Food on a shoestring: it happens.

As I prepare to spend less time acting and more time waitressing I'm also holding my breath in anticipation of that horror that is minimum wage life. I love eating in restaurants and even more than that I love wine so times like this bring a sad sigh to my lungs as I drag myself past delis and favourite haunts of the city, promising them and myself that it's not forever. So I've decided to do that really irritating thing and put on, not just a brave face, but a cheerful, can-do one for all to see. I shall make a virtue of budget cooking, and by doing so prove that life on a shoestring is not about cup noodles. Well, it can be if that's what you like but if that's the case you probably aren't reading this entry, but if you are don't go away! Let's see if I can convert you instead. I don't want to be patronising and most of you probably know all this, but I shall get all the obvious point out of the way now and then we can enjoy ourselves:

1: Make use of your time.
Primarily I bake because I find the process relaxing, and the results are so friendly. But another virtue is that the money spent on a baked good from a shop or even a supermarket will buy enough for at least double that in store cupboard ingredients. Of my two days off I tend to spend one food shopping, cleaning etc then the next I lie in, make plenty of coffee and at noon start prepping for the week's meals. To feel less cheated I bring the laptop into the kitchen and catch up on my week's viewing and radio.

2: Get out your calculator.
We've all had that student moment when we've suddenly realised we've only a fiver to make it through the week. Avoid that moment by assessing your monthly expenditure in advance and don't cave in the supermarket, no matter how lovely the pastries or in my case the cheese and wine look.

3: Use your freezer.
It's not just for pizzas, peas and chips. Buy some sandwich bags and use it for meat, fish, pastry, biscuit dough, soup, veg, bread, butter, the list goes on. Keep things like mince in individual portions so nothing is wasted. If you're a recipe hound like me most recipes online will point out if and at what point a dish can be frozen.

4: Shop around.
Not so easy if you live in a more restricted area but most small towns now boast at least two supermarkets. Compare your prices and try shopping online. But please don't forget markets, proper greengrocers and butchers and specialist shops. A small quantity of good quality produce cooked cleverly will keep longer and it will go much further. If you live in a city try oriental and asian supermarkets, you can bulk buy dry goods, pastes and sauces, not to mention garam masala, curry powders and other spices.

5: Cut down on meat.
Don't leave! Stay with me here it's not the end of the world! I know us English have a mania for meat and two veg, but let's face it, the doctors say we don't need much protein, environmentalists say raising the livestock is a strain on the planet and it costs so don't argue with with a blogger, go shout at the news. If you need persuading then use Madhur Jaffrey recipes, proper indian cooking that shows you how much flavour and texture you can get without meat. What meat you do buy make use of, make stock from sunday roast chicken for sauces and soups, put leftovers into pies. Decent mince goes a long way if you've lots of people to feed, as do any cured or seasoned meats, so hams, bacon, sausages and in particular chorizo. Just one 225g sausage in a dish will easily feed four. With fish there are usually cheaper alternatives to the old favourites, pollock instead of cod, langoustines instead of prawns. Look for special offers and stock up your freezer.

There, was that so hard? I've not bothered mentioning ready meals only because it's been so long since I bought or ate one I'm not really in a position to comment. As for takeaway, forget it. You'll feel better for it, I promise, and I'll try to put up some homemade versions that will give you that fix.

Recipe one comes straight from Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's River Cottage, a simple white loaf recipe. Click on the link for the recipe and on the Channel 4 website you'll find the original episode so you can see how Hugh does it. 1.5kg Allinson Strong White Bread Flour costs £1 and 125g Allinson Dried Active Baking Yeast costs 64p to make two loaves and enough yeast to last you for months. One Tescos Finest Farmhouse loaf costs £1.30 and doesn't fill your home with the smell of freshly baked bread. Have a go and tell me your results, better still send pictures!

TTFN

Guinness? No, I'm grand, thanks.

I feel kind of duty bound to comment on this day. I'm naturally opinionated and, with Irish 'roots' on both sides of my family, one closer than the other, I'm very much the diasporic demographic today. So, hmm, Saint Paddy's day and all that...

