Milly Mossop

I'm back, married and moving to Singapore!

Did I mention unemployed?

Right, this time, I promise this blog is going to be well maintained. Just as soon as I wrestle control of my domain names back from the weird registry people (I mean what kind of job is that? Yes I hear you, better than no job at all).

So it turned out that when they asked me to renew millymossop.com and millymossop.co.uk they really meant 'buy from scratch because they actually expired in March'. Bloomingdales.

Back soon, when I shall tell you all about the perfect pub (could this spell the end of this chapter of the blog?) we stayed in for our honeymoon, and of course the Big Move to Singapore!

The Blue Bell, York

I am hanging my head in disgrace (whilst trying to watch Graham Bell climb Mont Blanc on some new BBC2 programme about trying to kill yourself, which is something of a challenge. Hanging my head and watching telly I mean, Mont Blanc looks like a piece of piste.)

The reason for my shame (mollified it has to be said by chuckling quietly at my piste pun) is that I just said to Mozz, "have I even been to a pub recently?" whilst struggling to think what I could contribute here for the first time in an old age.

I mean, I have been to a pub recently. I went to one behind Oxford St yesterday but only to recover from shopping for wedding shoes - I don't even know what it was called. But I drank St Austell's Tribue which was very nice. And last Saturday I had a couple of pleasnat pints (Doom Bar) at the Manor Arms off Clapham High St with Katherine and the Saturday before at the Old Sergeant on Garratt Lane (London SW18).

But these are all pubs I've been to many times, what happened to my Search for the Perfect Pub? I have to cast my mind back as far as November for some genuine discovery work.

We spent a weekend in York - me, Mozz and the Hunts - us girls having got our men a drive in some fast car or other at Elvington Airfield (the one where Richard Hammond nearly lost his head) for their birthday / wedding anniversary. And I had my eye on exploring a few olde pubs...

Unfortunately the only one I can remember now is the Blue Bell on Fossgate, but what a special memory it is.  A Teensy weensy, hokey pokey, holy grail for ale. That's it, that's my review. Partly because I'm hugely distracted by the presenters of High Altitude dancing with death on very high mountains, partly because some pubs are beyond analysis -  you just have to enjoy them in the moment. And that is my perfect pub. Not the Blue Bell, not necessarily - for a start it's in a city centre surrounded by a wobbling mass of tourists, chavs and students - but a pub that defies explanation. It just is.

And I think I might have seen such a pub on telly recently, specifically the marvellous new series 'Oz and James Drink to Britain'. This is televisual heaven for me and Mozz, he loves cars, I love pubs. Oz Clarke and James May drive around Britain in a Rolls Royce Cornische convertible checking out different pubs and ales - it literally couldn't be more perfect.

Anyway, on epsiode one they visited The Tan Hill Inn high atop the Yorkshire Dales. It was on the edge of the middle of nowhere, had sheep walking around inside the pub and looked like a place where time stands still, in fact time and space don't exist. The pub just is.

And boy do I want to go.

Right now though I just want to go to bed, Mozz has turned over to what I call a bang bang movie, not in the blonde triple D, subtitled sense, but in the loud gunfire, fake looking aliens, lots of indecipherable shouting sense. Not very calming basically so I think I'll leave him to it... (I think it's X Men in case anyone was wondering and yes, there's a joke about Ex Men in there somewhere but I'm not that cruel).

N'night O' faithful few!

To Alnwick!

 Oh happy days, my last post was published successfully which means I haven't been excommunicated by Typepad after all. Thanks TP!

We're off to Alnwick this evening for the annual family shoot / pub fest. More reason than usual to be excited this year as my younger cousin has just had a baby girl (my 2nd cousin?) - the first of our generation to produce the next generation. So hats off to Ami! I think there will be much head wetting in the Northumberland Arms, Felton tomorrow.

And also my other cousin who lives in Sussex is bringing her boyfriend up to meet the clan for the first time. In fact they're already there, he's probably being Grannied as we speak poor lad.

