You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

This week: I tried a new dentist.

Barry White, dogs and bagpipes. Three of my deeply ingrained phobias. But these three combined, pale into insignificance when it comes to phobia number four: the dentist. Like many phobias, my terror of the dentist stems from traumatic childhood experiences. As I type, I am literally shuddering in my own skin with the recollection of the variety of atrocities that I have endured in that dreaded chair throughout my 38 years.

At one point in my early years, I had a really lovely dentist. Mr Goldup was gentle and smiley and I always left his surgery laden with lollipops and cartoon stickers proclaiming the benefits of flossing in between your peggies (just a slight contradiction, now I come to think of it). My phobia set in after this teddy bear of a man left for pastures new and we changed surgeries. With the bedside manner of Harold Shipman, Mr Lomax took visible pleasure in administering various forms of torture regardless of my tender years. Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with too many teeth and the task of extracting them was bestowed upon Adolf Lomax, who went about this with the delicacy of King Kong doing his afternoon shopping at Villeroy and Boch. I would have been in less pain if he'd attached them to a HGV going 150km/hour. And this was in the days of general anaesthetic.

I spent the 4 or 5 years leading up to puberty looking like a James Bond villain, thanks to the wonders of modern orthodontics. Every six weeks or so, I got half a day off school to take a bus trip to Liverpool and visit a lavish Georgian terrace on Rodney Street with an enormous front door painted in beautiful eggshell blue. This spectacular building housed the orthodontic practice of Mr Birkenhead, whose soft wavy hair and winning smile cleverly disguised Lucifer himself. With a CV boasting a wealth of Nazi war crimes, Mr Birkenhead refused to lay down his tools until my bloodcurdling screams could be heard from the Wirral. Each new brace was screwed on tighter than a duck's arse in winter. And then I hopped on the bus again, straight back to school to be greeted by my classmates with the inventive new nickname 'Metal Mickey'.



84 Rodney Street: The Gates of Hell

 It will come as no surprise that I have failed miserably in terms of dental welfare, when left to my own devices. During my adult life, appointments have been very few and far between and putting any kind of trust in someone yielding a drill is something that is just quite simply beyond me. I have only visited a dentist under duress and when confronted with the prospect of imminent agony. After a recent throbbing tooth episode, I reluctantly made an appointment at a surgery close to home where my friend Antoinette is the dental assistant. And when the pain subsided. I phoned up and cancelled, telling a big pack of lies about an imaginary emergency meeting at work (yeah, right, like I'm that important). Antoinette saw through this ruse and with some gentle badgering, finally managed to coax me there earlier this week, with my husband holding my hand and my face like a robber's dog.

On entering the corridor leading to the surgery, when we attempted to switch on the lights; nothing happened. Everything was pitch black. Who in their right mind would enter a dental surgery in the dark? I refused point blank. I would rather stand in Harrod's window naked on Christmas Eve. With the lights finally on, Antoinette comfortingly put her arm around me and said, "Don't worry, Bri's here and I'm here, what else do you need?". "My Mum", I muttered sulkily. Pathetic. With a capital P.

The new dentist, fully aware of my fears, was approachable, mild-mannered and reassuring. He listened to my concerns, some irrational, some genuine, and discussed honestly but sensitively the treatment he deemed necessary for the preservation of my toothy grin. Most importantly, he didn't come anywhere near me with that nasty implement with the hook on the end that most dentists like to poke into your gums. I left armed with a special toothpaste that I later found out tastes of soap and mouthwash that creates a kind of rabid dog effect. All in all, I felt less anxious and prepared to make the required effort to keep all 28 of my pearly whites in place well into my old age.

Would I try it again?: I have an appointment booked for 22 September, but something tells me that I could be called to an emergency meeting...

Too Much Spice of Life

Last week, for the first time: I ate at Jamie's Italian

It's no secret that the Brits have not got the best reputation when it comes to cuisine. On numerous occasions I have found myself  rising to my compatriots' defence when continental friends snigger at the pairing of mint sauce with lamb, After Eight Mints and how we prefer our peas mashed to within an inch of their lives. The quality of basic pub and restaurant food is seemingly on the up, but my many past experiences leave a lot to be desired ("Would you like chips or mash with your Shepherd's pie?"), so my line of defence always revolves around home cooking. Nobody makes better scones or gravy than my Mum. And my Aunty Theresa's Chocolate Lime Mousse could make grown men cry.

