Sunday Kitchen

The plan was to get some art in us. A drive out into the country, to enjoy sculpture and installations in the grounds of a beautiful old country house in the Oxfordshire countryside.

The Vibemobile had other ideas. Normally she’s a joy to drive—speedy, agile, comfortable, above all reliable. But earlier in the week she over-heated and threw up an un-nerving engine management light, refusing to run above 20mph without shuddering. Double-plus ungood. I booked her in to see the car doctor, but we faced a sad fact. No car, therefore no car ride out into the country.

Oh well. A quiet Sunday at home, then. Or an opportunity to noodle around in the kitchen. Which, as any smart cookie will realise, is a grand way to get your dinner game in place ahead of the week looming up on the horizon. If you’re like me, it’s also a rather good chance to clear out the food in the fridge that will turn into unsavable sludge if I don’t act fast. Buying food and then throwing it away uneaten is a cardinal sin, and one that’s easily avoided.

The salad and veg drawer in my fridge is a place where terrors lurk. Today, I faced carrot fear. A significant portion of the bagful I’d bought last week were halfway to primordial ooze, liquefying from the inside out. I issued a curse to the vegetable gods, binned the rotting half, and quickly diced the remains. Bagged and in the freezer, they’d last long enough to add to a mirepoix or for a quick and easy carrot soup.

Readership, do not discount frozen veggies. They are, in many cases, preferable to fresh—particularly if the freshies just get ignored in the bottom of the fridge. Food heroes of mine like Jack Monroe and Nigel Slater are advocates of the humble bag of Bird’s Eye peas or sweet corn. My sister-from-another-mister Sandi takes it further—she buys fresh, chops and freezes her veg. If you’re a busy beaver during the week, an hour or so at the weekend with a knife (or if you’re really time-poor and not too anal about the appearance of your soffrito, two pulses in a food processor) can save you all the time you need come dinner time.

I thought about the whole veg-prep thing, and considered that while chop-and-freeze is a valid time-saver, I might as well take the process a little further. I sliced up the saddest looking of my onions, and threw them into the Instant Pot (I need to talk about the transformative effects of the electronic pressure cooker on my kitchen life, but that’s for another time) along with the sad remnants of last night’s bottle of wine, a knob of butter, a glug of balsamic, salt and pepper. A 30 minute cycle, and this unpromising array of leftovers had transformed into a sticky-sweet-sour dollop of deliciousness I could use as the basis for a sauce, over a quick dough base for a take on pissaladière, over sausages… you name it. Not bad for five minutes of attended work.

I was on a roll now, but it was lunchtime. In a shocking move, I’d bought squidgy white bread from the garage the day before. Normally I’m against this sort of thing, but laziness trumped my best bread-making impulses. Besides, I fancied dirty sausage sandwiches.

Another refugee in the fridge was a pack of vac-packed frankfurters from Aldi, one of those impulse buys you can’t really explain to other people or yourself after the fact. I realised, when faced with squidgy white bread and mechanically formed sausage-style product, that I had subconsciously guided myself towards a recipe I’d spotted on the foodie-web the previous week. It’s deliciously evil.

Take your bread, two per person for a light lunch. Decrust, butter and spread on a dollop of ketchup or mustard or both. Add a sausage, and roll up, squishing the package shut. Slap on some egg-wash, place the roll-ups on greased foil and bake in a hot oven until crisp. Probably ten to fifteen minutes should cover it.

Dirty, dirty sausage sandwiches. If you really want to filth it up, slap on a slice of plastic cheese before you roll up the bread.

For god’s sake, have a salad alongside.

The oven was still on. It seemed wasteful to switch off. I was on a roll. I was having too much fun to stop now. I was looking at the most humble of leftovers with fresh eyes. The rubble on my worktop from lunch had potential. White bread crusts and a bit of beaten egg. Add one to the other. Douse in the last scrapings of the rind of parmesan in my sad-looking cheese tray in the fridge (you may detect a theme coming up when it comes to my neglectful curatorship of the interior of our trusty Liebherr). Bake for twenty minutes until crisp.

HAH. Posh breadsticks. They’re snappy and a bit dense in the middle. Never throw away bread, Readership. There’s always crumbs to whizz up. There’s always croutons. You can always make something out of nearly nothing.

