Things ain't cooking in my kitchen
Apr. 12th, 2005 08:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaOn Thursday last week I got home from work, and hit the evening at a run. I drove up to Jericho (that's a suburb of north Oxford) to distribute some posters, planned a menu for the weeked, and went shopping for ten.
Yup, it's time for another Boojum weekend. A pile of people, lots of rapper, and lots of red wine. And this time it was my turn.
Usually, Boojum practices take places in people's houses - with a bit of goodwill and some sleeping bags, an ordinary house can be stretched to fit ten or so. My house is a reasonably sized three-bedroom semi, but sadly it's also a shared house and kicking![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
secutatrix and Andy out of their rooms for the weekend probably wouldn't have been a popular maneouvre.
Over the course of the last month or so I've been frantically searching for a venue in Oxford similar to the Guides' HQ we use in Burton - somewhere with beds, showers, a hall to dance in and a kitchen, but which doesn't cost much. Just in case anyone else wants a similar venue, I'll save you the time: Oxford doesn't have one. In a last minute panic I agreed to rent the Sea Cadets' hall near my house - no showers, no beds, but a large hall and a kitchen. A "fully equipped" kitchen, said the guy who showed me round, though he hurriedly ammended that he thought the oven didn't work. (It didn't, I checked; I did find out where the cadets hide the washing up they don't want to do, though.) I later found out that his idea of fully equipped and mine didn't mesh, which resulted in me scooting home again at seven on Saturday morning to retrieve saucepans, cutlery and mugs.
With accommodation (bring yer own sleeping bag) out the way, I was just left with finding a handful of wooden-floored pubs who'd let us dance in them on Saturday night, and planning a menu for ten, some of whom are vegetarian, which could be cooked quickly using only a gas hob.
As I wandered round Tesco on Thursday, clutching a shopping list, I chittered gently to myself. How much do ten people eat ? How do I calculate portions ? How do I know how much milk to get ? Bread ? What the hell was I going to get for Saturday lunch, a meal which had been forgotten in the hasty planning earlier ?
Fortunately, my brain came out of hibernation to save me. Dammit, I was in the Scouts. I used to help plan and shop for week-long camps of upwards of fifty people. I've even, when I couldn't get out of it, taught bunches of eleven year old kids the basics of estimating quantities for feeding batches of people. On with the shopping!
When Samantha arrived at eleven on Thursday night, she looked a bit surprised to find me cooking. Fortunately, she's a tolerant type and dutifully chopped aubergines when asked. When Andy arrived at quarter to one, he was quite surprised to find me cooking, too. There's actually something terribly satisfying about cooking in huge quantities.
By quarter past one I had: a large beef stew (investigation had revealed that neither of the vegetarians were arriving til Saturday morning), a gallon or so of mushroom soup, a pressure cooker full of pasta sauce, some roasted pepper salad, some chocolate crispy cake and a fridge full of bits for cooked breakfasts. It didn't seem like that much for an evening's work.
Having bought mushrooms and cream on general principles, I realised I didn't actually know how to make mushroom soup. I foraged among the shelves for a recipe, then completely ignored it (soup ? without onions ? crazy). Cooking's always easier when you have a recipe to ignore. The soup came out only "ok", though - when shopping I'd rather underestimated the amount of mushrooms.
I did think a serious disaster might be occurring with the pasta sauce. Normally, my approach to such things is to pull a drag net through the fridge and cook what comes out. Cooking for guests, however, seemed recipe worthy. I found a strange looking recipe for tomato and aubergine sauce which looked like it wouldn't work - not enough cooking time, not enough liquid, not enough stuff to be properly saucey. However, it's from a book I trust and which has provided many wonderful recipes, so I embarked.
Quite soon into the cooking it became apparent that my assessment was correct. My sauce looked like a disparate collection of bits of vegetables sitting sadly in half an inch of wine. It was at this point I remembered that said recipe book had also provided the instructions for one of the nastiest things I've ever made while following a recipe - something I made a haplessundyingking eat many years ago, and the leftovers of which sitting on the table scared davefish in the dark.
Fortunately, some long-term simmering, some quick blender action and the old standby of things getting better if you leave them for a day prevented utter nastiness. I don't think it was a culinary delight, but no one died.
Much as I hate to admit it, I'd been sufficiently worried about the problem of feeding people that I'd rather glossed over the rest of the weekend in my head. Quite why it should be such a problem I have no idea - these people are friends, they're unlikely to stone me to death if dinner turns out less than gourmet. I guess I just don't like the idea of people forming a low opinion of my cooking.
As it turned out, the pub tour we did on Saturday night was actually something of a success. The pubs in Jericho were extremely welcoming, and people actually seemed genuinely interested and enthusiastic about having their evening invaded by nutters. Pintwatch had cast a beady eye over things at the organisational stage, and each pub had at least three decent beers on handpump. Jericho's not an area I know at all well and I'd never regarded it particularly warmly up til now, which I feel rather guilty about.
Walking round a week ago trying to get hold of landlords to ask permission to dance there, I suddenly noticed something: get away from Walton Street, into the maze of little backstreets, and suddenly it's all small pubs, and rows and rows of two-room terraced houses. It could be any reasonably upmarket area of a northern town. Asking landlords mostly met with the cheerful "sure, come on in" I associate with organising tours in the north rather than the suspiscion and grudging permission I've met in other areas of Oxford. The punters were friendly, chatting to us, cheering us and (in one notable case) buying us a bottle of champagne.
North Oxford. It's further north than you think.
