli owners etc will have deemed that product to be amongst the ‘crème de La crème’ and it should definitely make its way into your basket. And once those elusive three star products are whittled out, those are gathered together to find the winner of all winners. The supreme product. The pick of the crop. The Golden Fork.

(This three star paté, which I get from Waitrose, is a perfect example of what to look out for)

During treatment for my lymphoma I lost my taste, developed dry mouth syndrome and was also back and forth to the hospital continuously, so I sadly could not take part in the early part of the judging this year and that hit hard, as I absolutely jump for joy when the call comes in. But as the three star judging happens much later on and the taste buds were beginning to come back in full force, the lovely team at the Guild of Fine Food enquired as to whether I would be ready for the Golden Fork days. Yes Siree, get me on that train to London Bridge please and bib me up.

Thus on Tuesday this week I found myself back in the room at the Guild offices, conveniently situated adjacent to Borough Market (for more food adventures later in the day) tooled up ready with three more judges at my table (a cheese connoisseur, another chef and a food magazine editor) to set about shortlisting the best of the best. There is such a buzz in the room, particularly as unlike some of the earlier days, you know full well that almost everything coming to you in the next few hours, is going to be a corker.

Judging is blind by the way (no not us in sexy little masks) with no hint as to the producer or manufacturer. All completely anonymous and simply coded until the grand reveal at the end of July (trust me I have tried to wheedle out information before, but those Guild staff will not be bribed or broken 😁).

We worked our way through silken gelato, punchy charcuterie, oils you would bathe in and biscuits to dream of. Just like back in my MasterChef era, we deliberated, cogitated and digested. All of our scores were added up and we plumped for our top 3 - a truly diverse trio. Another team of experts was coming in the next day to work on the 24 Top 3’s and in September, at a glorious gastronomic gathering, the numero uno will be named. I can’t wait to find out what that is and to share with you at the end of Summer.

Personally I was thrilled, not only to be there, but to have fully got the taste of everything on our list, as it is the first bite of food which is currently hitting the spot and in this situation that’s pretty much all you’re having. Only one cheese seemed to make the dry mouth situation even worse but the flavour made itself known, so that was all good and Elvis my oncologist will be very happy that he hasn’t completely ruined my career 👩🏼‍🍳

Talking of great taste and celebrating winners, back in June, I helped organise the Guild of Food Writers awards (I have been Vice Chair for a couple of years now and the awards are our annual big event). My remit was the party side of things, working closely with the stunning venue, The Royal Institution, on the canapés (no pressure, choosing for 300 food writers!) and ensuring the throng of guests that looked like my bookshelf come to life, were suitably fed and watered.

We had Jésus the Spanish Venenciador serving Fino sherry from a barrel, we had Cipriani Bellinis with silver straws, intriguing and delicious drinking vinegars and trays of perfectly executed canapés, finishing with a rhubarb and custard tart that guests are still talking about.

To get an extra bite added to the menu I suggested to the lovely Eric and Kathryn from the R.I, that we have something from one of the books by our outgoing President, Orlando Murrin, and I chose his delicious Parmesan biscuits. I then heard the words coming out of my mouth “in fact I could make those” “That would be great, thanks Julie”. And that is why a couple of weeks after finishing the most gruelling of cancer treatment, I ended up in my tiny Kent kitchen making 408 cheese biscuits to be consumed by the best food writers in the country and boxing them up to take on a train to London. I sometimes think the doctors might have missed a screw loose on those scans…..

But my friends won’t be surprised at all. That’s just how I roll and it was the best evening, with rooms full of laughter and joy, ample delicious sustenance and the perfect way for me to try and continue with life as it was …before the Big C.

The highlight of the night (for me anyway) was sneaking Sandi Toksvig into the building, hiding with her in a small, musty, darkened corridor (“sorry Sandi this is very unglamorous” “honestly darling I have been in far worst places”) so that she could jump out as a surprise to present Dame Prue Leith with her lifetime achievement award. A huge success and as she took one look at Prue and said “thank God you’re good at something sweetie as you’re SO drab” the auditorium dissolved into laugher, my shoulders relaxed and my work there was done.

And to top it all, you lucky readers, Orlando has kindly said I can share his recipe so here it is.

Makes about 50/60 biscuits.

Orlando Murrin’s Parmesan Bites

• 170g Plain Flour

• 150g Parmesan cheese, grated

• 150g Salted butter, chilled and cubed

• 1 tsp ground black pepper

• 1/2 tsp sea salt flakes

• 1/4 tsp Cayenne Pepper

• 6tbsp seeds for coating (I used just poppy to avoid allergens but Orlando suggests a mix of poppy, sesame and nigella seeds)

• Egg for egg washing, beaten

1. In a food processor, whizz together the flour, butter, Parmesan, salt, pepper and cayenne.

2. On cling film, roll into two neat cylinders about 2cm in diameter, wrap tightly into a sausage and chill until firm.

3. When ready to bake, brush with beaten egg and roll in the seed mixture so the sides are will covered and chill again briefly.

4. Slice into thick coins and bake at 180C/160C fan/350F for about 16-18 minutes until darkly golden.

Thankfully, Orlando (pictured below with my efforts) says these are ideal with Sherry and I can confirm …they absolutely were.