And of course, the oven was still on, and I had courgettes and peppers in the fridge that wouldn’t last the week. Sliced, tossed in oil (Morrisons do an amazing garlic-infused rapeseed oil in the world food section that is dirt cheap and incredibly useful for traybakes), salt, pepper and dried herbs. Or fresh if you’ve got ’em. I started the veg at the same time as the breadsticks, gave them a stir once the sticks came out, and gave everything another twenty. The courgettes and peppers had caught in places, were still soft in others, and had become fragrant, sweet and moreish. Stirred through pasta (perhaps with some of the sweet onions I made earlier) or at room-temperature alongside some fish or chicken, they’re a seriously good standby.

The oven was still hot. The fridge has been restored to sanity, but I wasn’t done yet. There was a butternut squash in the store cupboard that had been waiting patiently for months. Time to let it shine.

I love squash. It’s super-forgiving. You don’t even have to peel it. Top and tail, quarter it lengthwise, then deseed it with a spoon. I put it back into the sheet-pan that the courgettes and peppers had cooked it (still hot, still seasoned with roasted flavour) dashed over a little more rapeseed oil, salt and pepper, then roasted for an hour. I can make a soup, perhaps with some of the carrots and onions from earlier. Maybe as part of a mash topping for a fish pie. Just alongside something porky. As part of a curry with some chickpeas. Possibilities abound. Dinner time has got that bit easier this week.

I think the Vibemobile might have done me a favour.

Chicken Two Ways: Soho, Memory and That Whole Proust Thing

I turned my back on Soho in October 2016, twenty-seven and a half years after I first walked through the door of TVP in Golden Square. I started as a runner, one of those fresh-faced types that would grab coffee, fetch lunches and ferry videotapes around. There–videotapes. Shows you how long ago it was. Continue reading Chicken Two Ways: Soho, Memory and That Whole Proust Thing

A Word From The Hinterlands

Hi. How are you all? Been a while, right? If you follow me on that social media thing, then you’ll know that I haven’t just disappeared off the face of the planet. If X&HT is your only resource for Robsy goodness, then, well, things have really been on the quiet side.

And to be honest, that’s been deliberate. The last 12 months have brought fairly big changes to my life, and I’ve been taking some quiet time to think things through creatively. Continue reading A Word From The Hinterlands

Thoughts Following A Thursday Night Screening Of Alien: Covenant

Same deal as earlier this week, as I find myself on a bit of an uptick in trips to the cinema. Unstructured grumbling, spoilers abound. Let’s do this.

