In which matters take an unexpected turn

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I was going to do a little gentle football nonsense today. It's a Saturday after all. There might have been a rumination on the delights of Hidcote lavender, or a funny story about something that happened this morning with one of the dogs and the car, or even no blog at all, because you know sometimes I take the weekends off. But then I stumbled upon one of the stupidest recipes for a hamburger I have ever read, and you know how that kind of thing makes me cross, and I was driven to write.

You will be glad to hear that I am slowly turning myself into a World Cup cliché. I actually went to the shop to buy beer and tortilla chips. I shall be swigging Peroni and madly eating the spiciest home-made salsa when the Moment of Truth arrives. Then I realised that I would be in dire need of protein, and in fact iron, and there was some lovely Aberdeen Angus beef mince on special offer, and I can never resist a special offer. Hamburgers it would be.

One of the curious things about cooking is where the blind spots lie. You would think that making a hamburger is just a question of finding the best mince and not forgetting the ketchup. In fact, I have had minor disappointments with hamburgers. Mine often turn out a little bit bland; not horrid, just blah. Today, infected with the competitive spirit of the football, I decided I would perfect the burger if it killed me. I found several unsatisfactory recipes: far too many feature chopped onion; one actually suggested cream. The worst by far came from the most unexpected source. The mighty Heston Blumenthal gives a recipe derived from a traditional South African barbequed sausage, and his version sounds not only disgusting but actually dangerous. He recommends the addition of pork mince, and then says that you should flip them on the grill until 'the meat is cooked to your liking'. Well, what if you like it rare, as I do? What if you do not know that pork must always be cooked all the way through? If not, it's a one way trip to the doc with massive stomach cramps, and all kinds of parasites setting up shop in your gut.

Heston goes on to compound his schoolboy error by dictating the addition of hysterically inappropriate spices like cloves and nutmeg. One of the most lauded chefs in the world is suggesting you cook a burger which could give you trichinosis, hepatitis E, or even a tapeworm that might eat your brain. I am not exaggerating: look at this article from the California Institute of Technology. To make it worse, he wants you to make it taste of nutmeg. I understand nothing.

The most peculiar thing about this is that it comes from the Waitrose website, where Delia Smith committed her crime against risotto. What is it about these chefs and their appalling Waitrose recipes? Do they think they can just phone it in because it will only be read by polite middle-class people, who would rather eat their own Boden catalogue than complain? Is it a new front in the class war? I am profoundly shocked and disturbed by the whole fiasco.

Anyway, in the spirit of sanity, I consulted Jamie Oliver, and called my mother, and came up with a most satisfactory version. It is not yet definitive, but I can recommend it as a starting point, should any of you have suffered from the same blah burger problem as I.

For four hamburgers I took 500 grams of top quality minced beef. It really must be as fresh and good as you can find.

I whisked up an egg, added a handful of finely chopped marjoram from the garden, half a handful of finely chopped parsley, a jigger of Lea and Perrins, a teaspoon of Dijon mustard (this is a Jamie notion, and I think a good one), one minced garlic clove, and a big pinch of Maldon salt. I put in the meat and smooshed everything up together with my hands until the egg was absorbed and the beef felt lovely and soft. I shaped it into patties about half an inch thick. This is to your preference: you may prefer those big, thick, rustic burgers. Just adjust the cooking time accordingly.

My mother recommends a little dredging in flour, very lightly, to give the burgers a lovely crust. I almost never disagree with her on anything, but I think you can do it with or without.

I put a big frying pan with a little sunflower oil on top heat, and fried the hamburgers for two minutes each side. I think the high heat is important, because you get the slightly blacked outside, while still getting a pretty rare inside.

I let the burgers rest for a minute, then put them on lightly toasted pain rustique with sliced tomato and a scatter of rocket. You may like more exotic accompaniments.

They were very juicy and good, although I still think perhaps they could pack a little more punch. I am contemplating a little more Worcestershire sauce next time, or a pinch of dried chilli. I am not yet at journey's end, but I am definitely on the road to the better burger.

Oh, that was all a bit meaty, wasn't it? As an antidote, here are some soothing shots of a more bucolic variety, taken by me, in the woods and the garden in the last week, with the miraculous new camera:

Finally, if you want to make yourself very happy this lazy Saturday, and take your mind off World Cup nerves, should you be having them, I highly recommend this deliriously lovely post by the great Miss Whistle. It is not only beautifully written, but it really will convince your jaded old heart that true love is not just a wicked rumour put about to make you sad.

Miss W was one of the very first people I encountered when I dipped my tentative toe into the swirling waters of the blogosphere, and she could not have been kinder or more encouraging. Her blog is a thing of beauty, a perfect mixture of the poetic, the personal, the visual, and, occasionally, the metaphysical.  And it has dogs.

And: go England. I mean, really, GO. Never forget, it's in the back of the net where it counts.

Here we go, here we go, here we go

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I am about to enter my two-yearly football frenzy. I can't be doing with the league business, but I do love international soccer. Every two years, I get thrilled about the European Championships or the World Cup, suddenly remember what the offside rule is, ship in proper quantities of lager beer, and get very shouty at the television. I like the idea of the whole world coming together in one sport. I feel a little sentimental about the smaller countries, and long for them to do well. There was a glorious moment in 1990 when Cameroon suddenly showed everyone what really antic football looked like. There was something very touching about the Croatian team reaching the quarter finals of Euro 96 after the horrors of the Balkan wars. There is also something properly democratic about the whole business. If football went where money and power is, then America and China would win every single tournament; instead, you get Brazil and Spain leading the field.

Good old England goes into the tournament amidst a mumble of doubts. In the past, tournaments started in blind optimism and flag-waving, and degenerated into white-faced disappointment, usually involving a shambolic penalty shoot-out. This year, as if to guard against hubris, the mood is appropriately recessionary. There are tiny green shoots of hope, and a smatter of St George's flags, but the general feeling seems to be a prosaic bracing for disaster. It's England, for heaven's sake; something always goes wrong. The captain is already out after a training injury. Wayne Rooney is bound to lose his temper and get sent off. Brazil is just too good. Gloomy columnists are predicting we won't even get past the group stage.

As for me, I choose to live in hope. I hope the whole tournament will be good for South Africa. I hope the fans behave well. I hope that at least one unconsidered underdog will surprise and delight. I hope England plays well, even if it almost certainly will  not win. And I hope that there will be beauty in the beautiful game.

In the meantime, to keep us all going, we have the marvellous Ukulele Club of Dulwich, of all places, with my favourite World Cup song in years:

It's so very British: slightly shambolic, utterly eccentric, and calmly jolly, featuring both tins of beer and very bad teeth. I am particularly taken with the fellow in the hat.

Talking of Britishness, and men in hats, I could not resist this fine photograph from Little London Observationist:

Apparently they were waiting for a bus to take them to see the Trooping of the Colour.

And finally, a little dose of the perspective police. One of the blogs I follow keenly features despatches from Afghanistan. It is very cool and understated, but every day it reminds me of the quiet heroism of the troops out in the dust of Helmand province. Just in case I get too hysterical about the England team in the World Cup, I can remember that football is, after all, only a game, and not a matter of life and death, by looking at photographs like this:

This is a counter IED expert, who appears to be looking for bombs using only a small metal implement. Goals and glory are marvellous things, but that's real courage right there, with no fanfare.