🌟 🌟 🌟

By the way, once announced, you will be able to find all of the Great Taste Winners on the Guild of Fine Food Website here Guild of Fine Food

Please excuse the radio silence but suddenly life got busy. When I say busy, I’m hardly talking serious work or major projects but more ‘normal’ life creeping back in, rather than a succession of hospital appointments or days wiped out on the sofa (lymphoma recovery).

As my energy levels increase and those elusive tastebuds start to re-form and get to work again, so has my desire for the odd day out or even an overnighter here and there. Those who know me well, are fully aware of my lust for a mini-break and the fact that I am never happier than when planning a trip, which will undoubtedly revolve around food.

My dear friend Paula (who has been such a rock through this miserable cancer story 🙏🏼) has been my travel buddy on a February or March break for the last couple of years, taking in Lisbon and Seville and plans this year included discussions on the South of France, Valencia or Florence. Well the big C scuppered those ideas, so a few weeks ago I suggested we had a teeny break instead and we opted for 24hrs in Whitstable. Whilst in Kent, it is still about an hour from me, but that felt just about right for a first micro adventure.

We completely lucked out with the weather and somehow had the only, rain-free day and night in what seemed like weeks and we even felt the sun on our faces and sand on our toes (ok, that bit isn’t quite true - pebbles under our trainers but still so restorative).

We stayed at The Boathouse owned by Hotel Continental, Whitstable who seem to have quite the stronghold on property in the town, but all done exceptionally well. As expected this was a converted boat store at the back of the rentable Fisherman’s Huts (apartments) right on the front which they also own, but ours was just a room. Not huge, but perfectly formed and meticulously clean. Quality white bedding, muted seaside colours and panelling, an extremely well stocked tea/coffee station, small, magazine worthy shower room, wall-mounted tv and wifi plus a mini fridge with complementary juice and water. Being set a road back, I didn’t expect a seaview but across the roof and through a tiny window you could most definitely see the sea. I booked our room through Booking.com and considering it was half-term it really wasn’t bad for two (I think I paid about £140). No breakfast included but there are so many places to eat in Whitstable that this wasn’t going to be a problem.

The day we arrived we took a long walk along the beach path and almost arrived at Seasalter where the famous Michelin starred The Sportsman resides. An unassuming, coastal weather battered pub on the outside with the magic from Stephen Harris and his team inside. For now it remains firmly on the wishlist though, as I felt my somewhat dulled palate could not do it justice on this occasion but I shall try and tick that one off by the year end. En route we passed the ever popular Old Neptune which has a large terrace, perfect for a pint whilst watching the sunset.

We then walked back through some glorious backstreets with pastel painted balconied houses, some wild and some manicured gardens, all within calm and peaceful surroundings but a mere pebble’s throw from the High Street.

By then we had quite obviously earned an ice cream and although there was a Mr.Whippy van on the front and a Morelli’s nearby, we opted for La Gelateria in Sea Street. Excellent quality gelato at London prices but with a good mix of unusual flavours. Amarena cherry and mascarpone hit the spot for me although the Fior di Latte with pomegranate ripple was also tempting.

For dinner we opted for Harbour Street Tapas but heads up, do book. We were really lucky as we had stuck our heads into the door earlier in the day and after a ‘sorry we’re full’ they must have sensed my dismay and managed to squeeze us in if we could eat at 6.30pm (suits this sleepy head) but it is extremely popular. And for good reason, as here on the Kent coast, was some of the finest, freshest tasting tapas I had eaten outside of Spain. Turns out that manager/owner, Lee Murray, described on the website as “a well-known face in the local food scene” has been supplying speciality foods from across the UK and Europe for his Murray’s Stores set within The Goods Shed Canterbury for over ten years. I have definitely filled my basket there in the past as they stock some of my favourite brands such as Brindisa and Seggiano. A natural progression then maybe, was to open a tapas restaurant to showcase some of these fantastic goodies alongside local fish and fresh produce.

There was not a weak dish within our choices and as plates of Iberico ham and sizzling chorizo whizzed by our noses, it made complete sense that the large family behind us were enjoying their second night in a row. This is a menu which whilst fairly concise, you want to try it all. The croquetas were melting with cheese and mushrooms, the chicken thighs had the crispiest skin ever and the meat sat upon a bright Romesco sauce, was just melting and oh, so tasty. The best dish we chose was a goats cheese stuffed courgette flower (baby courgette still attached) in the lightest of tempura batters, drizzled with honey and a sprinkling of peashoots. Even with this weirdly muted mouth of mine, I picked up all of the flavours and could easily have had a couple of those. I should also say the plate it was presented on (a vintage find perhaps from one of the many charity shops in town) really set it off perfectly and those little touches always stand out to me. We could not squeeze a dessert in but there was, of course, Basque cheesecake and a couple of other options including Manchego and membrillo. I would return in a heartbeat. Do go if you’re in the area.