Yup, it's time for another Boojum weekend. A pile of people, lots of rapper, and lots of red wine. And this time it was my turn.
Usually, Boojum practices take places in people's houses - with a bit of goodwill and some sleeping bags, an ordinary house can be stretched to fit ten or so. My house is a reasonably sized three-bedroom semi, but sadly it's also a shared house and kicking
secutatrix and Andy out of their rooms for the weekend probably wouldn't have been a popular maneouvre. Over the course of the last month or so I've been frantically searching for a venue in Oxford similar to the Guides' HQ we use in Burton - somewhere with beds, showers, a hall to dance in and a kitchen, but which doesn't cost much. Just in case anyone else wants a similar venue, I'll save you the time: Oxford doesn't have one. In a last minute panic I agreed to rent the Sea Cadets' hall near my house - no showers, no beds, but a large hall and a kitchen. A "fully equipped" kitchen, said the guy who showed me round, though he hurriedly ammended that he thought the oven didn't work. (It didn't, I checked; I did find out where the cadets hide the washing up they don't want to do, though.) I later found out that his idea of fully equipped and mine didn't mesh, which resulted in me scooting home again at seven on Saturday morning to retrieve saucepans, cutlery and mugs.
With accommodation (bring yer own sleeping bag) out the way, I was just left with finding a handful of wooden-floored pubs who'd let us dance in them on Saturday night, and planning a menu for ten, some of whom are vegetarian, which could be cooked quickly using only a gas hob.
As I wandered round Tesco on Thursday, clutching a shopping list, I chittered gently to myself. How much do ten people eat ? How do I calculate portions ? How do I know how much milk to get ? Bread ? What the hell was I going to get for Saturday lunch, a meal which had been forgotten in the hasty planning earlier ?
Fortunately, my brain came out of hibernation to save me. Dammit, I was in the Scouts. I used to help plan and shop for week-long camps of upwards of fifty people. I've even, when I couldn't get out of it, taught bunches of eleven year old kids the basics of estimating quantities for feeding batches of people. On with the shopping!
When Samantha arrived at eleven on Thursday night, she looked a bit surprised to find me cooking. Fortunately, she's a tolerant type and dutifully chopped aubergines when asked. When Andy arrived at quarter to one, he was quite surprised to find me cooking, too. There's actually something terribly satisfying about cooking in huge quantities.
By quarter past one I had: a large beef stew (investigation had revealed that neither of the vegetarians were arriving til Saturday morning), a gallon or so of mushroom soup, a pressure cooker full of pasta sauce, some roasted pepper salad, some chocolate crispy cake and a fridge full of bits for cooked breakfasts. It didn't seem like that much for an evening's work.
Having bought mushrooms and cream on general principles, I realised I didn't actually know how to make mushroom soup. I foraged among the shelves for a recipe, then completely ignored it (soup ? without onions ? crazy). Cooking's always easier when you have a recipe to ignore. The soup came out only "ok", though - when shopping I'd rather underestimated the amount of mushrooms.
I did think a serious disaster might be occurring with the pasta sauce. Normally, my approach to such things is to pull a drag net through the fridge and cook what comes out. Cooking for guests, however, seemed recipe worthy. I found a strange looking recipe for tomato and aubergine sauce which looked like it wouldn't work - not enough cooking time, not enough liquid, not enough stuff to be properly saucey. However, it's from a book I trust and which has provided many wonderful recipes, so I embarked.
Quite soon into the cooking it became apparent that my assessment was correct. My sauce looked like a disparate collection of bits of vegetables sitting sadly in half an inch of wine. It was at this point I remembered that said recipe book had also provided the instructions for one of the nastiest things I've ever made while following a recipe - something I made a hapless
undyingking eat many years ago, and the leftovers of which sitting on the table scared davefish in the dark.Fortunately, some long-term simmering, some quick blender action and the old standby of things getting better if you leave them for a day prevented utter nastiness. I don't think it was a culinary delight, but no one died.
Much as I hate to admit it, I'd been sufficiently worried about the problem of feeding people that I'd rather glossed over the rest of the weekend in my head. Quite why it should be such a problem I have no idea - these people are friends, they're unlikely to stone me to death if dinner turns out less than gourmet. I guess I just don't like the idea of people forming a low opinion of my cooking.
As it turned out, the pub tour we did on Saturday night was actually something of a success. The pubs in Jericho were extremely welcoming, and people actually seemed genuinely interested and enthusiastic about having their evening invaded by nutters. Pintwatch had cast a beady eye over things at the organisational stage, and each pub had at least three decent beers on handpump. Jericho's not an area I know at all well and I'd never regarded it particularly warmly up til now, which I feel rather guilty about.
Walking round a week ago trying to get hold of landlords to ask permission to dance there, I suddenly noticed something: get away from Walton Street, into the maze of little backstreets, and suddenly it's all small pubs, and rows and rows of two-room terraced houses. It could be any reasonably upmarket area of a northern town. Asking landlords mostly met with the cheerful "sure, come on in" I associate with organising tours in the north rather than the suspiscion and grudging permission I've met in other areas of Oxford. The punters were friendly, chatting to us, cheering us and (in one notable case) buying us a bottle of champagne.
North Oxford. It's further north than you think.
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Date: 2005-04-12 07:43 am (UTC)(
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Date: 2005-04-12 07:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 08:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 10:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 10:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 12:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 02:25 pm (UTC)The Radcliffe Arms was kinda okay for food too IIRC.
Feeling oddly nostalgic...
no subject
Date: 2005-04-14 07:36 pm (UTC)