Double chocolate brioche buns

If you have a bread machine, this recipe is a piece of cake!

I didn’t really measure the chocolate chips; can something ever contain too much chocolate? By adding some of the chips with the second lot of butter, the machine will gently melt them into the dough. I wasn’t too strict with the rising times. I thought the longer the better. This is based loosely on an online recipe but it is such a forgiving formula it lends itself to interpretation. Just keep the salt and yeast separate when putting the stuff into the bowl. 

Chocolate Chunk Brioche

A bread machine recipe for chocolate chunk brioche.

• 1 1/2 tsp dried yeast

• 400 grams strong white bread flour

• 4 tbsp caster sugar

• 1 tsp salt

• 70 grams butter, cut into 1 cm cubes

• 3 (150 grams) eggs, beaten

• 90 ml milk

50 grams butter, cut into 2 cm cubes (keep in fridge)

• 120 grams plain or milk chocolate, chips

Instructions

1. Add yeast, flour, sugar, salt, 70 grams butter, eggs, milk to your bread machine.

2. Select the brioche cycle (21)and leave to run through the first rest and knead cycles.

3. When the bread machine beeps, add the remaining 50 grams of butter and 2 tbs of the chocolate chips.

4. At the end of the cycle, remove the dough from the pan and press lightly to remove some of the gas. Wrap in clingfilm and chill in the refrigerator for 20 minutes.

5. Roll dough out to a rectangle on a lightly floured surface.

6. Sprinkle with the rest of the chocolate chips.

7. Fold up the bottom third and then fold down the top third of the dough.

8. Fold in half and leave to rest for 10 minutes at room temperature

9. Cut into 12 segments and allow to rest a further 10-15 minutes.

10. Form each segment into a roll and place on a greased baking tray. Allow to rise in a warm place for 30-40 minutes.

11. Bake for 15-20 minutes at 180 C.

Once they’re cool enough, gorge the first one for quality control purposes. They’ll keep well in a sealed container but if you later warm them through just before eating they will be heaven.

This is the quickest way to make friends and influence people.

Thank you for reading.

 

Let’s just Thomas Cook it

Was that the attitude of the directors and everyone else in a position to do something about it?

Like Woolies, we can shake our heads in exasperation at how such an institution can be allowed to sink. You don’t become a director or a chief executive without some knowledge and insight.

The news has dramatised the crisis with evocative phrases like “airlift”, “bringing them home” and “rescue mission”. The biggest peacetime operation ever!

It wouldn’t surprise me if the BBC scoured footage for desperate exhausted families, collapsing on the runway after the trauma and humiliation of losing their holiday:

“They treated us like animals.” 

“They were demanding money.” 

“We had a twelve-hour wait with no refreshment.”

This way well be true in some cases but it doesn’t reflect the real losses suffered by the holiday-makers.

The holiday is booked:

“Guess what? We’re going to Gran Canaria. It’s ten days in a hotel with a pool.” The eldest, George, had been abroad before but he was only two at the time so he had no real memory of it. Of course, he knew the story of the delayed flight and the stroppy holiday rep who insisted on a screaming George sitting on his own in a baby seat on the coach from the airport.

The young twins, Amy and Hattie, now nine years old have never been abroad before. On a cold January morning, they are squealing with delight to their friends in the middle of a damp playground.

Within the next few weeks, other children come to school with equally exciting news. That Toni girl however, is bragging about their summer trip to Disneyland. Every sentence includes the word Florida. Even though Mrs Drake points out to Toni that it is actually Disneyworld, she doesn’t lose her smug little smile.

Mrs Drake goes on to say that Disneyland was in California where she’d been many years ago:

“It was a real adventure then. Hardly anyone went to the States.”

Over the next six months, there would be casual references to the actual big holiday. Yes, that Easter they plan to stay in a glorified beach hut on the south coast just to enjoy four days of howling wind and horizontal rain but they still think about the ten days of sun and sand waiting for them in the summer break.

After Easter, the weather improves and thoughts turn to the end of term:

“Our flight is really early,” Hattie lets out an excited little squeal. “So we have to be up by three in the morning. Uncle Geoff’s taking us to the airport in his new people-carrier.”

With a week to go the children’s concern for the pet hamsters Zig and Zog and Poopy the cat (it took a while to get her house-trained), is eased when Wayne from next door agrees to pop in and feed them.

“Can’t they come with us?” asks George (learning sarcasm at the age of twelve.)