After a good nights sleep (for one of us anyway …this weird throat/mouth business has resulted in me snoring like a warthog apparently 😁 sorry Paula) we slowly got ready to leave with tea and biscuits to help us while packing, popped the bags in the car (there is some off- street parking nearby if you’re lucky enough to find a spot as we were) and decided to have another walk before a late breakfast. This time we meandered up through the town checking out other places to eat on the next visit (told you I liked to plan). We ended up at Grain and Hearth a lovely artisan bakery, specialising in sourdough with a small café attached. Paula grabbed a loaf of Whitstable Wild to take home but as bread is still a challenge with ‘dry mouth’ I reluctantly passed.

We turned back and chose Samphire for our breakfast/brunch. This small, bistro style restaurant had been on my radar for a while. The lunch or dinner menu makes for good reading but the morning menu was also appealing. The Sugar Pit Bacon Loin with hash browns and fried eggs so nearly got my vote but in the end we both opted for eggs Forester - muffin, mushrooms, spinach, eggs and hollandaise. Perfect poached eggs and ample to keep you going all day. Good to see a large selection of Kent produced drinks on the menu including juices, ciders, wines and beers.

Feeling extremely content we headed off home making a mental note of where to go on the next visit (fish and chips on the beach from Ossie’s will be squeezed in somehow and for oyster lovers don’t miss The Whitstable Oyster Company)

Isn’t it funny how sometimes a mere 24hrs away from your home and routine, can feel like a proper battery boost. This year more than ever, I am going to cherish these little pockets of escapism especially when you have friends who don’t put a pillow over your face when keeping them awake all night 🙏🏼 Right, where to next?

I went to the Chelsea flower show on Thursday. A huge milestone, as this was my maiden London trip since December (I am usually up there about once a month) and first proper outing with crowds and public transport since having had my chemo and radiotherapy treatment. My lovely friend Kirstie was with me in case I should suddenly decide it was all too much and I needed to get home quickly, and we were also generously invited into the beautiful hospitality suite of The Newt in Somerset, the show’s sponsors, which made the hustle and bustle much more bearable (aided by their delicious Fine Cyder and Babylonstören Rosé).

I know the show has its critics. “Elitist, expensive, too ‘celebrity’” and part of me understands those sentiments. But this year, amongst the throngs of Panama hats and £12 Pimms there was a strong message coming from the gardens and planting. That being quite simply, how Mother Nature can be some of the best, mostly free, therapy available.

One of the show gardens had been designed by Miria Harris who had suffered a stroke a few years before and this display was telling her recovery story and how her own garden had assisted in that. A clay wall (seen above) was exactly the same width as her handspan and could be used to steady her whilst following the path around the beds. In fact Monty Don, whilst interviewing Miria, became visibly overwhelmed and emotional as it brought back memories of his own stroke. He asked whether the pond in the middle was symbolic for her as he had immediately seen it as the dark place he was in at the time. “It was like a black hole or a pit and my mind was falling into it and words and thoughts were just disappearing”. Powerful stuff.

The garden which won Best in Show, incredibly designed by a first timer Ula Maria, was for Muscular Dystrophy UK and was based upon the principle of forest bathing. With more than 40 trees surrounding a shaded area packed with vibrant irises and lush greenery, Ula wanted to show how the forest and its canopy could offer a place of refuge and solitude.

One of the gardens that moved me particularly, was that of the Church of St.James, Piccadilly, designed by Robert Myers and entitled “Imagine the World to be different”. The central London church is quite obviously so much more than a place of prayer and offers a number of schemes to support the homeless, including a counselling service, hot meals and a clothing bank. Currently there is an old caravan being used for the therapy sessions but the beautiful new wooden structure (below) built especially for Chelsea, will be transported back to Piccadilly now, along with the plants, and offer a far softer, warmer space more conducive to the virtual hug those in need will receive whilst in there.

Plants themselves have, of course, long been used in alternative medicine. I am a huge fan of natural tonics and essences and would normally revert to these rather than a pill pot (sadly not an option for the Big C). I remember a work colleague and I once both going through particularly stressful personal times and sitting with droppers of Rescue Remedy each morning whilst catching up on our respective dramas. I must admit that we ended up giving up on the drops and ended up chugging the ‘calming, floral extract solution’ straight from the bottle, which probably wasn’t ideal, but it had the desired effect.

However, the message coming from Chelsea this week wasn’t necessarily about the ingestion of healing plants although there were many edibles and herbals present. It was twofold really. Firstly, how just being outside and amongst vegetation can instantly lift you and secondly, how growing things oneself with soil under your nails and hope in your heart, can be one of the most powerful tonics there is. And this really is where my story unravels this year.

My lymphoma treatment took place during what are always known here in England as our darkest, greyest, wettest months (although boy did this year drag those out) so being knocked out by chemo and spending hours laying on the sofa would probably have hurt much more had the sun been streaming through the windows and everybody was having fun outside. But as I slowly started to feel less unwell and the nausea subsided, my mind turned to the garden and planting. I have a secondhand greenhouse, inherited from a kind neighbour, which is the perfect shelter on a drizzly day, and in the hours when I had some strength and enthusiasm, I started to sit in there sorting through pots, seed packets and little jars I had saved things in, often unlabelled just adding to the anticipation.