Right, first things first. I'm not Irish. I am English. I was born here, so were my parents and my sisters for that matter. We all speak in a Mary Poppins accent (my Dad in a lower octave of course). So that's that out of the way. I have no illusions about my immediate state. However I cite my Irish grandfather as a powerful influence on me, I cheer for Ireland in the Six Nations (this wasn't an easy spring for me) and have worn a claddagh ring on and off ever since I knew what it was. I have told as many people as would listen about the time at school I was asked if I was in the IRA and being at a loss as to how to reply. I should have just said: 'Yes. Now feck off before I call my contacts. Can't play football without kneecaps, eh champ?' But to my significant regret I kept quiet and wondered why prods were so intense.

Obviously a little Celtic blood was a bit of a novelty in a very old, very C of E public school so as I grew older and became a little more confident I played up to this, wearing something green on St Patrick's day, referring to things or people as 'grand', just little things to remind myself that if I had to be a posh English person at least I had a twist of green in my personality. Looking back it was probably terminally naff, but given my options as a teenager I guess I should be grateful it placed me somewhere in between the hockey players, musos, nerds and the 'Who Crew' (think about it, remember that bunch of kids in school, if someone said their name everyone else looked puzzled and said: 'who?' Yeah, them).

After school I channelled this into a love of stand-up, that most marvellous method of communication, gazing in wonder as a series of Irishmen (nearly always men admittedly, if anyone knows of a good Irish comedienne please, please tell me) hold forth on what it is to be Irish. My heart went out to them. They were funny, articulate, clever, charismatic and if I was going to relate to anything or anyone I wanted to relate to them. They reminded me of my grandfather's ability to make the girls in Morrissons fall over themselves to help him, way he could charm his way into and out of any social situation. In the warmth and laughter I was taken back to a very simple time where the perfect Sunday meant listening to jokes and music, a warm nostalgia that stays with me, and frankly I'm unwilling to let that memory go. It's a very rose tinted view of an extraordinarily complex man whose family history is entwined in the foundation of the Ireland that exists today, but it's the view I choose to remember and I think he'd probably be quite relieved, though he'd struggle to understand how I can draw comparison between him and Dara O'Briain.

None of this, however, has anything to do with wearing Guinness hats, painting Shamrocks on your face and getting sick on a drink you only consume once a year. I've never liked Guinness and I'm fucked if I'm going to be forced to drink the stuff simply because some Roman slave got dragged over to a rainy island and was so shocked by its pagan ways that when he got the chance he came back to civilise it with Christianity. Not really an uplifting tale from my point of view. The shamrock is a pretty enough emblem that links back to the saint demonstrating the Holy Trinity to Irish clan leaders, evidence that good teachers really are timeless, but it doesn't explain why, even after twelve years in practising CofE schools, most of which I sang in the choir, I still trip up over the Anglican Lord's Prayer and forget the funny little extra bit.

The little tugs at the back of your mind bring you back to where and, more significantly, who you came from, and inform the people we have chosen to become since. I learn far more of a personal diaspora from the poetry of Louis MacNiece than from diddle-dee-dee muzak twiddling away in the background of a bar filled with scrap metal. At the right moment a Pogues song can raise the hairs on the back of my neck but it has that effect on many people because the music is so good. If you can understand every word Shane McGowan sings I take my hat off to you, but the passion is unmistakable. A long storytelling tradition is fascinating to a people culturally hamstrung, ironically by the same Cromwell that tore through Ireland in a storm of religious fundamentalism and bigotry. While we lost much of our folklore theirs became a badge of defiance, it is a fine thing to be Irish because it means you are be default not English, and the English may have taken this more to heart than they realise. We struggle without a cultural grounding, and we know there must be more to our history than mead and Morris dancing. Stout, cider and whiskey with songs sounds much more fun.

So I can see what brings people in their hordes to the streets tonight to annoy the bartenders of the nation, blocking the bar with their silly top hats and flags tied round their shoulders, enjoying the green tat begrudgingly strewn about the place and pretending to like the bitter, heavy stuff in the pint glass. But I shall give it a rest. Tomorrow night I shall celebrate my little diaspora in my own way by sitting down to dinner with my family, drinking wine and talking, laughing, and, if we've drunk enough, singing.

So I leave you with the Irishmen that give me joy: Dara O'Briain, Ed Byrne, Dylan Moran, Andrew Maxwell, Jason Byrne, Brendan Grace, and the reigning king of Irish stand-up, Tommy Tiernan Have a great evening and do whatever raises your spirits. But be mindful of the bar staff. It's not an easy night.