  1. Rumour control: here are the facts. I have been a big fan of the Alien franchise since the late seventies. Slightly too young to watch Ridley Scott’s iconic movie on the big screen, I nevertheless soaked up the production designs of Ron Cobb, Chris Foss and HR Giger, and still own battered copies of The Book Of Alien and Walt Simonson’s astonishing graphic novel adaptation. I saw Aliens in its first week of release at the Odeon Marble Arch back when that was one big screen showing films in 70mm. I’ve been around these movies, this universe, for quite a while. I have skin in the game.
  2. Prometheus, Scott’s attempt to fill in the backstory of the mythos, satisfied no-one. It didn’t help that he was trying to make an Alien film without, yannow, Aliens. Bloated, pretentious, self-indulgent and bewildering, it left me angry and more upset than I’d like to admit. I’ve laughed long and hard at the Star Wars man-babies complaining about how George Lucas consistently trampled over their treasured childhood memories. Now, here comes Ridley, stomping his expensively-shod size tens all over a world I love dearly. Gotta admit, there were man-baby tears from me after Prometheus.
  3. Which brings us to his attempt to re-bootstrap the legacy, taking on board the wails of us man-babies and making something more tailored to our tastes. Alien: Covenant is supposed to be the story the fans want to see. And, well, honestly? He’s gone too far the other way. Covenant is fan-service.
  4. Consider: he re-uses the classic ‘fade-in typography’ of the first movie. Jerry Goldsmith’s classic theme is larded all over the place. We see elements of Ron Cobb’s innovative Semiotic Standard designs in alert screens. There’s even a big, loving close-up of the dipping bird toy briefly glimpsed on the bridge of the Nostromo. ‘Here,’ says Ridley. ‘This is what you want, right? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?’
  5. And actually, I was for the most part. There’s plenty of money up on screen, and John Logan’s script is pretty solid. I have issues with the attempt to make every female lead in an Alien movie into Aliens-era Ripley (sorry, I simply don’t buy the notion of gentle Katherine Waterston with a gun). Similarly, the inference that Billy Crudup’s captain is weak and ineffectual because of his faith is problematic, and the source of way too many weak religious puns.
  6. Of course, even through the Alien fan-service, Covenant is a movie that wants to deal with Big Themes. Creation. Life. Meeting your maker. It’s become increasingly clear that Scott’s heart is not in making more Alien films. He wants to make a statement, an epic SF take on Milton’s Paradise Lost (which was of course a working title for this movie). Unfortunately, the only way Fox will give him the dough to make it is if he throws a few chest-bursters into the mix.
  7. Which is a shame, because the Alien stuff is the least interesting thing about Covenant. The film really comes to life when the Luciferesque figure of David finally appears, messianic in long hair and robe. He’s literally playing God (or at the very least Dr. Moreau), and not that bothered about creating in his own image. His playful taunting of the Covenant’s resident synthetic Walter are real highlights (and the seductive scene where Michael Fassbender teaches Michael Fassbender how to play the flute is a technical triumph–’I’ll do the fingering’ indeed). These gave me a sense of the film that Scott actually wants to make–a darkly gothic take on creation mythology. Not an easy sell, though.
  8. Largely, then, Alien: Covenant is a mishmash, a slumgullion, a cut-and-shut that, while it has a lot to recommend (it’s a huge improvement on Prometheus) is still frankly a bit of a mess. It’s a big statement on epic themes that has a skewed monster movie wrapped around it. I’m still chewing over whether I actually enjoyed it or not. I think I did. Even though I know when I’m being pandered to.
  9. That being said, I do want to know what David gets up to next. Scott finally has an anti-hero as delightfully amoral as Hannibal Lector. I still dig his take on everyone’s favourite cannibal, and David is cut from the same cloth. The ending of Covenant finally sets up a dark new path for the franchise–one that, despite all my man-baby tears, I’d be happy to tread.

For SCIENCE!

A March For Science. Seems like a crazy idea. Like staging a march for gravity, or the moon. We live with the very clear, quantifiable benefits brought to us by scientific research, innovation and discovery. From the SF-nal qualities of the mini-computer in our pockets, to our home comforts, even to the way we prepare our food. Let’s not forget, it wasn’t that long ago that indoor plumbing was rare, and cooking was done on a wood or coal-fired range. By any reliable metric, we’re living in a golden age.

But science is under threat, just when we need it the most. Research projects into vital areas like climate change are being defunded or slashed. Anti-vaccination rhetoric has led to outbreaks of diseases like rubella that were thought to be extinct. According to gnome-sized Pob-alike Michael Gove, people are ‘sick of experts.’ In the Age Of Trump, and with the looming trash-fire of Brexit already casting a shadow over staff and funding for British science, the outlook is bleak.

Suddenly, marching in support of the community seems like a good idea after all.

I joined hundreds of thousands of people worldwide on Earth Day, April 22nd, to take to the streets for science. The London March started (where else?) at the Science Museum, winding past Hyde Park, up Piccadilly before convening at Parliament Hill. The mood, like the weather, was sunny. This was a celebration as much as a protest. White lab coats, terrible puns and jokes involving equations were everywhere. Heading towards Trafalgar Square, a bloke cycled past yelling “nerds!” We all cheered. Damn right. Nerdy and proud.


Scientists are not natural joiners, for the most part happy to hole up in their labs and do the good work. So there was a giddy sense of ambling out of the comfort zone, of not quite believing that we were here, and that there were so many of us. And that we had so much support, from both the public and a few very well known names…


Of course, there were chants. “What do we want? Evidence-based policies! When do we want them? After peer review!” Our banners were shonky, home-brew affairs, cobbled together from cardboard, drainpipes, duct-tape and even Lego. It seemed appropriate. British science has always been run on a shoestring, powered by imagination and lateral thinking.


At Parliament Hill, we gathered to hear speeches from names like Cosmic Shambles star Robin Ince, and finished up with a sing-along to Monty Python’s ‘The Science Song’.  What else would we have done? The theme from The Big Bang Theory?


