COME DINE WITH ME

COME DINE WITH ME

Gino D'Campo

Mamma Mia this pasta looka good...

"If food be the music of love, play on.
Give me excess of Gino D'Campo, James Martin and Gordon Ramsey that thine appetite may not sicken and die ..."

* (#Grace meets Shakespeare)

James Martin..

.... Sweet.........

"Come dine with me, let's dine, let's dine away
If you can use some exotic booze there's a bar in far Bombay.."

* (#Grace meets Sinatra)

Order for Hannibal Lecter

..large helping of faffa beans and a glass of cianti and don't f*** up the order or he'll eat me alive...

Though Gordon is more into meatballs, than footballs these days, I am sure he would agree it is still a nice 'little earner'.

* (#Grace refuses to use the F Word)

Just as Graham Kerr, television's Galloping Gourmet gained much of his inspiration for cooking by downing large quantities of wine on set, so too, I have gained much inspiration for eating as tv producers now enable me to be entertained in my own home by people who would not ordinarily get past my front door and who entice me to cook foods that are often 'naughty' but 'nice.'

Eating at a bar in far Bombay is a little out of my reach but as I stay firmly in the 21st Century, all I can do is to fantasise over the tv chefs.

I am quite happy to be in the presence of the gorgeous Gino who, having been born into a poor Neapolitan family allows me to share with him, his great love of cooking as inherited from his grandfather.

As an ordinary housewife still confined primarily to the daily grind of cooking I make no apologies for my place in society as chief cook and bottle washer. I have never confessed to being what one might call a 'high octane homemaker,' so this webpage is just one more avenue where I can express myself creatively from the kitchen.'

James Martin, as Yorkshires finest chef, is unassumingly attractive and I aspire to have my own grandsons hold me in such high esteem as he does his own grandmother as not a single episode goes by when she does not have a mention.

With his promising career as a professional footballer with Glasgow Rangers having been cut short due to injury I can only assume that Gordon's use of the 'F' word was inspired by his great passion for reading the works of William Dunbar, composed in 1503 and entitled Ane (A) Brash of Wowing or In Secreit Place! Yeah, right! Or maybe we should just love this down-to-earth guy for his use of the one magical word F*** that can relate to pain, pleasure, hate and love - all of which, I am sure, he is aparty to as a TV celebrity chef.

He is not as evil as he likes to makes out, we all know that really, but his suggestion that .."women know how to mix cocktails but can't cook to save their lives.." is a bit mean, to say the least. Let's hope that if I ever find the goose that laid the golden egg I should hard-boil it properly or I shall be eating my words as I am laid up with salmonella poisoning as Monsieur Ramsey gains another smartie point!

The likelihood of my three favourite chefs really coming to my home is somewhat of a fairytale - a magical mystical happening that will never occur but as they can enter my home through the wonder of television so too, losing myself in a good book sought to take me to places that I would not ordinarily be able to visit.

As I remember the story of Goldilocks And The Three Bears, which chef, I wonder would make the porridge too hot, which too cold, and which just right?

How could Snow White possibly resist biting into any apple that Gino holds out in his hands - one look into those sultry brown eyes and intoxication by a Granny Smith would be well worth the wait.

This Cindarella so longs to go to the Saturday Market Kitchen Ball with James but alas she fears he will not stick around long enough if, at midnight, the pumpkin that he is cooking for her turns into a glass coach instead of an Astin Martin.

Where in his hierachy of needs would the fact that my martini -glass shoe fit come, I wonder. After all, when food comes first, then his car, then his dog and then, and only then, WOMEN, I would have to be something real special wouldn't I?

But this Cinders is not just a pretty face - she has done her homework. If I told him I absolutely love Fudge (especially when he is covered in chocolate), am prepared to give Cuba a miss this year ( on account that he is my heart's desire and I don't need to go looking further than my own back yard, because he is right there and I never lost him in the first place), promise to secure him a place at Uni so he can fulfill his dreams to train as a vet, fill his fridge with diet coke and mars bars and cook him a mean bacon sandwich like his grandmother used to do before she sadly passed anway, then I could be in with a chance, do you think? Just one slight problem. Hubby would not approve but hey, this is what fairytales are all about right?

What's the recipe today Jim?

Here, before you, is a woman who grew up on stews and pasties made from left over sunday dinner, ones that my dad used to make and were 'to die for.'

