An annotated recipe by Rodney Dale

‘For the marinade

3lb skinned and filleted turbot . . . cut the fish into one-inch cubes . . . mix olive oil and lemon juice, season, pour over fish cubes.’

You try cutting fish into cubes, inch or otherwise. It’s just too slippery. And why do fishmongers, butchers, chefs always seem to have knives of a sharpness no ordinary mortal can attain? Ah, well, I’ve managed it, somehow. ‘Mix the olive oil and lemon juice’ — easy — now just how much pepper and salt?

‘Cover and leave for half an hour’ — how long will the whole thing take? Let’s see . . . they’re coming at 8 . . . or is it 7.30? Well, just get on, or you’ll never finish.

‘For the sauce

2 small onions . . . [takes out small onion] . . . 2oz butter, 2oz flour, 1 1/2 pints of milk, 6oz shelled prawns, bay leaf, tomato purée, 6 drops Tabasco, 2 tbsp cream. While the fish is marinating, prepare the shrimp sauce. Chop the onions finely and cook in the butter until transparent.’ Oh yeah? Oh . . . they do seem to be browning . . . well, a bit

. . . perhaps. ‘Stir in the flour and let it cook a little before blending in the milk.’ Damn — why does it seem to be going lumpy? Perhaps there’s something wrong with the flour . . . hmm: it is a bit old — doesn’t even have a sell-by date on it. Must have come from mother’s. Oh! Goodness, the onions look pretty brown now.

‘Bring it to the boil, stirring constantly, and when it has thickened add the prawns, bay leaves, and enough tomato purée to colour the sauce pink.’ Huh — and mask the brownness of the onions and — Oh Hell, why did I choose this recipe anyway? ‘Adjust the seasoning . . . [there’s an irreversible process for you; perhaps every herb should have an anti-herb; every spice an anti-spice] . . . add the Tabasco and leave to simmer on a very low heat for 10 minutes. If the sauce is to stand for any length of time, cover it with buttered paper (see page 94)’

Page 94? I don’t believe it — Oh, it’s true . . . what do they say? Here it is . . . ‘Spread a piece of buttered greaseproof paper with a hole in the middle over the surface . . .’ Why a hole in the middle, for heaven’s sake? . . . and how big a hole? . . . read on . . . not a clue to be got, not a culinary note, as his horse to the ramparts they curried . . . ‘When you lift off the paper, the skin will come off with it.’ Oh yeah? I’ve met your sort before. Have you ever tried lifting off the paper? And did the skin come off with it? Anyway, some people like the skin. It might even be all skin by the time I’ve finished . . . though, come to look at it, it seems to have put itself right. Perhaps she knows what she’s talking about after all.

‘Pilau bed

4 oz butter, 2 small onions . . . [If you have tears, prepare to shed them now] . . .1lb Patna rice, 2pts chicken stock . . .’ How do we do that . . . ? What? Simmer a whole fowl for two hours? I’ll use a cube, thank you. ‘4 small tomatoes . . . 4 tbsp cooked peas . . .’ Huh! Tin of tomatoes; tin of peas. ‘Melt half the butter in a large pan and fry the finely chopped onion in it.’ Why didn’t you tell us about all the onions at the start? I could’ve prepared all of them in one fell swoop. ‘Add the rice, unwashed, and turn in the butter until well covered.’ I take it you mean the rice . . . No thank you. I’ll wash it — you never know where it’s been. Anyway, washing off the starch will help it to fluff up — well, that’s the theory. Yes, I can just see it fluffing up with a fork. A triumph of hope over experience. Funny how there are as many ways of cooking rice as there are cooks — more, even. Cook it for exactly thirteen-and-a-half minutes, boil it dry, boil it wet, pour boiling water over it . . . and none of them works for me. You’ve got to have a really, really sharp knife of course — I bet the people who have really, really sharp knives cook perfect fluffy rice. "Will I be able to cook rice properly when I’m better Doctor?" "I don’t see why not." "That’s funny, I wasn’t able to before."

‘Pour over the stock . . . [You mean pour the stock over the rice] . . . and cook gently for 15—18 minutes.’ Ha! So you’re not sure after all. Now, where are we? Oh, goody. I don’t have to use the tomatoes and peas — that’ll save a bit of messing about. ‘Drain the rice, top with the rest of the butter, serve as a bed for the kebabs.’ Seems straightforward enough. What nasties can possibly be lurking behind the oven door?

‘For the skewers

16 small tomatoes, 16—24 bay leaves, preferably fresh.’ Lucky Polly’s bay tree overhangs the fence — the leaves’ll be nothing if not fresh — dammit, raining again — and where’s the scissors? Right . . . watch out bay tree here I come — special deluge there, leaves kissed with Nature’s own soft tears . . .

‘Take 16 small skewers about 9 inches long and thread on to them a piece of fish, a quarter of tomato, a bay leaf, another piece of fish, and so on. Each skewer should take five pieces of fish, four tomato quarters, and one or two bay leaves.’ WHAT? that means 80 pieces of fish. Why didn’t you say that at the start? Have I got 80 pieces? Let’s see, half that, half that, half that . . . oh, about ten. Yep, probably OK. I can cut up those bigger pieces. And it does seem nicely marinated now. It’ll have to be, it’s half past . . . Hell! where’s Bernard? He’s supposed to stopping off to buy the wine — I’ll bet he’s forgotten. Let’s see . . . shall I ring him? I can never remember his mobile num — oh, it’s on the memo board — no it isn’t, Flittersnoop’s wiped it off, why do cleaning ladies always clean the wrong things? He’ll just have to go out again if he comes back without it.

‘Arrange the skewers on the rack of the grill pan, pour half the marinade over them and put under a hot grill for 5—7 minutes each side . . .’ Do you mean each of the four sides, or turn them 180° once? I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as they’re cooked . . .

One, two three . . . oh NO! Only 11 skewers. How can that have happened — I counted them out only last week — NOT that bloody after-school kite-making activity again? Wait till I — shall I ring them at Gran’s? Or just wring their necks? Too late now — if the skewers’ve gone, they’ve gone. Where the hell can I get another five skewers at this time of night? Split some of these down the middle? No . . . not fat enough. Hey, what about those green sticks on the potting bench? Well, at least it’s stopped raining — where’s the key of the shed? Where it’s meant to be — wowee, something’s going right at last. AND it’s stopped raining — perhaps we can even have drinky-poos in the garden — I must wipe the chairs. Right, let’s see — perfick — oh, why do these silly words get into my head? That’s what Lucy keeps saying.

Oh—oh — weed killer. Don’t want to risk poisoning the guests (well, except for Rikki — he’s got hands all over the place — I MUST invite Marcia for coffee and warn her) — "WHAT?"

"I said ‘Honey I’m home’ — what are you doing out there?"

"Coming in. Have you . . . ? Oh"

"Here we are, I got four bottles of white with rhinoceros labels like we had before, and four red with this charming lady in extinguisher hat. Oh, and I got some more skewers, ’cos I borrowed some to mend the picnic set. Come on, let’s have a G&T . . ."