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| | My Mother Iris R Duke, RIP 12th Feb 1928 to 12th August 2009 | | | Thursday, August 20, 2009 (2:16 AM)
(I'm feeling sad) | | Iris, mother to twelve children, nanna to 22 grandchildren and a great nanna to 4 great grandchildren.
As we look back over time, she’s raised us all and I’ll think you will all agree she has done a good job.
But still we find ourselves wondering…..
Did we ever remember to thank her enough
For all she has done for us?
For all the times she was by our sides
To help and support us….
To celebrate our successes
To understand our problems
And accept our defeats?
Or for teaching us by her example,
The value of hard work, good judgement
Courage and honesty?
We wonder if we ever thanked her
For the sacrifices she made
To let us have the very best?
And for the simple things
Like laughter, smiles and times we shared?
If we have forgotten to show our
Gratitude enough for all the things she did,
We’re thanking her now.
And we’re hoping she knew all along
How much she really meant to us all.
But if I could have a lifetime wish, a dream that would come true, I’d pray with all my heart for yesterday and you.
But now that she has left us, she’s back in the arms of her true love, our dad.
And we must take comfort in the knowledge that they are back together and watching over us all. | | | 111 Views | 2  Thumbs Up | 1 Comment |  |
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| | Plum Stromboli | | | Tuesday, August 4, 2009 (3:37 PM)
(I'm feeling restless) | | Ingredients
350g (12oz) Strong White Bread Flour
large pinch of salt
7g sachet Easy Bake Yeast
25g (1oz) Golden Caster sugar
75g (3oz) unsalted butter
275ml (9fl oz) warm water
For the filling:
400g (14oz) plums
75g (3oz) dried sour cherries
75g (3oz) Light Muscovado sugar
2 tsp ground mixed spice
3 tbsp milk for brushing
3 tbsp Icing sugar, for dusting
Method
1. Put the flour into a large bowl with the salt, Easy Bake Yeast and Golden Caster sugar. Melt 25g (1oz) butter in a small pan or in the microwave on High for 30 seconds.
2. Pour the melted butter and warm water into the flour and yeast, mix together to make a soft dough.
3. Turn onto a floured surface and knead for 5 minutes until the dough is smooth and elastic. Put into a lightly oiled bowl, cover with cling film and leave in a warm place to rise for 20 minutes.
4. Meanwhile, quarter and slice the plums, removing the stones. Mix together the plums, soured dried cherries, Light Muscovado sugar and ground mixed spice.
5. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured piece of greaseproof paper, knead for 1 minute then roll out into a 33cm (13inch) square. Sprinkle over the sugar coated fruit and dot with small knobs of the remaining butter. Lift the base of the paper to help roll up the dough, Swiss-roll style to enclose the filling. Pinch the ends together to seal and put onto a baking sheet with edge underneath.
6. Cover lightly with greased cling film and leave it to prove in a warm place for 20 minutes to rise. Preheat the oven to 220ºC/fan 200ºC/ gas mark 7. Brush with milk to glaze and bake, bake for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven setting to 180ºC/fan 160ºC/gas mark 4 and bake for 25 more minutes until golden brown. Dust with sieved icing sugar. Serve warm or cold, sliced.
| | | | 88 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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| | Sweet Breads | | | Tuesday, August 4, 2009 (3:30 PM)
(I'm feeling restless) | | Rustic Prune & Pecan Bread
Ingredients
315ml (1 3/8 cups) Water
2 tbsp Sunflower Oil
1 tbsp Runny Honey
1½ tsp Salt
150g (1 cup) Country Grain Strong Brown Bread Flour
300g (2 cups) Wholesome White Very Strong Bread Flour
1½ tsp Easy Bake Yeast*
75g (½ cup) Chopped Prunes
50g (3/8 cup) Chopped Pecan Nuts
Method
*If you want your loaf to prove faster, use 2 [1-2] tsp (1 sachet) of Easy Bake Yeast.
1. Put the flour, prunes, pecan nuts, salt and yeast into a bowl and mix to a soft dough with the honey, oil and water.
2. Turn onto a floured surface and knead for 10 minutes.
3. Shape as desired and put into an appropriate greased tin.
4. Leave to prove slowly* until double in size.
5. Place in an oven preheated to 220°C/425°F/Gas Mark 7 and immediately turn the oven down to 200°C/400°F/Gas Mark 6.
6. Bake for 25-30 minutes.
7.When cooked the loaf should sound hollow when tapped on the bottom.