Meanwhile Mozz and I have a wedding-free weekend as there won't be time to fit in visits to the vicar / photographer / florist / car providers (which is a shame because they're hilarious, I'll be in stitches by the time I get to the church and it's only a 3 minute drive).

So we shall merely drink and be merry. Just what the doctor ordered!

The Grauniad? Grandad more like.

That's not a slur on The Guardian which I think is as fine a national newspaper as you'll get in this media driven, celebrity obsessed world. Admittedly I read The Times offline but only because they deliver it to my door whilst I'm still sleeping. (Well, I say 'read'. Increasingly it just gets recycled. Once the builders are gone though we'll get our mornings back).

Anyway, where was? Oh yes, Guardian readers heavily disguised as Daily Mail readers. Just check out the petty vitriol heaped on this poor columnist who dared to say that maybe the Brand-Ross debacle was slightly over egged.

It left such a eggy taste in my mouth I left a comment myself (I know, makes me no better than the rest of them but I'm working at home, not feeling very well and have twice lost a proposal I'm writing due to technical ineptitude).

But I'll come clean, I'm only really posting something to check Typepad has let me back in - my account got suspended because I forgot to pay / update card details or some such foolery. I've sorted it now though - let me in!

Chicken, leek and red pepper risotto in 22 simple steps

I just want to post this recipe (can't really call it a recipe, I made it up as I went along - when does a recipe become a recipe? Discuss. See, every now and then a whiff of that English degree sails tantalisingly past my nose... I can almost smell it...But back to food) - oh yes, so I just want to post this before I forget because, if you'll excuse my French arrogance, it was fucking tasty.