I sowed, I watered, I checked (sometimes hourly - ever the optimist) until as with my own health, little green shoots started to appear. Some things I left in the greenhouse and others I planted out into the garden. I battled against the creatures who were determined to enjoy my treasures more than me (snails, mice, slugs, pigeons and rabbits …I see you 👀) but somehow things have survived. Tiny broad beans are appearing, miniscule mange tout are tempting me, flowers have crested the tomato plants and mini, green, bullet hard strawberries are hanging in clusters just awaiting some ripening rays.

I was never in doubt that completing your daily 10,000 steps through an apple orchard, or by a bullrush edged river, or through a field of corn and poppies, would do so much more for you than if inside a sweaty gym on a treadmill, but I think I have even surprised myself at just how much the garden and the growing of things has affected and boosted my sense of well-being, particularly mentally.

I won’t know for another few weeks, whether medically I am out of the woods. What I do know is that something has switched inside and I sense positive change. I crouched down over a courgette plant this morning, the lower leaves of which had been thoroughly decimated at the slug buffet and were skeletons of their former vibrant selves. But then in the middle, as if by magic, darker, stronger leaves with flowers attached were pushing through, almost sticking two fingers up to their enemy and I suddenly got quite emotional.

Yes, I have lost the plot and I am identifying with a courgette plant, but I could see the similarity. Well done Mother Nature, you’ve brought me back from a dark place and hopefully soon, I too can be emerging stronger, more vibrant, whilst sticking my two fingers up to my personal enemy. For now I’ll keep them crossed.

Last week, the lovely Ravneet Gill, was running a competition on her Instagram page to win a day learning how to make various types of pastry with her. The criteria for entry was to confess or admit your worst baking disaster. I entered and will get to that later, but the responses gave me hours of entertainment, many leading to tears of laughter, not least the wonderful woman who admitted to using 12 lemons in a recipe when it was actually asking for 1/2. This, I should add, is the very thing that happens to me when I can’t find my reading glasses - be warned young readers.

What really made me smile though, was the fact that I could have entered multiple times. There wasn’t just one episode (although the one I used was BIG). Oh no, I had so many disasters rattling around in my head that I questioned for a moment what on earth I was doing cooking as a career. But I guess that’s it. Surely the artist trashes hundreds of canvasses? The computer programmer slams the keyboard after hours of programming didn’t produce the right solution and the dog groomer has to occasionally apologise for what they have done to Bonzo. To err is human and we all do it.

Although I have been cooking professionally for over 20 years now, mistakes are made all the time. When you are really far too tired to carry on and lose concentration or so busy trying to cram in too much - something will give. The same with nerves.

The first heat of MasterChef that I was asked to do, was non-televised at a very unglamorous cookery school in either Reigate or Redhill (it began with an R). I had flown in from the States that morning from a work conference and my boyfriend had driven me straight there from the airport, with a car full of ingredients. The combination of jet lag and nerves was not ideal. Firstly, I set light to a tea towel whilst chatting to Tom Conran, who very politely just grabbed the offending item and threw it into the sink behind me with a calm smile. Then, as I stood back to wait for my chocolate and almond cake to cook, I turned round to see the pile of crucial ground almonds still on the side. I broke all the rules of baking and pulled the tin from the oven, quickly stirred the nuts through the already setting mixture and threw it back in, whilst on the edge of tears and wishing the day over. How I got through, I will never know.

And so many more disasters. The dinner party, when thankfully I had considerably over catered, and one of my helpers dropped an entire plum tart just before dessert (I had a spare). The tortilla in my deli that my brother said he was finding hard to slice and somebody had baked a spoon right into the middle of it. The tiramisu I had made for an event using entirely salt instead of sugar, miraculously discovered before it got in front of any clients. The list goes on…..and on.

One mistake even became a thing. And a very popular thing at that. We had made a fruit tart for the shop and I don’t really know what had happened but it was wrong. Dry as a bone. But I hate waste and it was good sweet pastry and expensive cherries so I suggested we put a layer of sponge mixture over the top, re-bake it and see what happens. It was fabulous. A kind of bakewell affair but with no almonds (..again!). We put it on the counter and labelled it “Mistake Cake” and guess what? It became a best seller and for the following 4 or 5 years Mistake Cake was a firm feature in Flavours repertoire.

So back to my entry for Ravneet’s competition. There could be only one. And that was my sister’s wedding cake. My eldest sister Rita, was getting married for the second time and asked me to make her cake. It wasn’t going to be such a formal affair so she just wanted her favourite - carrot cake - with cream cheese frosting and simple fresh flowers. This I could do.

The night before the nuptials, at about 10pm, I was finishing things off with the cake on the dining table and me covered in cream cheese frosting. I removed the top flowers, tweaked some of the icing, then it would be put to bed in the fridge overnight. I was living in St.John’s Wood at the time and rented out my spare room to my friend’s brother. Matthew was in bed, the cat was asleep on the sofa and my sister was getting married next day - life was good. I don’t really know what happened next. I just remember lifting the cake from the table and then, as if in a film and in slow motion, I watched as it turned and twisted through the air doing what seemed like a hundred somersaults until it landed on the marble floor with a loud splat. I screamed so loudly that I must have woken the whole of NW8 let alone my apartment building.

The cat scooted under the couch and I could hear Matthew moving. He was in the Territorial Army at the time and appeared from his room in an army helmet, laughing “Don’t panic, don’t panic”. He took one look at me and the mess. “Oh bugger….do you think we can save it?” I wailed again. This cake was beyond saving.

