…and talking of unsexy food….

Liver. Just not that tempting to many people. People who, I’d wager, were either made to eat it at school, or by their Mum, and in both cases it was simmered if you were lucky, boiled if you weren’t, in a gravy, maybe with onions, maybe not, but cooked to within an inch of it becoming a suitable replacement for the bottom of your school lace-ups.

I actually like the sandy texture of liver cooked like this, certainly didn’t mind it. I even remember choosing it at school, as well as not opting out when my Mum made it. Am pretty sure my brother wouldn’t have eaten it, so there must have been a choice.

But then one day, I had it cooked pink. Oh my. My brain said no, my stomach wasn’t quite sure but my desire not to look like a gastronomic ignoramus made me say yes when the waiter looked pointedly at me and said “The chef cooks it pink, is that okay?”. And I am so glad I let my pride order. Perfectly cooked liver is a delight. I still quite like slightly overcooked liver too, but when I get it right? Big smiles all round.

And it’s so cheap! 158g of lambs liver in my butcher this morning was 65p! (£4.10 a kilo, maths fans.) And next time I’m up there, I’ll have a closer look, but if the lambs they buy in aren’t organic, they’re certainly well looked after.

So tonight’s dinner, after a hard evening of blogging catch-up was simple and tasty. I’m off to Glastonbury the day after tomorrow (whoo hoo!) so am using up all the veggies in a determined effort to avoid waste. I’d already transformed the cauliflower into a half recipe of Cauliflower, Almond and Turmeric soup (p169, Leon cookbook) for work lunch tomorrow and Wednesday, which left potatoes, spring onions, cabbage, a red pepper and the last of the green garlic. The last two ingredients will go in with some shoulder of pork for dinner of some description tomorrow (paprika-y porky rice probably), or into the homemade sausage rolls that will be our car snack for the drive to Somerset on Wednesday night.

So the potatoes, spring onions and cabbage became a colcannon-champ hybrid that today I will call Champannon. And the liver, briefly cooked in butter and olive oil, with a few dried (as in, have been in the fridge so long they are now dried) sage leaves; cooked so its blood started rising to the top, but not too rare that it made me feel a bit odd. The liver was seductively perched atop the mound of champannon, and the pan was quickly deglazed of its livery juices with a chicken stock ice cube from the freezer, and a slosh of sherry to make a juicy pan dribble to pour over my ‘tatoes.


And you can’t say it doesn’t look good. Can you?

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