1. Pot roast a chicken with lots of thyme (I also stuck a halved lemon up its bottom, poured on some stock made with a Knorr chicken stock cube - didn't have any white wine or would have used that - smeared butter on its breast and scattered it with onion, leek and root veg. The lucky bird.
2. Eat almost as much of the chicken as you'd like but not actually as much as you'd really like because you need to keep about half the breast meat and all the stuff on the back (poke around between the bones, get it all out) - put this under lock and key / in the fridge, depending on your level of resistance to temptation until the next day
3. Meanwhile make the stock, cover the chicken carcass in its cooking pot with water, add some more thyme, pepper corns, leek ends, droopy carrots / whatever's lying around etc (I'm sure you  know how to make stock) - bring to boil, simmer for a couple of hours, strain into big jug / bowl, leave to cool overnight and put into fridge in morning (do not ask boyfriend to put into fridge in morning. He will forget.)
4. Next day, just as you're about to leave the office instigate the mother of all email debates amongst foodie colleagues about the merit of parmesan cheese and white wine in a risotto. My dilemma - making a cheap and tasy supper of Sunday leftover's without the two ingredients that make it taste really yummy but will together cost £10 from the nearest food shop, which happens to be M&S. Leave colleagues to disagree (Ed says cheese unimportant, Nik says I'll die without it but could substitute white wine vinegar for white wine, Dom says funnily enough his girlfriend is making him pancetta and mushroom risotto tonight. I think to myself 'I bet Dom's girlfriend isn't kicking off a fuss in her office about how to make a risotto' and then think 'probably because she knows exactly what she's doing and has all the right ingredients'. Give up, start to walk home.
5. Half way home on South Lambeth Road, remember Tony's Italian Deli... Pop in, big cheery (if sweaty from walking in synthetic clothing) smile "hello! Do you have any parmesan cheese?" Tony looks at me like I am mental and walks to great big, glass fronted fridge full of cheese. "How much you want?" "Ohhh just a bit, 100g?" (thinking 'fuck! how much is 100g? I've only got £40 on me!') Tony slices off a modest amount and says "Is £1.60 ok?" I feel so relieved I decide to really go for it and ask Tony if I can substitute white wine vinegar for white wine in a risotto. Again he looks at me rather warily and after a little bit of that shop keeper / customer banter that I'm really crap at (if the world were a stage then I would not be asked to play a regular, normal customer) we agree that I should go for a half bottle of Frascati at £3.40. Having implied that I don't want a full bottle because I'd then have to drink it all, I now realise Tony thinks I am a struggling alcoholic. With an interpersonal skills deficit. I weigh up pros and cons of sailing out with a cheery "ciao!" (as I have seen other customers do), gurn my thanks, turn around, walk into another customer and exit stage Stockwell.
6. Home sweet (paint smelling) home - discover exciting veg box on doorstep (yes I know there's a credit crunch but it tastes ten times better than supermarket plastic and forces you to eat veg. Not that I've ever had to be forced to eat anything in my life). Inside awaits, amongst other delights, a lush leek and a juicy red pepper. Take this upstairs to kitchen (which is meant to be downstairs by now but that's another story)
7. Chop yesterday's leftover chicken into little bits and put aside
8. Slice onion, 2-3 garlic clooves and a leek, put to one side
9. Oh almost forgot, get stock from fridge, scrape fatty crust from top, tip remainder into a pan and heat on the hob
10. Heat olive oil and butter in a deep saucepan / casserole dish and chop juicy red pepper
11. Cook onions, garlic, leek and then pepper in the oil & butter for a few minutes - oh and add some thyme leaves as well
12. On a whim add about half a teaspoon, or a little more - whatever you fancy really - each of ground turmeric and paprika, and then a pinch of dried chilli flakes or something similar
13. Keep stirring til it's lovely and soft and orangeish
14. Add arborio / risotto rice (about 300g I think), stir til rice is coated in oil and transluscent
15. Then add a glass of white wine, stir until absorbed
16. Forgot to mention, you should have Radio 4 on, particularly if they're broadcasting Just a Minute. That Sue Perkins is so funny. Hollyoaks, I have learnt, is no good for making risotto because something attention grabbing, like an abandoned son killing his long lost brother's boyfriend who used to be a priest, will happen and before you know it you've been sat on the sofa for ten minutes neglecting your risotto - far from the constant stirring insisted upon by  Valentino Harris. No, risotto making requires the radio. Not the television. If you time it right you might even catch The Archers.
17. Now add the stock, ladle by ladle, stirring (see above) continuously until you're happy with the texture - this always takes me at least half an hour, although most recipes say about 20 minutes
18. Finally (almost) stir in a knob of butter and a handful of (cheap from the local deli) parmesan cheese, put the lid on the pot and leave for 2 minutes whilst you bark at boyfriend and switch from Radio 4 to Corrie (remember, radio for risotto making, telly for risotto eating)
19. Finally, finally, spoon onto warm plates and then (this is the bit that I think could earn my first Michelin star) drizzle with Belazu Argan oil ('a unique oil with a mildly toasted, nutty flavour'), sprinkle on a bit more grated parmesan, a grind of black pepper and tuck in.
20. Go back for seconds
21. Go back for thirds
22. Feel fat but happy

Hamlet, Butterflies, Boats and Cream Tea

It can only be Stratford-upon-Avon.

Last Friday I took Chief Boozemaid Becca on a long awaited mini break (very mini, just one night) the highlight of which was seeing David Tennant in the RSC production of Hamlet. My friend Melanie had booked tickets yonks ago, as soon as they went on sale and very kindly got me two as well.

And goodness me, what a performance. The English graduate within me would have many eloquent, intelligent words to say about David Tennant's portrayal of Hamlet but unfortunately I can't seem to find her at the moment. I think she might be squashed under the 3 big portions of chicken risotto I've just eaten (this new credit crunch culture of 'waste not want not' has turned me into something of a food enthusiastic, to put it mildly. Mozz now obediently recites the line "well, we don't want you wasting away" when I mutter something about "may as well just finish off that last little bit...")

But truly, Tennant's performance was remarkable and I feel very lucky to have seen it. The rest of the cast were of course brilliant too, Patrick Stewart in particular (ok, I can't remember any of the other actors' names but they all shone like shiney little Shakespearian stars).

After the play we ambled back to Melanie's party's hotel, The Falcon and passed a couple of pubs that certainly had a beckoning air of 'come on over to my place' about them (yet were shutting, Hamlet being not one of Shakey's shorts). Becca and I quickly resolved to come back to Stratford-upon-Avon again with more time for pub crawling.