8.Cool on a wire rack before slicing.
| | | | 94 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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| | Halloween Tales: The Feast Part 1 | | | Sunday, October 26, 2008 (5:13 AM)
(I'm feeling working) | | The air in the car was growing chill. Lewis Robertson stopped the tapping noise he was making with the envelope on the steering wheel. Angrily, he tore the card from the envelope and re-read the words of the invitation.
On the front was a cartoonish picture of a ghoul, and in the voice bubble above his head were the words, "Come to a Halloween party!" Inside was an address. Lewis checked for the hundredth time to be sure the address inside the invitation matched that of the building he was parked before; they were the same. He tossed the invitation to the passenger seat of his car.
He stared at the front of the building for a while longer. It was one of many abandoned warehouses along the waterfront, though not in as bad of repair as most. Still, there were no other cars here, and he had seen no sign of other people in the half hour he had sat in front of the old building.
Was it a joke? He wondered.
He hadn't wanted to come to any damn party anyway. He hadn't wanted to do anything for the past month except stay in his dark house and be left alone. He didn't need to work anymore, Beth's life insurance had paid the mortgage as well as all the other bills they had accumulated in their five years of marriage. And the policy they had taken out on little Brandon only two months before had been enough to pay the funeral expenses for both of Lewis's loved ones.
Lewis stopped that train of thought, afraid if he stayed on it he would begin crying again. He didn't want that; recently it had become too hard to stop the tears once they began. He thought instead of his mother and how she had nearly forced him to come to this nonexistent party.
"You haven't left the house in weeks," she had scolded. "This is a golden opportunity to get out and mingle with friends. You need that."
"How do I know this party is being given by any of my friends?" Lewis argued.
"Why else would you have been invited?" She countered. She had nagged until Lewis finally gave in and agreed to attend the party. He knew his mother was only concerned about him being shut up alone and brooding over the accident. She had made the red devil costume he was wearing.
"Shit!" He muttered as he suddenly threw open the car door and stepped out of the vehicle. "Might as well be sure it's just a damn joke." He slammed the door, then straightened his wiry tail behind him, pulled the red mask over his face, and strode determinedly toward the door of the warehouse. A brisk wind brought the gooseflesh out beneath the thin material of his costume. From the other side of the warehouse Lewis could hear the steady rhythm of the river slapping against the pilings. Thin fingers of fog drifted toward him, curled around his legs like lovers, and then broke apart to reform behind him.
Knock? Or just go in, if the door is unlocked? Lewis reached out and jerked on the door's handle. The wooden door opened with a groan of protest. Lewis quickly stepped inside and let the door close behind him. He was in an office. Another door faced him from the other side of the room. Lewis stepped to it and pulled it open as well. It led into the warehouse itself, and as it closed behind him, Lewis realized he was alone except for two tables in the center of the vast, dimly lighted storage area. He reached behind him for the door handle, ready to leave, angry at himself as well as his mother.
"Lewis, there you are," a hand came down on his shoulder and held him. The grip was cold and heavy. Lewis turned his head to face a tall, muscular man dressed as a Greek warrior. The man smiled, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Do I know you?" Lewis asked.
"Not yet," the man answered. "But we'll have a while to get to know one another."
"Am I the first to get here?" Lewis tried to grin.
"No, you're late. But you're the guest of honor, so it doesn't matter. As long as you're here."
"But I don't see anyone else," Lewis protested.
"Your eyes will adjust."
"Who are you?"
"Who do I look like?"
"I don't know," Lewis answered. "Hercules, or Achilles maybe."
"Odysseus, my friend, Odysseus."
"Okay, fine, but who are you really?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know."
"You'll know later, though by then I doubt you'll care about me."
"But--"
| | | | 172 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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| | Halloween Tales: The Feast Part 2 | | | Sunday, October 26, 2008 (5:12 AM)
(I'm feeling working) | |
"Come, Lewis, let's have some punch." The man took him by the arm and led Lewis toward one of the two tables. Lewis could now see that there was a large punch bowl and a single glass on one table. The other was empty.