It was with Mum and Aunty Tre that I spent a wonderful day last week in Liverpool city centre indulging in some classic retail therapy. A girlie day out like this would be incomplete without a fancy schmancy lunch and the communal decision was to grab a table at Jamie's Italian, the Liverpool One branch of the Jamie Oliver franchise. Love him or hate him, there is no denying that Jamie Oliver has helped revolutionise the way we approach food and his global impact has done no harm to the British culinary reputation. My hopes were fairly high.

The best word to describe the restaurant interior is fun. With the hustle and bustle of visible chefs and large ham shanks hanging from the ceiling, we were elbow to elbow with prospective university students, business men and ladies-who-lunch in a chatty but agreeable atmosphere. I was particularly fond of the toilets with the large old-fashioned sinks, Thomas Crapper branded lavatories and the Xlerator hand dryers that stick two fingers up to James Dyson (if indeed your fingers are still intact after using this contraption).

We were greeted by a superficially friendly waitress, gushing as she listed the specials of the day parrot fashion, going into the most minute detail of how many scrubs each potato had been subject to and what variety of knife had been used to slice the asparagus. The menu is fairly extensive with something for everyone and, as prices were high and appetites average, we opted for small portions of pasta with a selection of sides to share as a starter.

Something that gets under my skin on occasion is how the Brits have a tendency to dumb things down, shying away from sophistication, and Jamie's menu was littered with names of dishes that suggested "Get it down your neck, love": Posh Chips, Eat and Mess. I'm not sure if the grubby tea towels-cum-serviettes and chipped tin plates were aiming to create a quaint and rustic ambience, but for me, this rather smacked of greasy spoon with ideas above its station (I think they're called Gastropubs).



Adding to the rustic ambience or in need of Daz?


The World's Best Olives on Ice (I'm still unclear whether they were claiming to be the world's best olives that just happen to be served on ice or indeed the best olives in the world) pretty much lived up to high expectations and I could've munched on them for the entire afternoon.The star of the show was, by far, Jamie's delicious Posh Chips, so named because they are rather decadently drizzled in truffle oil and then sprinkled with grated Parmesan. The simple ideas are often the best. We discussed amongst ourselves how we plan to try this at home and I have just discovered that big-hearted Jamie is generous enough to share the recipe with his fans in his on-line magazine.

Our main course dishes were rather more disappointing; although Mum lapped up her Wild Truffle Risotto, my Bucatini Carbonara was not tasty enough to prevent my eye wandering towards the sumptious burger on the next table, but then again, my eyes are always bigger than my belly. It was only after we had scoffed the lot that we noticed that the contents of Aunty Tre's plate were going nowhere fast as she politely pushed her pasta around. Theresa had ordered the Gigli Primavera on a previous visit to the restaurant and enjoyed it, but now tears were streaming down her face as she battled with the overpowering chilli. I sneaked a little taste only to confirm that it was indeed laced with the stuff, my suspicion being to disguise the lifeless vegetables tossed among the pasta shapes. The failure to mention chilli on the menu description definitely warranted complaint and my Mum proceeded to do so in her ever confident and admirable manner. We were advised that on future occasions we should ask for the dish without chilli...mindreaders take heed!

Finally, after staff double checked the menu, we were, justifiably, offered Aunty Tre's meal free of charge. The least they could do. Before leaving, I glanced over at my two lunchtime companions and smiled to myself, realising that here were two women that represent everything that is good about British cuisine and that no amount of truffle oil drizzled on my chips will ever change that.

Would I try it again? Only if I can have it without chilli, please.

Cherry and the Cakemakers

The other week, for the first time: I made cupcakes.

A few months ago, I finally moved to an appartment with its very own oven, something I guess that many people take for granted. For me, however, this opened up endless possibilities of homemade goodies that have already added more than a couple of centimetres to my waistline: pizzas, pies, Sunday roasts, baked potatoes....the list goes on.

I don't consider myself much of a whizz in the kitchen; I can whip up a half decent curry and people have been known to say I make the best Pot Noodle in town, but I am definitely more greedy than gourmet. I'm clumsy and awkward in pretty much every walk of life, so the kitchen is not the ideal environment for me. What I lack in common sense, I more than make up for in enthusisam, which over the years, has led to several cut fingers, burnt saucepans and one ghastly Bread and Butter Pudding baked with the cling film left on top.