And that was before we discovered the Butterfly Farm! And the boat trips! And the cream teas! And we haven't even started on the House of Shakespeare's cleaner's sister's illegitmate child yet.

So all in all a charming weekend that somehow set me back on track. Saturday I bounced back to London on the 15.39 resolved on spending an unproductive but hugely enjoyable evening on the sofa watching the X Factor and a crap film with Mozz (actually I don't know if it, Ocean's 13 as it turned out, was crap - I fell asleep 5 minutes in) and an unenjoyable but hugely productive Sunday culling my  wardrobe by one third, getting through five piles of laundry and doing many other long-put-off chores whilst Mozz painted the house, non stop (he can barely move his arms now).

As it turned out, I enjoyed Sunday hugely as well. And frankly, if life is still fun when you're washing your boyfriend's pants, it can't be all that bad.

The Bridge Inn, Dulverton, Exmoor

Well this was an unexpected find on a wet weekend in the West Country, and what a lucky find it was too. We were in the area for a wedding - a really beautiful, happy occasion with straw bales for seats and homemade picnics - and with a spare hour chanced upon the Bridge Inn, a blessed haven from the unseasonal damp weather with a choice of 3 cask ales (we drank the imaginatively titled 'Ale' by the local Exmoor brewery), a fake fire (whatever, it provided heat), and a stash of board  games.

"Ooh!" squeaked Mozz in his boyish excitement, "we can play Connect 4!" I took a moment to think back to the last time he played Connect 4 on holiday in Scotland, we'd stopped off at Macbeth's log cabin in Dunoon for a night - I think he got to bed at 5.00 in the morning. I had no idea Connect 4 was such an addictive, competitive game. "We could..." I replied cautiously, "or we could play Scrabble?.." Somehow, no idea how, I got my way without a struggle, and we played our first game of Scrabble together over a pint of Ale in a traditional English Country Pub. I'm not sure I knew what bliss was until then.

My mother kinda lessened the fun factor a couple of days later when, having told her about our weekend, she replied with a chuckle, "oh you're such an old married couple!" I tried to hastily climb the coolometer by retorting "yeah whatever, after that we got leggless with the locals and trashed the place and had an orgy" to which she replied "yes but you didn't really, did you." (Sheepishly) "no, not really. Sorry mummy".

But suffice to say, the Bridge Inn really is a lovely pub and I wouldn't hesitate to go back if I was in the area. I made a note of the other ales which of course I lost, but pretty sure one of them was Otter.

On the Wedding Front, I've just amused myself by ordering 3 copies of Debrett's Wedding Guide, one for us, one for Mozz's parents and one for mine. Part of me is now thinking 'I am not the person I thought I was, she would never have bought a wedding guide let alone Debrett's', another is thinking 'well at least we'll all be singing from the same hymn sheet now, which is ironic because the vicar has vetoed the one hymn, in fact the one thing about the entire wedding, that Mozz really wants' but with crushing defeatism I know the truth is that I want to buy something wedding related to keep it all alive. Which is stupid, because I know that in 8 months time it's all going to feel only too real and I'll be cursing table plans, flowers, favours, hair styles, travel logistics and everything else that I imagine gets squeezed into the last few weeks. So really I should enjoy this lull and make the most of it.

Talking of which, Mozz's programme about Great Big Enormous Bridges has finished so I'm going to go next door and curl up on the sofa with him.

But the Bridge Inn, great pub.

I am the worst blogger in the world

I quite literally can't believe that I last posted in October of last year. 10 months ago! If this blog were a child it would be handed over to social services quicker than you could say "oopsie".

Anyway, so what I'm going to do is re-design the site, learn how to upload photos and stuff and then do a big re-launch, as if that was the idea all along and I've just spent the last 10 months coming up with a really good plan. Downside of course being that whatever I come up with will seem like a shit plan for 10 months work.

For now I just wanted to share some news, except I don't think I've got any readers left, so this is going to feel a bit like talking to a wall. I'm getting married! Woo hoo! (Wall stares back impassively and thinks 'what, you expect me to go out and buy a hat?')