"One glass?" He questioned.
"Do you need more?" The man picked up the small glass and began stirring the sweet-smelling red punch with a ladle he held in the other hand.
"You miss your wife and child, don't you?" The man dressed as Odysseus asked.
"You know..." Lewis eyed the man more suspiciously than before.
"We all know." Odysseus nodded. He filled the glass and handed it to Lewis.
Lewis lifted the glass and held it near his mouth, suddenly not sure he should drink. His host sensed his hesitation and laughed.
"It's not poisoned," he said. "Would you like for me to drink some, too?" He lifted the ladle and sipped from it, swallowing loudly.
Grinning sheepishly, but still unsure, Lewis took a small drink from the cup. He swallowed, and then noted the aftertaste; a thick, coppery, salty taste.
"There's blood in here!" He dropped the cup to the table, where it overturned and spread its contents in a shining puddle. "What the hell are you trying to--" Lewis choked on the words as he looked up from the spilled fluid.
"It is Halloween," he heard Odysseus say, but Lewis barely took notice of the words.
The warehouse was filled with people. They stood in bunches and talked among themselves, or flitted from group to group carrying news and gossip. Children scuttled among the adults, playing tag, laughing and shouting. Everyone kept glancing toward the table where he stood, Lewis realized, dumbfounded by what he was beholding.
"Your eyes have adjusted?" The voice of Odysseus asked.
"I--But--Where did they come from?"
"The Realm of Death, of course," there was a smile in the man's voice. "Here comes someone you will recognize."
Lewis turned, and his eyes widened as he saw Beth part from the crowd and move toward him, her arms outstretched. He ran to her and they embraced, her cold lips finding his and kissing him passionately.
"I missed you," Beth whispered.
"How can this happen?" Lewis asked, but before Beth could respond, the voice of Odysseus was ringing over the throng.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called, "Our guest has arrived and tasted the drink we offered. Let the festivities begin." He clapped, and from somewhere came soft, urgent music.
Beth grasped his arms and began leading him in a dance Lewis did not recognize. All around them, other couples paired up and began moving with the rhythm of the music.
"I don't understand," Lewis whispered.
"You don't need to," Beth answered. "Just be with me, dance with me, and love me."
Lewis pulled her closer and they danced to the unending music, tears of happiness running down his face.
Finally he was able to ask, "What about Brandon? Is he here?"
"Yes, he's playing with the other kids," Beth said. She looked around, and then pointed, "There he is."
Lewis followed her finger and found his four year old son tossing a ball to a girl of about the same age. Brandon's eyes met his, and Lewis saw his son mouth the familiar words, "Hi, Daddy." Then the child waved to him before returning to his game. There was a lump in Lewis's throat and he buried his face on the cold shoulder of his wife.
They danced again for what seemed only moments, but Lewis knew might actually be hours, before the music stopped and Beth put her lips to his ear.
"It's almost midnight. Halloween is almost over, and it's time for you to make a decision."
"Lewis!" Odysseus called from the center of the warehouse. "Come over here, and bring your lovely wife." Arm in arm, Lewis and Beth Robertson walked toward the tables.
On the one table still stood the punch bowl and spilled glass. The other table remained empty, but now Lewis saw that beneath it was another bowl, larger than the punch bowl, and empty.
"Lewis," Odysseus began speaking when the couple stood before him, "We are allowed to return to this world only one day every year. On that day, we must have sustenance, or the next year we may be too weak to return.
"Every year we must search among the living for one willing to help us," the man continued. "One who will feed us."
There arose a murmur from the assembled spirits.
"You have tasted the blood of all those who have gone before you, Lewis. The others who have helped us. It allowed you to see those you believed lost to you. Will you help us, and stay with us now, or will you return to the world of the living?"
"What--what is it you're asking me to do?" Lewis asked as he clutched Beth's arm tighter.
"Feed us from your living veins."
Another murmur from the crowd.
"Kill myself?"
"Yes, slay your body so that your soul may join us," Odysseus answered.
Lewis looked to Beth, and then down at the shadowy image of his son, Brandon, who had come to join them at the table. Brandon smiled up at him.
"It's for you to decide," Beth said quietly. Lewis turned back to her and looked intently into her large, soft eyes. "You can join us now, or wait until your natural time comes. You'll be with us again eventually. But, you need to decide now."