On the day, the airport screams with the sound of jet engines and excited children. A cup of hot chocolate and an early ice-cream help calm the spirits. After passport control, George spends a long time trying to persuade Dad to let him have a sip of his naughty little beer. There is laughter and silliness.

Mum and dad can’t wait. It’s a holiday away from the everyday grind. It’s a chance to reaffirm family bonds. The children make friends and parents start chatting. Mum says how nice it is to see dad relaxed away from work. Dad says the same about Mum.

On the fifth day, it’s different. As Mum takes a stolen half-hour on the balcony, she notices that the pool area is deserted. Going down to breakfast, they run into a crowd in reception. Some people are staring at a notice on the wall. The reps are besieged with anxious guests.

The company has gone bust. Everything is shattered.

So that’s the picture. Uncertainty heightens anxiety. It’s only a matter of time before regret, blame and guilt come into play. It takes strong minds to stay strong. People will blame themselves and shout angrily at the invisible force which has suddenly blighted their only chance to truly relax. It all becomes exacerbated by the dark rumours of social media.

What’s the result?

What memories will they have?

The first days will be forgotten in the shadow of an early disruptive return. They may not even fly back to the same airport.

The redundancies: 

Jobs and livelihoods lost. Every aeroplane steward or stewardess I’ve met has spoken of their pleasure and seeing people before and after their holidays. Young children may cry, the four lads from Leighton Buzard may be a bit yobbish and Mrs Bryant from Merthyr Tydfil may be making a fuss about the coffee but these are generally happy planes. What other jobs can be so consistently imbued with such a feel-good-factor?

I’m going to stop now as I’m getting a bit red.

Thank you for reading. 

Indication indication indication

Firstly, by the sheer nature of the title, I should refer to the little clicky stalk on the left of the steering column. A lot of the driving public has been misinformed.

Imagine the couple going to “Jet’s Super Auto Sales” at 3.30 on a Saturday afternoon to test drive a second-hand AA assured Toyota. It’s green. Already, Georgia’s having her doubts about the colour:

“Who wants a green car? Really? Can’t we have a black one babes?” Jenson replies with his serious voice:

“You can’t see the outside from the inside. And he said it’s a bargain.” They shake hands with the salesman.

It’s Glen from three roads away. He always manages to keep his grimacing smile under his flossy little fringe when they see him driving his brand new chunky mini to work every morning. Jenson and Georgia know him. He knows them but they’ve never spoken before.

Whenever they see him, Jenson looks on in disbelief, pondering the story of the mini to its current modern phase. Somehow it looks wrong.

It’s not like old days when this cheap rusty little runaround would bark your knuckles to the bone every time the bonnet was opened.

Glen delivers a smooth spin on the delights of a six-year-old Avensis with touch-screen sat-nav. He glosses over the recall issues and sits in the back whilst his latest victims take to the wheel. He can’t help himself:

“Can you hear the engine? It drives itself. You’ll love it. Front screen defrost. Cornering headlights. Green is the new black.”

The offer of a year’s free insurance swings it. They get £250 for their old KA. But do you know what Glen missed? He neglected to tell them about the indicators.

For all of the six years, five months and eighteen days Jenson and Georgia drove their car, they never once signalled. Perhaps that’s why the bus at the roundabout accidentally ripped off half of their back end. And this is not a specific case. This dreadful short-changing of basic information is practised in main-dealers up and down the land; especially in BMW franchises. (Other non-indicating dickhead types are also available).

I remember scoffing when my mate’s wife was finding a space at Tesco’s. In a half-empty silent car park, she indicated to go into a space. Karen never missed a chance to signal. Good on her. Now, leaving the subject of countless FB ranting, I’d like to look at indication in a general sense.

It sort of screams:

“Give us a clue!”

“Tell us what you’re trying to do!”Or as I like to say:

“Fart and give us a clue!”

The frustration of the information vacuum (I call it IV), came to me in 1991, in October. My mate Stash and I were waiting for a train at Palmers Green. In came the train only to overshoot the platform. This was important because we were on our way to the Westminster Arms via overground and tube.

A little flappy man scrambled from the guard’s van to the phone at the end of the platform. He said nothing to the waiting passengers. I shouted my usual phrase but he just bustled back before the train reversed to pick up its confused payload.

Eight months after hearing claims of the wrong type of snow, I heard the guard announce leaves on the line.

The wrong type of leaves? Winter and Autumn have been around for many millennia. Why wait until 1991 to announce their devastating effects?

The domestic IV has left me exasperated. There would be a crash and scream from another part of the flat: “What’s happened?”