Well, Wall, just in case you grow some ears and a sense of romance, let me tell you it was incredibly exciting. May 18th in Montgomery, Wales, overlooking beautiful countryside. I laughed then I cried, then I laughed again (then he said "are you going to say yes?" so I did) then we went for a pint in the Crown Inn. Good pub.

The date's fixed for May next year in Northumberland and so far no one involved has fallen out with anyone else which by all accounts is a minor miracle. Still, plenty of time yet.  I have 5 wonderful bridesmaids, recently re-branded boozemaids after our latest attempt at wedding dress shopping (in fairness this time we looked at dresses before drinking our body weight in Chardonnay. Although I wish someone had spotted the cow muck on my jeans before we went into the posh Pimlico bridal shop, I'm sure the lady noticed). And I have a Mate of Honour - Gandolf - who I have to say I'm congratulating myself on appointing. He's just like a Maid of Honour - supportive, encouraging, reassuring, wise - without being a girl about it. With Gandolf it's all short, pithy emails and colour coded spreadsheets. I can't write an email of less than 200 words and spreadsheets scare me. So hurrah for boozemaids and mates of honour! I'm hoping I get to keep them after the wedding.

So, pubs.... Wall, how would you feel if this blog took on more of a bridal tone than a 'pubs I've been to' tone for the next 9 months?... It's just that a) hard not to think about the wedding when I have 20 minutes downtime in front of the computer and b) the pretty wedding dress I saw on Tuesday will look even prettier without a 9 month London Pride baby filling it out.

But I will try, I promise. Ok, what pubs have I been to recently?... The Grosvenor, Sidney Road, SW9 - brilliant and bad as ever. The Warwick, Warwick Way, Pimlico - really like that actually (not that I can remember it after the 3rd bottle of Chardonnay) and the food smelled good too (just wish I'd had some). The Oddfellow Arms in Alnwick has had a change of management again and doesn't do ale at all at the moment - I really hope they do by next May because it's the ideal pub for wedding guests to congregate in before the service, near the church and HUGE beer garden. See, couldn't last 3 pubs before I brought the wedding up again. Sorry.

Mozz is round at Macbeth's doing a Battlestar Galactica marathon (remember they used to live together in Balham? Now they live 500 metres apart in Stockwell. It's sweet in a slightly disturbing way. I don't think Mozz ever grew out of boarding school). When he's not here our sofa is always broken (it only works if we're both on it together) so really I should be grateful for his childish interest in '70s science fiction bad remakes because it gets me in front of the computer with an empty head.

But maybe I should take a good book to bed with me instead. Which reminds me, I read a genuinely excellent laugh-and-cry-out-loud book the other day, Wife in the North by Judith O'Reilly. She's got a blog as well which I'm going to add to my side bar in a gently sycophantic, fawning way (*I want to be like you when I grow up and have babies and live in the back of beyond and write books*).

And that's all, Wall. See you again in another 10 months. Or the next time the boys are watching Battlestar Galactica, which will be hopefully sooner.

And another thing! (that has precious little to do with pubs...)

...Although it forms the basis for a conversation I'm sure I'll have in the next pub I'm in. Did you see Ewan McGregor and 'best mate' Charley Boormans' ego fest Long Way Down last night?

I had to check the TV guide to make sure it wasn't intended as a parody; it was almost as if McGregor had spent his career thus far praying for a part of a self indulgent, moronic but ultimately harmless famous Scottish actor, and eventually gave up waiting and wrote it himself.

The concept had so much potential - two best mates, two motorbikes, one continent. But this potential was flushed away by the addition of two 'Long Way Down' heavily branded 4X4s, a producer / director with delusions of celebrity, a back office crew given the brief "right, you're on visa applications. Now make it look challenging, impossible even", a doctor, two survival trainers, most of McGregor's extended family, and his wife.

David Brentesque moments (if you can imagine a good looking, Scottish Brent) kicked in early. McGregor greets the two back office girls with a generous hug and the question "are you married yet?" to which the first girl giggles coquettishly and says "no... not yet". Warming to his theme, our dashing hero hugs the second girl and asks "how about you, are you married yet?" to which she responds rather more sharply "no", then remembering the cameras and her raison d'etre, "you still haven't asked me!" more demurely. Ewan really is the ultimate smug married. The happy little tit.