"Yes Lewis, we need your decision now," Odysseus concurred. The horde of spirits murmured once more. He motioned to the table and the bowl, and now Lewis saw a long, curved knife laying on the table. He knew he was supposed to put the glittering blade to his throat, let out the life, and join his family in this shadowy world of death. He reached for the knife.
The crowd shifted, and Lewis could feel their excitement; their hunger for him. The knife was cold and heavy in his shaking hand.
"Lie on the table, with your head off the edge so the bowl can catch your offering," Odysseus instructed.
Lewis stepped closer to the table and then stopped. A shudder ran down his body as he considered what he was ready to do. Suicide. Slice his own throat open with this razor-sharp blade. His eyes shifted to find Beth and Brandon; their faces were impassive and their thoughts unreadable. He would join them, Lewis thought, just as Beth had said, if not now, eventually.
"I can't," he whispered as he dropped the knife to the table. The spirits became angry, frustrated. He felt something cold being slipped into his right hand, and then his left arm was taken in an equally chill grip. Beth was holding his arm, and Brandon had come to hold his father's hand. Lewis felt the warm tears running down his face.
"We'll wait, Daddy," Brandon promised.
"Yes, we have nowhere to go," Beth smiled at him. Lewis nodded, no words would come through his throat.
"But you have somewhere to go, Lewis," the voice of Odysseus was stern and angry. "You must leave here immediately. Go."
"Good-bye," Beth whispered. She was fading from his sight as Lewis watched. He reached for her, trying to hold her to him, but she was like a wisp of steam that slipped through his desperate fingers.
"Bye Daddy," Brandon was already gone, leaving only a cool place in the palm of his father's hand.
Lewis turned and ran from the warehouse as the other ghosts faded, ignoring their curses as well as their pleas. He fumbled for his keys as he ran, and then he was in the car and driving, not caring where he went or what route he took.
He drove for hours, and eventually found himself parked on a narrow gravel road that ran beside the river a few miles outside the city limits. It was a favorite spot for fishing. He had brought Beth and Brandon here many times for picnics beside the water. Brandon had caught his first fish, a small, slimy catfish from this place.
"I should have done it," Lewis said to himself. "I'm weak. I was given the chance to be with them again, and I didn't take it because I was scared. Scared of a little physical pain. The damn knife was so sharp I probably wouldn't have even felt the cut. DAMN!" He slammed his fist against the steering wheel and then rested his head on the balled hand. He was still wearing the red mask, he realized. He pulled it off and tossed it to the floorboard, where it lay with the fallen invitation.
What if it wasn't too late?
He restarted the car and swung it around in the road, throwing gravel and dust high and far behind him as he spun the tires and raced back toward the highway.
The eastern horizon was just beginning to turn gray as Lewis reached the warehouse once more. He jumped from the car and ran to the door. It was locked. Lewis pulled until his arms ached, but to no avail. He returned to the car and fetched the tire tool. Within minutes he had splintered the wood around the lock, and the mechanism broke loose and fell to the floor inside the building. Lewis hurried through the office and into the warehouse area.
The vast room seemed darker. Only the pale light of the fading stars crept in through dirty windows set high in the walls. Lewis could barely see the tables. He started toward them.
"I'm back," he called to the empty chamber. "I've come to feed you. I want to be with you. Beth! Brandon!" There was no answer. Lewis felt his pointed tail swishing behind him as he walked. He was now close enough to see that something large was laying on the top of one table.
It was the body of a man. A derelict, by the shabby dress and stench of stale, cheap alcohol that came from the corpse. In the pale light Lewis could see the long gash in the man's throat. Not a drop of blood remained on the wound. Beneath the man's head, which hung over the edge of the table, just as his own should have done, Lewis saw the large punch bowl, now overturned. Only the faintest smear of crimson gave evidence of what had been contained therein.
Lewis began to weep again. "It should have been me," he moaned. "It should have been me." He began hitting the corpse, pounding the lifeless body as if the tramp were the one to blame for his failure.
Beth and Brandon, his own wife and son, had been forced to take sustenance from this nameless bum, he thought. Forced to feed from society's waste all because their husband and father had been too weak to give them what they needed. He threw his head back as a sob tore from his body and tears streaked his face.