Whilst Matthew scooped up the first layer, which, although shattered had not touched the floor, I called my other sister. I was sobbing when my brother-in-law answered. He didn’t even say anything and just handed the phone over “I think your sister needs you”. Through breathless tears I explained the disaster. Calm as always, Frances suggested that I wake early on the Saturday, get down to Selfridges first thing, buy a beautiful cake and we would just explain to Rita what had happened after the wedding and she would be fine. “But *sniff* but, but I can’t buy a cake from Selfridges..” “Why not?” “Because I won M, m, m, MasterChef”. And at that moment my greatest achievement to date came right back to bite me on the bum.

The good thing about living in London is that there are all-night shops. I headed off to the Europa stores just before midnight and whilst everybody else was buying booze, snacks and cigarettes I was filling my basket with cake ingredients. With tears still streaming down my face I packed everything up at the till as the chirpy assistant smiled up at me “Oooooh are we baking something nice?” “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah” 😭

The upshot to the tale was a slightly smaller cake, baked all night (with Matthew as moral support assistant, eating cake number one) iced at dawn, delivered on time …..and they all lived happily ever after.

Mistakes maketh the man (or woman).

Anyway, here’s a recipe for a lemon drizzle that doesn’t contain 12 lemons just two and is quite delicious if not dropped or baked with a utensil through its centre.

Lemon Drizzle Loaf

Bake in a 2lb loaf tin greased and floured or with a paper liner.

• 185g softened, salted butter

• 185g caster sugar

• 3 large eggs

• 185g self-raising flour

• 2tbsp milk

• Zest and juice of 2 lemons (keep separate)

• 2 extra tablespoons of sugar (can be granulated or caster) for the drizzle

1. Place the caster sugar, butter, eggs, flour, milk and lemon zest into a stand mixer or bowl with an electric whisk and beat together until a pale, fluffy consistency (will take around 10 minutes)

2. Spoon into your prepared tin and bake at 180C for around 40 minutes or until it has risen in the middle, is spongey to touch and a metal skewer comes out clean from the centre.

3. Whilst still warm, make small holes all over the cake with a cocktail stick.

4. Mix the lemon juice with the extra spoonfuls of sugar until it starts to dissolve.

5. Pour slowly over the cake and let it all soak in.

6. Leave to cool and enjoy with a cup of tea whilst discussing your worst baking disasters.

I realise this game isn’t the jolliest and some might say rather maudlin, but have you ever played Last Supper? I usually spring it on people quite early on when getting to know them ….hmmm perhaps that’s why some of my relationships peter out fairly quickly. “Well she’s a bunch of laughs wondering about the food you’d order on death row” but for someone whose life and brain seems to focus upon what I am going to eat next, I am fascinated by what people would eat last. Stay with me please.

I hate the word ‘foodie’ so somebody needs to come up with something better for a person like me. I sum up perfectly that phrase of ‘living to eat rather than eating to live’. When I wake in the morning my mind goes immediately to the meals of the day. What’s in the fridge? In the freezer? Needs using up. Ooh I’m going out today “where shall we lunch?”. Holidays are planned around the food of the place I am visiting. Hours trawling the internet to research restaurants, markets, producers. Is it an obsession? I’m not really sure, but I’m not going to therapy just yet as this aspect of my life brings me great joy. Not so much right now, of course, as my taste buds have been shot to pieces by radiotherapy but we’re getting there (for back story read ‘Broccoli, broccoli 🥦).

I cook for a living and added to that I write too - about food you understand. Tinkering in the kitchen with new (or revamped) dishes and then photographing them for my monthly column in Kent Life Magazine is a day, very well spent. I even love the shopping for ingredients. Preferably when I have time to linger a little, seeing what’s new in the shops, what’s in season, latest trends. I hear myself saying in my head “oh the first of the forced rhubarb is here” and doing a little skip. “Brilliant, cranberries are in, let’s get them popping”.

I digress, but you get the idea. Food is forefront of my mind pretty much all of the time so what would I choose for my last meal? It really is a dilemma but I think I have it sorted.

To start would be a plate of glistening ‘Spaghetti alle vongole’ - garlicky, oily clams with perfectly al dente pasta. I can’t remember when or where I first had this dish (it was Italy for sure, but I am not certain where) but I remember it stopping me in my tracks. I wasn’t a huge fish or shellfish fan until about my early 30’s. My mum had fed us a lot of fish when younger (mostly cod in parsley sauce …..euch) so I avoided it for a few years but then I discovered things like seabass and tiny mussels, and was converted. The clam pasta was so simple - really only 5 or 6 ingredients at the most - but the impact it made was phenomenal. I slowed down halfway through as I didn’t want it to end. Would I ever have something so good again? Could I recreate this? I was in my food heaven.

The plate in the photograph above was from last year in Sicily. I was staying with my lovely friends Anna and Bill and I wanted to treat them to dinner as a ‘thank you’ for their ever generous hospitality. But, rather selfishly, I asked if we could go somewhere that would have spaghetti with clams. Anna, of course, knew just the place (Ristorante La Perla, Naso) and off we went. She immediately told her friend, the owner, that that’s what I would be ordering and thankfully fresh vongole were ready in the kitchen. It was divine. As good as the first time. Perfect in fact.

