The Clapham Road Trip

I am an idiot where animals are concerned. I once owned a rescue cat that was so mentally disturbed that it rolled about in its own faeces, bit me every time I came anywhere near it, and lived exclusively in a two inch square gap under a desk. But I wasn't bothered. I loved Humbug. So much so that when my then boyfriend delivered the 'Its me or the cat' ultimatum I just shrugged and said 'OK' (he was a crap boyfriend anyway but I LOVED that cat.)

So when I met, and in very quick succession, moved in with my what is now my husband, it felt like the natural thing to do to get a pet. His Mum very kindly offered to get us a cat (all that we were allowed in our rented house) so we made our way to the RSPCA and did the responsible thing, adoption. What followed was a two month reign of terror at the hands of the tabby Bert The C**t.  The story is for another time, but he richly deserved that moniker and was eventually taken back by the RSPCA who were probably fearing a court case.

But was I beaten? Put off cat ownership for life? Nope. Like I said, I am an idiot. Where I worked at the time there was an online noticeboard. When a girl who I really didn't know posted that a feral cat had come into her house whilst on holiday, and given birth to two mangy looking kittens, which were now free to a good home, I thought 'Yeah, perfect'. Idiot. My husband was understandably much less excited than me. He thought we should just take one, or better still, none. But I whined and nagged, and dragged the welfare of my six year old step-daughter into it: 'Think how good it would be for her to have TWO pets' and he eventually agreed. So one summers morning one of my best friends and I set out in her rickety car to make the road trip to Clapham. It was fairly uneventful, we did some coffee stops, wittered on, and sung along to the radio. We also saw a tramp drop his trousers and crud into a drain on Clapham High Street, but you know, rough with the smooth. When we eventually found the house I started to have second thoughts. The woman had nine cats. NINE. Not including the recent new mother and two kittens. The place stank of cats piss and crusty cat food was smeared over everything. I was dry heaving and scratching myself. When the kittens were picked up to be put into the basket they snarled furiously and wrapped themselves round her hand like a really bitey boxing glove. Still, I didnt leave. Once in the car, Kaff exhaled deeply and said 'Soooooooo'. There was a lot loaded into that 'so', namely, that she thought I was clearly mental. But we went home anyway, with the two feral kittens screaming furiously for the whole hour and a half.

My husband had picked the child up that morning and she was completely beside herself with excitement. We placed the basket on the floor and she hugged herself and looked up at me, and whispered 'Oh I LOVE them. SO much. SO much'. I was feeling pretty smug, but then my husband opened the basket door. They slowly sauntered out, looked us both up and down, looked around our non-cat-piss-smelling kitchen and gave each other a look that said 'Fuck this shit' and promptly ran behind the washing machine. The kid looked with disbelieving eyes at her father, then me, then Aunty Kaff, and exclaimed 'Why do they hate me???' and promptly burst into tears.

Nothing was going to bring the two furry terrorists out of that gap. But I felt like such a terrible failure as a step-parent that when six o'clock came the next morning I was downstairs in pyjamas, laying on my belly, talking to two tiny felines with a tin of tuna in my hand, pleading with them to come out. When you think about it, this is an excellent metaphor for the exercise in masochism that is feline ownership, you wheedling and begging for their attention or cooperation, whilst they look at you with thinly veiled disgust.

Eventually, after a few days they came out and began to rule the house like the megalomaniacs that cats are. These days they mostly lie about in a stupor, shout furiously for food, and if I am really lucky, regurgitate an entire birds skull at my feet. But I've got a dog now, so I don't mind.

The point is, what I cooked for dinner that night was L's favourite, a bolognese. It might not have cured her broken heartedness completely but it probably came close. Here is the recipe and that.

This is a pretty simple recipe. It works well as a bolognese, and is also really excellent as the meat sauce in lasagne. A few words on ingredients. I get passata from one of those out of town bargain shops. A litre is about 60p, it is Italian and delicious. Ditto dried herbs. Mince always comes from the butcher. It won't cost you any more, but it will taste of meat, not plastic and fluorescent lights. There will be more on butchers in a later post, I know they are quite daunting for some people, but I promise it is worth cultivating a relationship with one, and not just so you can feel smug and middle class about it. Veg - play fast and loose with this one. You definitely need onion, carrot and celery. Apparently this is called mire-poix but I have a horror of using continental terms in cookery, it just makes me think of TV chefs. Like when one of them is doing a Spanish recipe, and everything is in mangled cockney, until they look at the camera and say 'Now add the cho-weee-thooooo' in a theatrical Spanish accent, and I involuntarily retch. So I just call it vegetable smush. Today I also added in other bits that needed to be used soon - courgette, mushrooms, peppers. They are all good in this, just increase your liquid content by a bit.

It won't win any prizes for its looks, but it makes up for that in taste.

                                                   

Ragu For Liv

Ingredients

 500g mince (I would probably go with half beef, half pork, but all beef is nice too)
1 jar of passata (large)
2 x white onions
2 x carrots
2 or three sticks of celery
1 tbsp dried oregano
1 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped fine
Beef stock cube
2 x cloves of garlic
Worcestershire sauce
Red wine
White pepper
Salt
Milk
Sugar
Red lentils (or not, if you have a horror of hippie food like my husband)

 Method

1. Brown the mince in a pan.

2. Chuck all the veg and garlic into a food processor. If you dont have one, try a blender. Or chop it by hand into a very fine dice. But this will be a ball-ache. If using a processor, you dont want a puree but you do want it pretty small. Use the pulse function if you like, to keep an eye on it.

3. Add the veg to the mince, and fry gently for a few minutes to soften it slightly. Now in with the herbs, a splash of worcester sauce to taste, your stock cube, and salt and pepper. Chuck in a good splosh of red wine.

4. Now throw in a handful of red lentils if using. I like these as they break down in the sauce, make your meat go further and boost the protein content. Plus they are delicious.

5. Now add the passata, and give a good mix. If you think it looks a bit thick, chuck in some water. I like to make my ragu thinner to start with and cook it right down so the flavour intensifies, but if you are pushed for time, don't bother.

6. Cook for at least half an hour. If I am making a big batch on a Sunday afternoon I will leave it there for hours. It is almost impossible to overcook, it just gets more delicious and makes your house smell amazing.

7. After it has been on for about fifteen/twenty minutes splosh in some milk - I would say probably no more than 100ml. This sounds like the work of a diseased mind, and I can't remember where I read about it, but I promise it works and the end result is so much better for it.

8. Once done eat with some spaghetti and grated parmesan, and rue the day you ever got cats.