I spent a lot of time around my dad who loved to cook, never used a recipe and turned out the tastiest and most economical meals for a brood of seven you could imagine.

Not a year went by when he did not make the Christmas cake - always an extra one for nan for New Years Day and a Birthday Cake for me two days after the 25th!

Mum did most of the cooking but was not as 'adventurous' with food but was a real expert at bubble and squeak - a firm favourite of my brothers.

I wouldn't go so far as to say we were poor enough that my parents couldn't afford to buy us shoes and had to paint our feet black and lace up our toes instead, but things were pretty 'frugal.'

At Brownies I made a pastry hat for easter that was so hard Brown Owl had to take a hammer to it, at school I made a souffle that was so light I left most of it on the roof of the oven and my stick-jaw toffee was a dentist's delight! But I did make a mean flapjack as popular then as they have known to be even in Tudorbethan times.

Over the years my halo has somewhat dropped on the kitchen goddess front. I tend to boil eggs until they are the consistency and colour of surgical gloves on account that, with age, my egg-timer mind forgets to turn them off after 3 minutes. The Royal icing that I was once able to perfect whilst helping my father ice the christmas cakes is not so regal these days. One day it rains in dribbles down the side of the cake and the next it is so hard to the point where it is impenetratable.

Passing off a shop bought meal as homemade has not yet entered my mind but it is a useful skill which I shall keep up my sleeve, just like cardiopulmonary resuscitation, when it is a matter of life or death!

Thankfully up until now I have not quite spoiled a meal to the point that it was beyond saving though 'him indoors' jibes me and suggests that if he ever came home and smelt a delicious meal cooking in the kitchen, he would be sure he had gone to the wrong house. This male chauvenistic attitude however is superceded by my son's friends who would beg to differ on the innumerous occasions over the the years that they have gathered here (dearly beloved) to enjoy an Indian feast - home cooked- while watching Arsenal on the 52" screen where yours truly plays the hostess with the mostest patience in the presence of over half a dozen strapping lads- keeping the food coming and their beers topped up!

At school I used to love Home Economics which was not simply about delicious 'nosh' but also encompassed other life skills from personal finance to first aid and safety plans for a nuclear attack. Ok, so I am exaggerating slightly here, but as far as the kitchen went, I did learn not to throw water on a chip pan. This technique I can still master today on the rare occasions I do not nip down the local chippie instead!

Dinner is served...

Good Food LIve

In true movie fashion, if I were ever to open up my home for the cameras to compete for the £1,000 prize on Channel 4's "Come Dine With Me" I should like to play the part of the Director as well as the main actor.

There would be no need for an assistant director as I would be quite capable of taking my guests coats when they arrive, handing round hors d'orves, and delegating my other half to guide any smokers out onto our patio.

The cast would have to be carefully chosen friends that could provide a good dialogue to make interesting viewing and and a little rhetorical entertainment on my part by way of keeping the drinks topped up should be necessary to deter the conversation from being distracted by external influences such as the tv crew.

Whilst on the set, or in this case, in our home, the kitchen will be the stage and I would need to play the part of chef with careful pre-planning.

Hollywood would meet Bollywood for one night only as curry would be on the menu-my red carpet not only for my guests but befitting that of an Indian restaurant the world over. A little background music would seek to liven up the atmosphere and subdued lighting and candles should add to the ambience rather than trying to hide a multitude of sins from oven to table.

So what of the plot? Well it is hoped there would be no conflict at the dining table just plenty of eating action, no falling off the barstool action, and the climax would be that we win the prize to share among the cast.

My guests would be ones that I know would leave at a decent hour as yawning and stretching would not be a very subtle approach and could be seen as viewers to be somewhat rude.

They say the show is not over until the fat lady sings, well, alas, once the cameras stop rolling then it will be a case of 'auf weidersen' pets.

It could be said that the only fictional character with a higher degree of recognition than Ronald McDonald is Santa Clause. That being the case, if any of my celebrity chefs were to actually adorn my dining room table then all my christmas's would have come at once.

One day I should love to hold a "Gone With The Wind" themed party - one that evokes thoughts of warm summer nights, elegant southern mansions, cool iced drinks and filling southern food. But for now I must settle for English rain by the gallon, a little semi-detached in the not-so-deep South, Lentil soup and home-cooked "disasters."