Burlesque and cake: a match made in heaven.

Oh how I enjoy mucking about in the kitchen. Even my kitchen, tiny, cramped and messy though it be. As an actor in between a contract and casual work I have a horror of that long stretch of time between daybreak and sunset and find a useful way to avoid alcoholism is to bake. It's cheap, time consuming and there are seemingly endless diversifications to be found online, on't telly and in't books. Not to mention the ability to turn up with homemade confection is a very useful way for a naturally antisocial member of our species to appear warm and fuzzy- particularly in the acting world where new colleagues tend to put the word 'unemotional' alongside 'sociopathic.' When the Daredevil Divas performed in November it was casually suggested I put this hobby to use and so produced a couple of items that I'd found in Nigella's book Kitchen: a chocolate orange loaf cake (one of the easiest recipes possible for the cake novice and tastes grown up enough to offer an important guest with tea), and a raspberry bakewell slice (little more time consuming but far easier than making shortcrust pastry and takes minutes to prepare if you've a food processor and mixer). As a wheat free option I slung in my famous rice crispie cakes in camp muffin cases and sprinkled with edible gold dust. As a finale my excellent friend and soon-to-be flatmate/landlady Harriet De Winton came up with pretty in pink cupcakes that updated my rather homely selection. All went well and were eaten with gusto so for the Gallery evening it was suggested I make a few more, the emphasis this time on the cupcakes.

I had a little more time to myself on this occasion so decided to really explore the cupcake as an artform. It's easy to turn one's nose up at the little cupcake, as anything in the thrall of fashion what's cute as a button one season is facile the next. The high street is still enjoying the consumer demand for these pretty, brightly coloured treats but fashion has moved on to the macaroon (fiddly at best, needs a large, accurate oven and an electric whisk), the whoopie pie (don't get me started on that bland thing) and now cupcakes in jars are all the rage. At least they were last month, god knows what the fashionistas are pretending to eat this week. But in terms of home baking I think the humble cupcake is the perfect starter item for a nervous baker, the sponge is so very simple that all the fun can go into decorating it afterwards, putting a personal stamp onto a universal formula which, let's face it, is why we make the effort in the first place. Personally I would far rather eat something with more depth to it, a wasabi cream macaroon or handmade baklava, something tiny with an intense burst of flavour to keep the tastebuds warm for hours afterwards. But we love to look at cupcakes, we love the way they look diminutive on a plate, the way the buttercream seems to pile itself on top, the endless opportunities for decoration and flavours, sugared petals, lime and coconut flavour, chocolate cream and edible glitter. They don't feel like a dietary transgression either, if the sponge is light enough you won't feel the impact of them until after at least two or three with tea.

All these thoughts encouraged me to make the most of my little commission. I had my budget and roughly 50 people to bake for and I wasn't about to be accused of being ordinary. So I dusted off my imagination and bought a great deal of icing.

I saw Black Swan on a weekend in Leeds and was, still am, struck by the beauty of the cinematography. Please don't drag me into a tedious debate on the subject of ballet and body image, whether or not directors are that horrid and the pressures of being a performer. Phooey. It looked marvellous. In any event it struck me as a good subject for cake decoration. The White swan was a favourite on the night, and probably aesthetically the most pleasing of the cakes. The sponge recipe came from the Good Food site, as did the others for that matter. The only tweak would be to whisk the eggs well, get a little air into them, to ensure a light, fluffy sponge. To add a little drama I spooned a layer of seedless raspberry jam into the centre of each cake. Just layer the batter in, one teaspoon of batter, half a teaspoon of jam, then top with a second teaspoon of batter.
. The swans themselves I moulded from wedding cake icing a couple of days in advance and left to set. I reckon in retrospect marzipan would have done equally well but I wanted a unity of flavour
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Then of course came the black swans, and to make these you must be very brave on the subject of food colouring. Not for the faint hearted in terms of E numbers but I assure you the flavour of the icing is not affected at all. One thing it does do is make the icing rather runny but I loved the way it dripped evilly over the crisp, white cases.