One activity I have rarely attempted is baking. Any inclination has been thwarted by memories of dreaded high school Home Economics classes with evil Mrs Green's voice echoing, "Whose are these poor things?", as she points derisively at my unappetising tin of scones, causing much mirth amongst my classmates. Mrs Green (shudder) was far from encouraging and HE was abandoned in favour of Music, leaving me with nulle points in basic life skills, but the ability to play The Entertainer on anything with a reed.

Getting to grips with my new toy oven, the past few weeks have seen me face my demons and overcome my crisis in confidence, discovering a new passion and - dare I say it - aptitude, for making cakes. I've perfected a Lemon Drizzle Cake that melts in your mouth, done my Mum proud by mastering her much coveted scone recipe and even thrown together some rather impressive birthday cakes for friends and colleagues. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Mrs Green. It was definitely time to get a little more adventurous and the word on the street was cupcakes are where it's at.

When it comes to cupcakes, the authority on all things sugar and spice, is my cousin Emma. Her talent and creativity is remarkable and the rest of us can only stand by and hope we get to lick the bowl. Emma made her own wedding cake, which consisted of several tiers of beautiful individual cupcakes, and she has a weekly commission for the highly reputed Liverpool-based Dafna's Cheesecake Factory. When Emma decided to start up her own small business, my side of the family were only too happy to contribute ideas for a company name, the most ingenuous being 'Cherry and the Cakemakers' (you see she's based in Liverpool!) Liverpudlians are pretty inventive when it comes to naming things: Matthew Street's favourite tribute band Crowded Scouse, driving school El Paso, hairdressing salon Curl-Up and Dye....

Emma's fabulous wedding cake.
 I seem to have misplaced the photo of my baking attempts...

Back to the point, Emma's little business Cupcake Indulgence is thriving and she was only too happy to encourage me in my culinary endeavours, buying me a beautiful Hummingbird Bakery cook book for my birthday. The recipe that caught my eye was for the rather tasty sounding Earl Grey Cupcakes. Mmmmm. I planned to make a basketful for my friend Laurence's birthday and even spent a small fortune on some of those tiny edible silver balls that look so decorative. But not all things go to plan and, although the cakes themselves were nothing short of scrummy, I made a bit of a pig's ear of the frosting. It's a delicate, fiddly process to ice individual cakes and, as usual, I went in feet first and smeared on the sugary mixture as if applying cement to a driveway. There seemed little point in adding the decorations, but I went ahead anyway and managed to create yet another thing that looks like it's been done by a two-year-old. The cakes were devoured by myself and my husband and Laurence received a basketful of scones, that even I can't ruin. I spoke to Emma last night and she wisely advised me to use a piping bag and nozzle for any future attempts and promised to forward a Youtube link more than likely called 'Icing Cupcakes for Dummies'.

Would I try it again?: Mmmmm. I like it. I like it.

Earl Grey Tea Cupcakes

Ingredients:

For the cakes:

3 earl grey tea bags

(I will use more next time as the flavour was a little subtle)

3 tbsp hot water (just boiled)

80g butter

280g caster sugar

240g plain flour

1 tbsp baking powder

1/4tsp salt

200ml milk

2 large eggs

For the icing:

50ml milk

500g icing sugar

160g butter

Method:

1. Put the teabags in the hot water and infuse for 30mins.
2. Preheat oven to 190′C and line the muffin tin with liners.
3. In a mixer, mix together butter, sugar, flour, baking powder and salt until it resembles fine breadcrumbs.
4. In a jug, whisk together the milk and eggs, then pour in the infused tea, squeezing out every drop of liquid from the teabags. Save the teabags for the icing.
5. Pour 3 quarters of the milk mixture into the dry ingredients, mix slowly to combine first, then increase speed to mix till the batter is smooth. Pour in the rest of the milk mixture and mix until smooth and lump free.
6. Fill the muffin liners no more than 2/3 full, bake for 18 – 22 minutes, until well risen and golden. When cooked, cool on a cool rack entirely.
7. To make the icing, put the used teabags in the 50ml milk and leave to infuse for 30mins.
8. Mix together the butter and the icing sugar, now mix very slowly at first as it will go everywhere… if using mixer, remember to cover it with a tea towel first. Then mix in the tea flavoured milk until fluffy.
9. Ice the cooled cakes and decorate! Enjoy x