My second course would be a dinner that my mum would make and one I actually loved. Lamb chump chops, mash, gravy, mint sauce and processed peas. For anyone unfamiliar with a processed pea it is a plumper, fluffier textured pea (unlike a petit pois) which has been canned and can be used to make the mushy peas offered in fish and chips shops. I know, hardly MasterChef, but for me they spell comfort and can only be had with lamb chops.

And to finish, another one of Pamela Jean’s specialities (mum) - syrup sponge pudding. I mean, we’re not having to worry about calories here as it’s the last supper, so who cares? Serious puddings like this would be reserved mostly for the weekend in our household, but I can recall hearing the ceramic basin bobbing around in the saucepan, steaming away for a couple of hours, and that sound would make my heart miss a beat as I knew what was coming. Tied up with string and silver foil, the unveiling always produced an “oooooh” from me and my siblings. She would usually have cream or custard ready to serve with it but (probably why I have quite a lot of fillings in my teeth) I would just have an extra spoon of Golden Syrup on top. Bliss.

So there you have it. My Last Supper bringing together nostalgia and loves discovered along my path in life (so much more about Italy to come ….).

What would be yours?

P.s I’ll do a recipe for the pudding soon.

(Photo by Vicki Couchman)

It was the day before the Sunday Times crew were due in and I was prepping in my Kentish kitchen. I had dragged out the canteen of cutlery my elder (wealthier) sister had given me a few months before. “You can have the silver plate as I’m going to start using the good stuff” As if a beautifully, silk lined box of Mappin and Webb cutlery wasn’t the good stuff. A quick buff with the silver polish cloth and I knew this was going to impress my VIP guests. Surely you wouldn’t expect quality like this in a ‘shabby chic’ garden like mine? I also found the white linen, hand-embroidered tablecloth which had once belonged to my grandma and made certain that this one was ironed.

I heard a car approaching on the drive. Hmm lockdown, no visitors allowed, must be an Amazon delivery I had forgotten about. I walked down the path to see somebody getting a bunch of kit out of a car and was greeted with a big smile “Hey I’m Vicki the photographer for today”. There is a rude phrase about what happened next and it’s to do with hearts and falling and bottoms. I froze. Words started leaving my mouth which weren’t full sentences and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow “no, no, no, Jenny, tomorrow, Jenny Coad, lunch, tomorrow” She saw my panic (I mean, you couldn’t miss it) “Oh I thought they were due in at 1 today” By now I was running back up the path grappling for my I-pad on the kitchen table and with sweaty palms, starting slamming on the keypad looking for my emails. “Jenny, Jenny, where are you Jenny?” I clicked on the last message from her. Bingo. I was right. It was the next day. I nearly passed out.

I went back into the garden and to be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to hug and kiss Vicki or slap her round the face (as if). Instead we had a good old British laugh about the mix-up and in true English style I popped the kettle on for a cuppa. She very sweetly agreed to return the next day but suggested we did a few headshots and mock-up photos so that when Jenny was here, I could be more relaxed and just concentrate on the food. It couldn’t really have worked out any better (not for poor Vicki obviously) and to date, those photos she took on that doomed day, are still some of my favourites.

24 hours later, sweet Jenny and her charming husband Rob arrived spot-on time and like Groundhog Day, Vicki was there again all ready to shoot the lunch. I had picked flowers from the garden, set up apple crates with potted plants and made a somewhat basic hand-wash system using the outside tap buried amongst the hydrangeas, a metal bucket, sanitiser and some Molton Brown hand soap. Little did I know that this crude set-up was to become a favourite, quirky feature for many of my guests.

I could not have asked for better maiden diners for this little lockdown project of mine despite not normally wanting your ‘soft opening day’ to be graced by the National press. They were so kind and complimentary, friendly, gracious and chatty - I felt instantly at ease and the hours just flew by. I had created a menu with things I was really comfortable cooking but also pulled out all the stops. I had made little canapés topped with home-grown broad beans; smoked duck breast with Earl Grey tea and beetroot; cod with a saffron prawn rice; a play on peach Melba as dessert with raspberry semifreddo and I popped some local sparkling wine from Mereworth Winery (the vineyard is on my lane).

Jenny’s article came out a couple of weeks later and could not have been more positive or generous. She absolutely loved everything about the experience and I must admit to shedding a tear when I read it. By then, however, the word had spread locally and dates were really filling up fast, so I suddenly found myself in the luxurious position of having a waiting list.

My diary for 2020, which had had all of my private chef work cancelled and was deplete of parties and dinners, was now full with lunches and suppers at The Tiny Table for most of July and August and well into September. The weather played ball, I lost a few pounds running up and down the garden serving and clearing dishes, and strangers became new friends. I really could not have been happier during this strange, COVID enforced spell of solitude and unknown.

Just under two years later Jenny and Rob returned (what a compliment) but this time they had the cutest ‘plus one’ who I had the honour of cuddling so Mum and Dad could have some quality eating time. Chef, food writer, baby minder - that’s me. (my photos of this great couple are a little fuzzy, but the memories are joyous and crystal clear).