This was my first ever march, for a cause in which I wholeheartedly believe. In an age of alt-facts and pseudo-science, sometimes you need to make a stand for the truth. And if you have to do it in the company of 12,000 nerds and geeks, well, so much the better.


They are, after all, my people.

In celebration of the day, and the work that comes after, I’ve fired up Spotify and put together a March For Science playlist. Feel free to suggest additions.

The Pan, The Bread, The Sausage: Meditations On A Sunday Breakfast.

She turns to me, soft and warm on this bright Sunday morning, and whispers in my ear–deep, sultry. ‘I don’t suppose we have any sausages in the freezer you could defrost? It’s just that we’ve got that squishy bread, and it’s been forever since I had a sausage sarnie…’ 

Pillow-talk in the Wickings household. Completely understandable, on a day when the smell of grilling meat is an obvious counterpoint to the sunshine of this April day. Breakfast is important, and a sausage sarnie under blue skies in the garden suddenly sounds like a very good idea.

It’s about the details, of course. The porky lovelies are cooked low and slow (and I mean slow–half an hour at least to develop the right level of crust, and for all the god’s sakes, don’t prick ‘em). They go in my favourite cast-iron skillet, a piece of Hairy Biker merchandise picked up for a pittance in a garden centre years ago. Heavy as hell, and seasoned with the baked-on grease of a thousand meals, it will last for decades if looked after with care. I never wash it. A quick rinse with warm water and a swipe with a scourer does the job. The surface of the pan is blackly translucent, and nothing ever sticks. It lives out on the hot-plate, always ready for the next meal. 

The thing about a really good sausage sandwich is the counterpoint–good sausages, cheap and squishy supermarket loaf. I bake my own bread, and can go a decent approximation of a brick of Mother’s Pride, given the time. But if I’m honest with myself, the perfect sausage sandwich needs balance that only comes from the transposition of the two key ingredients. The crunch of the crisp surface of the banger and the soft, juicy meat, soaked up by the spongy bread. Heaven. Slightly too much butter, of course. There should always be the danger of the whole structure soggily falling apart.  

Sauce on your sausage? It’s an important question that I put to Clare as she pads out to lay the table. ‘Brown or red?’ When I was a picky kid, the very thought of ketchup or HP on my sarnie would have been anathema. I went through a period of liking mayo, maybe a little mustard. I know, don’t judge me. I was young. My tastebuds took a while to bed in. 

These days I like the punchy combo of exotic umami that comes from the meeting of sweet dates, sour tamarind, molasses and spices. A condiment that should have a noble, poetic name. Maharajah’s Delight. Royal Spice. With typical English understatement, we just call it brown sauce. I pep it up with a little Sriracha. The vinegary bite just lifts the whole experience. 

In an epiphanic moment, while freezer-digging for sausages, I come across a bag of hash browns. These craggy, savoury pucks of bliss are a joy to me, and turn a sandwich into a meal. I ask Clare if she wants any. ‘No, too much.’ I put one in the pan for her anyway, tucking them in amongst the bangers at the halfway point with a splash of oil. I know if I don’t she’ll only decide she wants one of mine, and that’s an argument that no-one needs. 

In Australia, they’ll regularly do breakfast on the barbie, and it’s a practice that’s gradually making its way back to the home country. Given a sunny morning, it’s a fine way to ease into the day. You could even throw a thin breakfast steak on to join the bacon and bangers. Definitely a couple of big portobello mushrooms. Hash browns, always. I don’t do eggs, but if you have a grill big enough for a frying pan, you’re all set. It’s a smoky meal to tend, though. Maybe save your morning shower for after breakfast, unless you like the idea of smelling of eau de barbecue all day. For today, though, the skillet is fine, set to a contented sizzle. No need for any more than that. 

Breakfast was everything we wanted, and all we hoped for. A simple thing made with care and attention. Not rushed, ready when it was ready. An almost meditative meal, which we ate quietly, smiling at each other. 

Sometimes, all you need is a sausage sandwich to put the world to rights. 

The A To Z Of SFF: R Is For Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story tells the story of the brave rebels that stole the plans to the Death Star and led us into the opening crawl of Star Wars: The Episode Four. Is it a story that needed to be told? Let’s just say that Rob and Clive… disagree.

Strap in. Frank exchange of views ahead.