A powerful beam of light hit Lewis full in the face and he staggered back, his arm raised to ward off the illumination. "Hold it right there, buddy," a man's voice echoed throughout the warehouse. Lewis saw the gun in the man's hand and a glint on the badge pinned to his chest. Had there been an alarm system activated by the breaking of the lock?
"What is it, Bill?" Another man entered the building.
"Somebody dressed as the devil," the fist cop answered. "And it looks like a body on the table there."
"You! On the floor," the second policeman approached Lewis, motioning with his gun for him to lie down.
"You don't understand," Lewis began. Why bother to explain, he thought.
"On the floor, now!" The cop was moving closer.
"I'm coming, Beth," Lewis whispered. He could feel the chill spot in the palm of his hand where Brandon had held him. Was the hand there again, pulling him forward, begging him to play, to run, to go fishing?
Lewis broke into a run, a smile on his face, the image of a small, green catfish splashing in a river as it was pulled to shore urging him on as he heard his wife's laughter and squeals of delight ringing in his ears.
He didn't hear the exclamation of surprise from the policeman barring his exit. He didn't feel the impact of the bullets as they slammed his body to the floor.
"Hi, Daddy," he heard Brandon's voice and felt the soft, loving touch of his wife as she helped him up and into a new world of shadows.
| | | | 163 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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| | Halloween Tales: The Library | | | Sunday, October 26, 2008 (5:09 AM)
(I'm feeling working) | | In the process of recalling my college days, I am reminded of that momentous occasion during my first year at St Montague's, when, by some irksome and malign fate, I discovered myself sharing the confines of the school library with three well-read scholars of that time. These loathsome fellows I normally would avoid at all costs, but owing to the atrocious February weather I was compelled to gain a welcome warmth beside that roaring fire.
"What is your name, young chap?" I was asked, by a large scholar wearing a three-piece suit of pin-stripes. His enquiry wore a ghastly cloak of supposed superiority and rank, which I kind of expected, as I was a mere first year student at that particular time.
"Grimshaw," I told him, and as I uttered my name I surveyed the three pairs of beady eyes which were fixed upon my being. I detected a vast amount of arrogance beyond those staring sockets.
"A common name," sneered the fellow, whose own name I knew to be Rhodes-Fotheringham. As I have mentioned, he was large, with a reddened, chubby face and whiskers that hid his stiff upper lip completely. It appeared as if he owned the bottom one only, and I reckoned this to be quite comical, although I dared not to chuckle in their presence.
"Well, Grimshaw," snarled the second chap, whose name was Blake, and who was exactly as
tiresome as Rhodes-Fotheringham, "my chums and I were in the process of recounting horrific tales of ghosts and apparitions. If you wish to remain in our company, you must endure this."
"And not go fleeing from the room in fright!" added the third monster, a scoundrel by the name of Atkinson.
I endeavoured not to be afraid, which was not a simple task, as the trio themselves were sufficient to cause a shivering sensation inside me. We were all seated, with discreet distances between each, in huge Victorian armchairs facing the blazing flames of the log fire. The library itself was enormous, and must have contained thousands of books on all subjects. Including the topic of ghosts.
"I remember one chap," said Rhodes-Fotheringham, a cigar of eager proportions in his ample hand, "whose name I cannot recall. He regularly encountered the ghostly figure of an old man in a pale-coloured nightgown, who was prone to walking up and down the stairs of the chap's home, and with his head held under his arm!"
Excessive gasps left the mouths of Blake and Atkinson, whilst I myself remained silent and
breathless. Rhodes-Fotheringham's features became hidden in the midst of an awful-smelling cloud of cigar smoke, providing an eerie vision of his face, and at that moment I wondered whether he himself was a dreadful phantom.
"Anyway," he continued, with the smoke drifting in the direction of the fireplace, "this chap could stand it no longer, and subsequently decided to take his own life by shooting himself in the head with a pistol. Now it is rumoured that he himself haunts that house."
His two companions seemed quite unsettled by this story, and as the flames crackled in the hearth they each took a copious mouthful of the brandy that was readily available nearby. Then Blake appeared to decide that he was not to be outdone by his friend.