I have subsequently served hundreds of plates of food over the past three years at that rickety tiny table, ironed a lot of tablecloths and napkins, made numerous cocktails using berries from the hedgerow and countless trays of focaccia have been baked and enjoyed.

I am not 100% sure whether I’ll be serving in the garden again this year, because of my recent health issues, but I have no doubt that tiny or not, this huge love of mine, will be back.

Recipe for cheese shortbreads

These little crumbly, savoury biscuits are perfect as either a canapé (alone or as a base) or to add to your seasonal cheese board.

They are also handy for using up those odds and ends of leftover cheese as you can mix and match. I used some Kentish Blue and a little piece of Parmesan.

• 150g plain flour (plus a little extra for rolling out)

•   100g salted butter, fridge cold and diced

• 75g grated/crumbled cheese (a mix of your favourites but make sure one is quite strong)

• Pinch of paprika

1.    Place all the ingredients into a food processor and pulse until the mix comes together in a ball.

2.    If you do not have a processor, use your fingertips to rub the butter into the flour/paprika until it resembles breadcrumbs or a crumble mix. Then add the cheese and keep working with your fingers until it all comes together. If necessary, add the tiniest drop of milk.

3.    Chill in the refrigerator for at least an hour.

4.    On a floured surface, roll out the dough to around 8-10mm

5.    Choose the size cutter you prefer, cut out the biscuits and re-roll any trimmings until all used up.

6.    Place onto a baking sheet lined with parchment and bake at 180C for between 8-10 mins depending upon the size and until the edges are turning golden brown in colour. If you use a very tiny cutter check at 6 minutes. Cool and enjoy.

For the past couple of years, it’s been about now that I have been preparing my diminutive garden dining experience, The Tiny Table, ready for a busy Summer ahead. Created during lockdown, at a time when so many of my friends and colleagues in hospitality were at a loss about what to do next, this might have been one of my best ideas to date. Out of adversity and all that.

My friend Flossie had come for a garden tea like Boris said we could (no hugs, of course). We were discussing what might happen and the fact that those restaurants and pubs locally with gardens, may just be lucky enough to keep going for a while. “Well you could do something in your garden Jules, it’s big enough” Hahahahahaha.

After she left I sat looking around me. Hardly an award winning space, I’m no Monty Don. ‘Wild and natural’ would be good words to describe the long stretch behind my house (maybe also unkempt) but there was lawn and mature trees. Blackberry bushes trailing along one side, elder in bloom, cobnuts getting ready for the squirrels (I never seem to get any). And in the distance a vineyard, cherry orchards, soft fruit farms and a recently planted apricot orchard. I mean, it’s not ugly. Floss you might have hit on something here my love.

I went into the garage which my friend, photographer MJ and I jokingly call ‘the shed of dreams’ due to the plethora of perfect props I own (some might call it toot) and started rummaging. I mocked up a little table at the back of the garden with a few glasses and bizarrely a couple of bits of fruit on cake stands and captured the moment exactly when the sky was playing ball. No Michelin stars were going to be awarded for that disgracefully unironed tablecloth Ms.Friend but who’s going to see it in reality?

Now what to call this fantastical idea. A play on my surname, Friend’s Feasts or Kentish Creations or Wateringbury Wine and Dine. I do love an alliteration but what would work for a tiny table covered in cobwebs from the shed of dreams…..oh..hello.

I created a post on Twitter and boldly typed “Now the weather is warmer I shall be offering private dining from my Kent garden. DM for details” DM for details?! What details Friend - there are no details, you haven’t even thought this through properly. A matter of hours ago it was just a throw away comment over a cuppa. Details - if only. And then, like Noah filling his ark, the replies and likes started two by two, then four by four, then by their hundreds…

Fellow Guild member who I didn’t really know personally then, Felicity Cloake, retweeted it and said “what a lovely idea” Jeepers. Food writing royalty had endorsed this crazy notion of mine. Then Andi Oliver and so it went on. No bribes were made, no brown envelopes exchanged - people just really seemed to like this hastily hashed together project which maybe meant that dining out again was going to be a reality and that, I guess, is what people were yearning for.

Then a DM. “Hi Julie. I write for the Sunday Times and saw your post. I would love to come and dine there. Could I come this week?” Jenny Coad from the Sunday Times travel was asking if she could come to my very ‘natural’ garden and eat at the rickety table with pears on a cake stand that was just a throwaway comment a matter of hours ago and which I hadn’t really thought through at all. What the hell was I thinking? Of course, she can’t come, the cloth isn’t even ironed, I don’t grow flowers and what would I cook? “Hi Jenny yes that would be great, how about Thursday?” Send. Gulp. It was Saturday.

Emails were exchanged, a photographer was booked. It was on. No going back now. How will they know where to come? My drive isn’t really a drive it‘s a muddy track. I’ll need a sign, how do I make a sign? I grabbed a thick gold Sharpie from the pen pot and went to the garage door. I should stencil it probably, so it’s neat. Or maybe, like most things in life, I’ll wing it and go freestyle …..

To be continued……

Those of you who are friends or who follow me on Instagram, know that I am a couple of weeks post chemo/radiotherapy treatment for lymphoma. My tumour was at the base of my tongue, so with that area being heavily targeted, it has really messed with my throat and mouth.