Later, 'best mate' Charley explains the common stereotype of Africa that he wants to challenge; "Everyone thinks Africa is just one country and everyone's got AIDs". All the more surprising then that a significant part of the programme is given over to extreme survival training, ensuring the boys know how to handle the inevitable muggings, robberies and kidnappings. Because of course that's the first thing that happens when you step foot in Africa - the savages will steal your motorbike and kill your 'best mate'.

What struck me most about the boys' relationship is that, well, there's not much honesty in it. Ewan's wife Eve wants to join them for part of the trip. Every single person bar Ewan can see this isn't a very good idea, but it still falls to the producer / director to urge Charley to talk to his 'best mate' about it. So here we see Charley confiding in the producer about his 'best mate' and the producer attempting to paint a veneer of buddiness over the whole thing. This probably also accounted for the relentless hugs in front of the camera and attempts at horseplay that are less convincing than Britney Spears in a Convent.

Anyway, finally, the boys begin their intrepid adventure. On a plane to Inverness. Which Charley misses because he "said the 'bomb' word" confides a dramatic producer / director, and ended up in a police cell. I take it back boys, maybe you do need 10 people to hold your hands through Africa.

The four day drive from John O'Groats back to London seems to have been planned a) to fit in some fairly camp footage of Ewan hugging his family in his duck egg blue leather jump suit, b) to check in on the local children's hospice which the project is raising funds for (how funds are being raised hasn't been made clear but I do hope no one's actually sponsoring this luxury trip) and take a photo of a grinning Ewan holding up a, presumably dying, little boy in a Superman costume, c) so Ewan and Charley can spend a night camping in Silverstone Race Track half way down, cue much comedy putting up of tents and pushing each other over and d), and ostensibly, to "test that everything works". Because obviously those spanking new BMW bikes shipped over from Germany two days ago could go at any moment. And of course once you've erected a tent in the rain at Silverstone, the Sahara will be a doddle.

Thing is, I will watch the next instalment, because painful though the experience is there's nothing I wouldn't endure to see Charley finally snap at McGregor "look just because you're a better actor than me and better looking, and it's your name that got this project off the ground, and I know the BBC would never have been interested if it was 'Charley and real best mate Dave from the pub' - don't think for a second that I wouldn't throw you to the next gang of gun toting savages we see. And if for any reason we never see a gang of gun toting savages I'll just steal your tent poles when you're not looking".

Not a review, but a preview: Milly's pub crawl of Clapham High Street

Actually I just felt like writing something to clear the dust from this rapidly degenerating blog, so thought I'd let you know of plans to explore the pubs up and down and around Clapham High Street, on Saturday 10th November. Landlords beware...

This will also give me the purpose that has been rather lacking of late: it's not that I haven't been to any pubs recently, I've been to lots. And uncovered a couple of treasures in the SW1 area of London where I'm now working (I'm being literal - there really are only a couple). Basically I've just been a lazy arse. But it's amazing what an invitation to spend your weekend doing DIY makes you want to do, so here I am again (whilst poor Mozz single handedly saws wood, drills things and lays our wood floor upstairs - I did make him a cup of tea earlier though, and whilst typing this I'm also roasting a chicken in spectacular multi task manner).

Also, I wanted to update an earlier half arsed review of The Oddfellow Arms in Alnwick. The landlord, Graeme, kindly stopped by and left a comment so I wanted to return the compliment by announcing the unanimous thumbs up by other members of the Mossop clan, who have since returned to the Oddfellows several times and thoroughly enjoyed the beer and ambiance. And I'm looking forward to going back myself in early December. Top pub.

Right, better go and peel a parsnip or something. I'm doing Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's roast chicken with honey and couscous - I wanted to provide a link to the recipe, cos it's looking pretty damn good, but I can't find it online so I'm afraid you'll just have to buy your own copy of the River Cottage Cookbook. Which is no bad thing to have to do, in fact it's one of my favourite books.