The black swans had a different icing that dried very quickly so I used an origami-esque approach, cutting them out from flat rolled icing and folding them into shape. This required a couple of attempts, and flat the final model actually looked a bit like concorde but it had the desired effect.


Easy and popular were the chocolate cakes with pink buttercream icing- I added a heaped tablespoon of good quality cocoa powder (fair trade) to the dry ingredients to make a chocolate sponge, then piped the buttercream icing on the finished cakes. The nylon bag split on the last cupcake- sticking to proper catering equipment from now on. These were eaten first, gratifying but it certainly showed that the icing is what the people want!

After that rather serious effort I wanted the rest of my cakes to be more 'fun', and I also wanted them to adhere more to the burlesque setting. So I chose Bettie Bruiser and Poppy Von Tarte as my inspiration (frankly they've been my major inspiration in all things artistic for some time). Bettie Bruiser's Vanilla bites were my last bit of icing work, I love her skull and crossbones emblem. I made a cardboard stencil and cut out my little figures with my trusty icing knife (they exist, would you believe, though a craft knife would do).


Then to the cupcakes, a vanilla sponge with blue buttercream icing (spread rather than piped this time as the last lot rather tested my patience. The result was surprisingly sweet, next time I shall try to find a more metallic blue for a more hard-edged look.


Last came a proper bit of baking. I was a bit tired of cupcakes, pretty though they are, and with Poppy as my inspiration I needed a 'Tarte'. I used Nigella's raspberry recipe without the fresh raspberries, using two medium sized round foil cases rather than one large square. To finish I iced them and topped them with icing poppies (oh yeah I made them too. No biggie.). I loved the result, crumbly, buttery pastry, nutty, moist frangipani and smooth, light icing. There are many gaps in the English food canon, but we do on occasion come across some rather excellent cakes.


All credit to Liz and Michaela on yet another successful Diva night. Teensy drama at 6.30 when all the lights on North St went out and we weren't sure how the rest of the night would fare, especially as without power the bar was struggling to continue service. Luckily disaster was averted and power magically went back on. The rest of the evening was problem free: Lottie Psychottie had another supermarket meltdown (if you want to please a crowd of women, tear up a calorie chart to the soundtrack of Rage Against The Machine. It'll go down a treat). There was Lucy's pirate tale and Anita MacCallum's poem My husband's in the freezer. There was my rather tired performance of Brel's Jackie (not doing the backing track thing again, methinks) and Amsterdam acapella (better, in fact I'm rather tempted to stick with unaccompanied from now on, keep things low key. Unless someone frightfully talented wants to join in, that is, and I'm happy to hear from any penniless musicians on that subject, especially if you like Brel, Weil and Waits). There were Opin Yalegs and Kitty Cattrap and Poppy was the peerless compere.

A brilliant night in the company of performers, photographers, sugarwork professionals (couple of tips), a lady with a vintage china business who lent an elegant cake stand (Lucy if you're reading this can you give me her details so I can plug her), Liz and Michaela's costumier and many more. There was a communal feel to the night, and I hope our marvellous organisers could feel the warmth and gaiety of the gathering. I only hope our portraits make quick sales, the profits of which will go to a charity of the DDDs choice. Got home tired and happy and ready to face the rest of my week, which was good as I rather needed the energy.

I shall of course keep you posted on the Divas and hopefully will be able to put up a link to the portraits when they go on Liz's blog.

Share and enjoy.

What will become of Cherry and Paul?

It wasn't meant for me, and I might not have noticed had I not been self-centred enough today to feel sorry for myself, so I hope you'll forgive me for being inexplicably moved by the little series of these notices that were posted up in Stokes Croft this afternoon. I counted four, two up the gloucester road near montpelier and another two up a side street. We so rarely get glimpses into the inner lives of even our closest friends that something so emotional and intimate concerning people I've never even seen makes me yearn to relate. I can't help but wonder what happened between this couple, what Cherry has to be worried about, and what went wrong to for everythig to be 'OK' now. You're suddenly hit with a warped perspective, as if your depth perception is changing before you, as you take in the tiny detail of a life other than your own. I'm not really supposed to know, it's not addressed to me so it clearly is none of my business but I wonder if any of you have ever come across something like this? Unless this is how people communicate in Stokes Croft and I'm amazingly behind the times with all this social media, which might actually be vaguely plausible in this Wonderland city.