I had 15 sessions of radiotherapy and prior to that commencing, the consultant read out the huge list of possible side effects:- ulcers, lockjaw, dry mouth, loss of taste, problems swallowing ….and so it went on. I looked at him and said “this is the worst menu I have ever seen in my life and I am definitely never coming back to this restaurant”. He chuckled (thankfully there has still been a lot of chuckling) “Julie our aim is to make sure you NEVER want to return to this restaurant” He’s right. I don’t want to relive this ever again.

As with most things I approach in life, I thought I might be the exception to the rule. I am not sure why I am like this. Cocky? Denial? Head in the clouds? Whatever the reason, it has actually helped me in the past to try things and take lots of risks, which perhaps others might not. I dismissed his list. Surely I won’t get all of those side effects. I did.

With exercises, lotions, potions, sprays and tablets, I dealt with most as they occurred. But the one which shocked me more than anything and which I have no control over, is the lack of taste. And not just lack of taste. The denial of even being able to detect whether something is sweet or savoury. It is the strangest sensation I have ever experienced and, of course, the cruellest of tricks to play on a chef and food writer.

I threw a teenage strop and decided (for about an hour) that I would go on hunger strike. Then I got the hospital to prescribe me a tray of nutritional shakes, as what was the point of even attempting to eat food I couldn’t taste? Let me tell you that even without taste, those revolting little drinks are dire (think slightly thicker Gaviscon with no flavour) so I decided to go back to ‘normal’ food (which incidentally they had advised would help stimulate those elusive taste buds with the different textures and temperatures).

So the weaning began. Just as you would with a child, I tried every food I could find each day in my, very well stocked, fridge, freezer and larder. Bready things were the worst as without flavour is one thing, but lack of saliva meant that a ball of clag formed very quickly - we’ll spit that one out. Porridge worked. Plenty of honey and cream meant at least I was getting the nutrients and let’s be fair, it doesn’t really taste of much anyway. A ripe, juicy pear could have been raw potato. A spicy curry offered nothing except the sensation of burning on the roof of my mouth. But then it happened. Broccoli. Yes, bloody broccoli.

I would never have thought of broccoli being a particularly strong flavour. Certainly there are other brassicas which could outdo it in that area - Brussel sprouts for instance. But it was unquestionably broccoli. “At least you like broccoli” offered a friend. Well, yes, true. I just wouldn’t choose to have it for breakfast, lunch and supper, but if it’s the only thing I can taste, I might have to.

For the last few days I have been including this superfood in most meals, as to get even the slightest of flavours coming through, has been exciting. Last night I made a spiky stir fry with chilli, lime, onions and dark soy. Mange tout, green beans, pak choi and yes, you’ve guessed it…broccoli. Delicious - except only one of those flavours got through and I don’t need to tell you which.

The trials will continue and perhaps some research as to what might be in these fabulous florets that isn’t in anything else. Watch this space as to what comes next. And by the way our taste buds die off and reproduce naturally every 3-4 weeks but as it’s usually only a few at a time, we don’t really notice much change. Although as you get older, fewer will come back which is why our palates do dull or differ.

In the meantime I thought I would share a favourite broccoli dish which I have made many, many times. It’s actually an Ottolenghi recipe from his first book and a dish I would make regularly when I had my deli in London. We used to offer outside catering and somehow I ended up cooking quite often for Ed Miliband and his wife Justine (I even catered their London wedding party). This was Justine’s favourite and often made its way up to their lovely home in Dartmouth park when they were entertaining.

Chargrilled broccoli with chilli and garlic

• Approx. 500g sprouting or tenderstem broccoli, ends trimmed

• 2 mild red chillis, thinly sliced

• 4 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced

• 115 ml olive oil

• 1 lemon very thinly sliced

• Coarse sea salt and black pepper

1. Very quickly blanch the broccoli in salted, boiling water for no longer than a minute and drain well, patting dry with kitchen paper.

2. Drizzle a tiny bit of the oil over the stems and massage in with your hands.

3. Heat a griddle pan until it’s really hot and pop the broccoli on in batches allowing it to char before turning. Arrange on your serving dish once all done.

4. Whilst you are charring you can be gently preparing the oil. Put the olive oil, chilli and garlic into a pan onto a medium heat.

5. Watch the oil and once the garlic starts to sizzle and turn a golden brown, remove from the heat and add half of the lemon slices.

6. Sprinkle the broccoli stems with salt and pepper and then pour over the warm oil. Garnish with the remaining lemon slices.

Best served at room temperature or lukewarm.

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I think I am obsessed with all things culinary if I am honest. I wake planning meals, reliving those already enjoyed, plotting visits to restaurants, dreaming of trips which would encounter markets and new cuisines. I read about food, write about it and love to watch all the foodie programmes and films. But I don’t think I am alone which is why I wanted to share and build a like-minded community here.

And do please join in. Tell me the things you like and want to hear about. That could be recipes, maybe some tutorials if I can get my tech head on, or perhaps some travel recommendations (featuring food, obviously..)

So a huge welcome and thank you for coming along for the ride - I hope there’s snacks. And for now I shall leave you with this fabulous 90’s hairdo whilst I plan what to write next.