No answer. Oh, the milking of the drama. Still no answer from the second “What’s happened?” What’s the point of the fuss then?

Pure attention-seeking.

In the classroom, teachers have been encouraged (no, ordered on fear of being castigated by those in the upper echelons believing in this nonsense) to make clear learning objectives with success criteria for each lesson. These objectives will be referred to throughout the actual lesson before discussion at the end-the plenary. I did it when it mattered; it was particularly good for creative writing.

But for other lessons, leading a class to a revelation had a far more lasting effect than the hand-held objective root.

Take science and electricity at key stage 2. Learning objective; to understand the use of electricity in the home:

“Right, children let’s make a list of domestic electrical items before discussing what we could do without them. Look at particular historic developments.” BORING.

Try this; place a circular magnet into a long plastic test tube. Place a second one in. Does it crash to the bottom or float just above? Better still, don’t say a word and just collect up the necessary equipment onto your desk before giving your brief demonstration. In your best Catweazle voice, say:

“What is this electrickery?”

There we have it. Vague has its place.

Then ask the children to discuss and list the use of magnets. After heads have been scratched, take it in your own chosen direction to demonstrate the use of electromagnetic induction. 

What about the darker side of indication? Would that be stating one intention whilst carrying out a hidden agenda? A common trick in the workplace and even more common in politics.

Look at all those MPs desperate for re-election. They will happily beg for a safe seat even if it’s not where they’re from. On successful acquisition, they will lead a campaign putting their constituency first alongside party policies. But tell us everything. Doesn’t longer in the commons lead to a bigger pension?

What opportunities would it give career-wise? Highly-paid consultancies do pay for the little extras like property and private education. Does any such person indicate this openly?

“Let me be clear, I am always on the look-out for top money.” It doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?

If we are to look at ourselves; how clear are we about indicating? Do we hold back for fear of making a fuss? Are we put off by the doom-merchants going over the top? I’ve tried to be more open but always tend to finish with a flourish of optimistic humour. Don’t look too deeply mind, the real indicators might be too scary.

Unfortunately, my wheelchair doesn’t have indicators. I’m glad; keep the shoppers guessing.

Thank you for reading.

Liscard Road

I have no idea how many times I have marched, dawdled, traipsed, cycled, bussed, driven or staggered down this famous old road but the impressions of its long, slightly kinked path are still vivid. First of all, the kinks split it into three sections.

We start at the Seacombe end. It’s a route engrained with reminders of the past; of the old terraced rows breaking perpendicularly like straight stern fingers to the parallel Brighton Street and the myriad of roads leading to Poulton. Many of those rows housed the workers of the docks, the mills, the Gandy and the Bronze.

At certain times of day, Liscard Road would teem with the flat-capped armies marching purposefully to the clocking-on stations.

There used to be churches and a cinema but only one pub-The Kings. The second part is the leafy tree-lined park section. On one side are the old trees shielding the railings of Central Park. These were overlooked by the once elegant large townhouses, now a warren of flats and bedsits.

After Martins Lane, the second kink would lead to the once-thriving hubbub of Liscard. Shops of all sizes, from the small family-run businesses to the space-age Co-op and the big glass fronts of all the regular high street vendors.

Then came the roundabout. Now here, I could go off on a rant about how the road has changed; the little wall by Rappart Road has disrupted the continuity of this proud thoroughfare entrenched in my memories of this unique town. The dead-end of the pedestrian precinct, forcing drivers around the back. The end of the cinema cum bingo hall, now a place of those bland modern flats. No, it’s already well documented. I’d rather recall the times when Lizzy Road became part of my history.

Marching:

It was taken with a purposeful stride. I wanted to get home. I wanted to walk faster than everybody. I did.

Dawdling:

Oh those hot summer days. I lived in Seacombe but went to Egerton Grove. The bus fare was threepence but so was the mint lolly ice. I usually walked alone wandering amongst the trees by the park. The pain was the Seacombe stretch; nothing but houses. Before that was the waste ground behind the Kings. I’d look for something interesting but it was full of junk. By the time I passed Torr’s newsagents, I was wishing I had threepence for anther lolly-ice.

At home, Mum would offer me orange cordial. It worked.

Traipse:

I hated Liscard Road. It was unnecessarily long. The bus service was crap. By the time a bus arrived, I could have been halfway home. If I walked really fast, I could stay warm against the bitter winter wind. But my ears still tingled. Many times, going past Hood Street, I’d bump into Dave Walsh.