"That is a pretty gruesome tale, old chap," he said in a quavering voice, "but allow me to relate the story of the man whose wife gave birth to an apparition."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Rhodes-Fotheringham, with peculiar puffed cheeks. He appeared to be
somewhat perturbed by Blake's proclamation, and I noticed how agitated he became as his
companion continued the tale.
"It is indeed true," said Blake, who, in contrast to Rhodes-Fotheringham, was of a thin shape, and was clutching his brandy glass tightly the whole time. "This apparition grew to a fine old age, until he reached a maturity he could not improve on, and now he haunts the church in which his parents had married."
Again, a strange air filled the room, and an odd nervousness prevailed in the three figures that flanked me. I remember thinking how chilling and sinister were those three fellows, to the point
where I began to feel rather frightened myself. However, I attempted not to reveal this, as I sat with clenched fists upon that armchair, gazing into the leaping flames opposite my position in that library.
"That is an impressive story," said Atkinson. I had never seen a chap as tall and gangly as he was. His weird-looking legs protruded from that chair, stretched out before him like two huge clothes-props, and behind his gold-rimmed spectacles I observed the most evil pair of grey eyes.
"What about this then, chaps," he said, grasping the opportunity to tell his own grotesque tale. "A
soldier in the Great War was lurking in the trenches, with bullets whizzing around his ears, when
suddenly he noticed beside him his own ghost. It was identical in every detail, and he was naturally
astonished. Seconds later this poor chap was struck in the head by an enemy shot, and was killed
instantly. But strangely, he recalls then holding his own dying figure in his arms, for he had taken
over the form of the apparition that was beside him!"
"My good God!" cried Rhodes-Fotheringham, with an obvious alarm.
I then looked at Blake, who appeared so petrified he was speechless. I found it quite odd that these three chaps knew so much about ghosts. They seemed to be more than mere students of the college, and indeed I morbidly started to fear what exactly they were. However, I quickly dismissed these thoughts, and seized the chance to reveal some ideas of my own.
"This is all preposterous!" I shouted above the blaze of the fire.
"What?" demanded Blake, who suddenly regained his powers of speech upon hearing my
unwelcome exclamation.
"I have never hap who saw the ghost on the stairs. How do you know this if he shot himself? The same with the soldier in the war. He was dead just seconds after supposedly seeing his own ghost, so how do you know this? And as for the fellow whose wife gave birth to a phantom. That is pure drivel of the finest water!"
Rhodes-Fotheringham was in such an intolerable rage that I thought he would explode before my eyes, and the other two were not far behind in their ire. Each of them was blazing more intensely than the fire was!
"Get out of here!" yelled Rhodes-Fotheringham in a tremendous, booming voice. "And do not return! You are far from worthy of our company!"
This request -- or rather, this command -- seemed quite popular amongst the three of them, and so it was with a trembling demeanour that I proceeded to leave the library. A chilling silence ensued as I slowly stepped away from them and the fireplace. However, I believe I succeeded in astounding my trio of companions, for I departed from that room without opening the door.
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| | Steak and Onion in a Jacket - Baked Potato | | | Sunday, October 12, 2008 (10:44 AM)
(I'm feeling bored) | | Preparation Time: 10mins
Cooking Time: approx 1 hour
Serves: 2
Ingredients
2 x 225g (8oz) Potatoes, scrubbed
1 x 15ml spn (1 tblspn) vegetable oil
2 large onions, sliced
175g-225g (6-8oz) British rump steak, cut into strips
1 x 5ml spn (1 tspn) dijon mustard
4 x 15ml spn (4 tblspn) red wine
salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Freshly chopped parsley
Directions
1. Scrub the potatoes and place in a pre-heated (King Edward Potatoes are best for this) oven at approx 200°C.
Cook for approximately 1 hour until thoroughly cooked.
2. After the potatoes have been cooking for 45 minutes, heat the oil and gently fry the onions until golden brown and soft (this should take approx. 15 minutes).
3. Increase the heat, add the steak and fry for 3-4 minutes or until cooked.
4. Stir in the mustard, wine and seasoning, and continue cooking for 1 minute.
5. When the potatoes are cooked cut them almost in half lengthways and spoon in the steak and onion filling.
Serve immediately with freshly chopped parsley.
6. Always use insulated oven gloves when handling hot potatoes and opening/closing the oven door.
| | | | 177 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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