The Walsh household was incredible. There would be a blazing fire, a massive fish tank and a pianola. A slice of buttered white bread would go well with the steaming cup of tea. They lived in three storeys over a butcher’s.  It was full of mysteries and curiosities. Did I really hate Liscard Road?

No, I just hated the winter.

Bussed: At one stage, trees were growing opposite Central Park.

Upstairs on the bus, I marvelled at the new growth but I was always distracted by the view towards Liverpool as the final touches were being given to the Anglican cathedral. It was a ghost-like sandy coloured image. 

 Cycled:

I have not much to say here but only a cyclist will know that on the way to Seacombe, Liscard Road points slightly downhill after Serpentine. That’s the time to honk off the saddle as fast as you can until Church Street and attempt to get to Kenilworth without having to pedal. The bike always gave up in Glenburn Road. Oh, the times I’ve returned home sweating like a pig.

Driven:

Well, I drove. That’s not very interesting, is it? There was the Christmas to new year week of 1979 when we took turns to drive. On my turn, we left the Guinea at 2.30. I was stone-cold sober. But a police car, double-parked facing the on-coming traffic decided I had driven too close. I saw the reverse lights go on in my mirror.

I could have been clever and nipped down Martins Lane but I was emboldened by my sobriety. They had me pinned against the wall of the nurses’ home after I’d blown negative.

And no officers: I was not on drugs. On arriving home, I poured a huge brandy.

When I bought my lovely Austin Cambridge, I drove up to the shops. As I returned home, my mum said:

“Where’s your car?”

I didn’t reply. I turned around and walked back to Liscard to rescue my car from the car park. (Stupid bugger!)

Staggered:

I blame the Tower.

On a Sunday night it was a heaving mess of good time guys, desperate to stretch out the weekend. We loved concoctions. Anything over lager; anything strong that is. How long did it take to get home? Heaven knows. I was lucky in that my work started mid-afternoon. I’d wake up in a mess of curry sauce and chips.

Throughout the day, it would all come back.

“What did I say to that girl?”

“Did I ask her out?”

“What did she say?”

“Did I give her my number?” 

Then I realised there were UDIs. That’s unidentified drink injuries. These sessions lasted for about 14 months. My liver is still grateful for the more civilised atmosphere of the Kings. (ish).

There were other well-worn routes; taken in the dead of night after a good old session.

Seabank Road (King Street Brighton Street). The promenade.

Poulton Road.

Penkett Road.

But Liscard Road went the extra mile. It was an integral part of the whole Wallasey upbringing. The last time I did it in the wheelchair, bumping along Wallasey’s famous pavements. It was cold and wet but I had imbibed at the Claireville. Always a good way of fighting the icy chill of a Wirral winter.

Thank you for reading.

Nut roast

Mock ye not. Throw away those notions of skinny belligerent vegetarians nibbling at the contents of the rabbit hutch floor. Vegetarian and vegan food has been championed by regional and national cuisines, especially in the Indian subcontinent. The nut roast has a bruising history, being the butt of jovial carnivores. 

This is a labour of love. It’s packed with taste, protein and damn fine goodness.

(The title image is from the BBC good food.)

Take your time. Whenever I’ve taken the plunge in a restaurant, I’ve been disappointed by the tang of rushed, burnt garlic and undercooked onions. The nut roast is a classic but it needs meticulous attention and a genuine love of food.

I looked around for a recipe that suited my food cupboard but one always has to be flexible.

Carrots? No, I have sweet potato.

Leeks? Hmm. The onions will need gentle love. You could throw a few shallots in as well.

Celery? Some celery salt will do; not too much mind.

Ingredients:

1 big onion not too finely chopped

3 cloves of roughly chopped garlic

3 tbs tahini

30g sweet potato chopped into dinky cubes

3 tbs oat milk

About 250-300g of nutty stuff. I used

walnuts

almonds

brazil nuts

pinenuts

dried cranberries

chopped prunes

Gently fry onions garlic and sweet potatoes until soft. Try not to let anything colour. Throwing in a few splashes of water will help.

Put the nutty stuff into a food processor and pulse until broken down a little.

Throw everything into a mixing bowl and mix obvs. Add seasoning; sea salt and black pepper plus any spice you feel like.

Press into a small loaf tin and bake at 180 with foil on top. After 30 minutes, remove the foil and bake for another 20 minutes until all nice and brown. I avoiding let any flavour dominate because I wanted a rounded balance. 

Turn out onto a spectacular plate and wiggle your head in pride.

This is mine

Thank you for reading.