And so it is, just like you said it would be...

I met an interesting chap at a conference recently. An ex-Army Officer, his job is to parachute into trouble spots and deal with the families of expatriates, getting them to safety, and eventually home. Hugh was wiry and softly-spoken and on first-name terms with pretty much all of the Global Baddies. He was highly decorated, and the most modest guy in the room. His colleagues told us more about the things he had done, and I must say, if I was cowering under an Embassy table in a smoke-filled room, he'd be my first choice of rescuer. In the bar afterwards, he was talking about the stresses of his career. He had been given all the most up to date psychological assistance, debriefings, decompression chambers, the whole nine yards. But what he found the biggest yardstick of his state of mind was his washing pile. He reckoned that if the dirty stuff was piled up everywhere, he needed to stop and take stock - piles of clean kecks, and he was storming the compounds.

I'm reaching that piled-up state myself. I feel ever-so-slightly out of control - work is manic as we try to atone for a two-month lull while the our IT system played silly buggers and we achieved nothing but expanding our repetoire of hate crimes; the children have social schedules on a par with Paris Hilton; I have been up and down to London peddling my wares and sitting in stalled, unheated trains. None of which makes me the fragrant, calm lady who should be presiding over this household.

So. The Colonel has stepped in, and this is his recipe for a de-stressing evening of pre-Christmas peace:

• He has lit a fire. I cannot think of anything more seductive and primitive than building a fire for someone you love. This is the first of the year, and the first the dog has ever seen. She has a ten-minute window while I write this, then I will be replacing her on the rug to gaze at the flames.
• He has poured me a gigantic whisky mac. Those dear readers in recovery look away. Warming ginger and an afterburn of peat. Heaven.
• He is playing Damien Rice's incredible album, O. If you don't have it, treat yourself immediately. It is quite the most beautiful thing you will hear this week. Play it loudly.
• He has, quite brilliantly, arranged for Episode Three of Spooks to come on while I am eating supper.
• There are candles lit all over the shop. It makes all hovels look wonderful and the light turns any haggard harridan into (in my case) Cate Blanchet. Excellent.
• I have the latest Tatler to drop into the bath later.

Hugh, your pants are safe.

Soup to Give You Roots

Heda, Willem Claesz. (1594–c1680). The Colonel approved of this one.

Stilleven met oesters, een citroen, een roemer, een gebroken glas en een omgevallen tazza

Still-life with oysters, lemon, a roemer, a broken glass and fallen tazza.

There are several disadvantages to starting almost every September at a new school, in a new country and often on a new continent. One of the obvious ones is that the only people who will befriend you are the losers and weirdoes. Anyone half-way well-adjusted will be happily catching up with their equally well-adjusted mates and it will be well into October before you get a look-in.

Another is that it becomes all too easy to forget one's traditions, heritage, roots. I recently worked out that, in my early forties, I have had over 30 addresses. That's a lot of moving. Before this sounds like a whingefest, I have of course had some amazing adventures and incredible experiences, but the older I get, the more I feel a visceral need to belong, to have a home, to know that each September that rolls around will bring tradition, the comfort of familiarity, the same old thing. Food is a very good way to instantly capture and establish tradition, especially for a greedy Taurean like me. 'We always have salmon on Christmas Eve,' 'I always bake lemon drizzle cake for birthdays' are boasts that make me feel very centred.

Right, enough introspective bollocks. The point of all this is that as soon as there is a proper chill in the air, I am reminded of that central heating in a bowl, Snert, Dutch pea soup. I have warmed my hands on this since I lived in Antwerp over 25 years ago, a comfort to my adolescent angst, chain-smoking Gauloise Blondes in the shadow of that City's magnificent Cathedral. I made a meatless version of it as an impoverished student in the shadow of another Cathedral in the North of England. I have slurped bowls and bowls of the stuff in my time, in my greed, burning my tongue on its tobacco-coloured silky depths. It was a stunning punctuation to a hilarious afternoon many years ago, which I spent taking the Colonel ('Modern ART? ART? God Almighty, give me a pot of paint and two bloody housebricks...') round the Mauritshuis Museum in the Hague (he adored the still life stuff, hated the nudes because their arses were too big, wouldn't even go into the temporary Bacon exhibit). We sat for hours afterwards in a smoky old dark-panelled cafe; slurping this delicious soup, sipping red wine, talking rubbish and watching the winter afternoon descend beyond the candles of our red-checked table.

I have had some feedback on the general sloppiness of my recipes so far, so for those of you with an anally retentive bent, here are some proper quantities and precise methods. It is worth putting aside an afternoon to make this, and do make heaps of it - it is truly delicious, a meal in a bowl, tastes even more sublime the next day and just think: you can now say "I always make Snert in November."

510g (1lb 2oz) yellow split peas
510g (1lb 2oz) pork ribs
2 litres (3½ pints) water and 2 litres ham stock – feel no shame about using cubes; I boiled a pig’s foot once. Blech.
a smoked sausage in a big horseshoe shape or six of those little Polish kabanos
2 large onions
2 leeks
1 whole medium celeriac - this is non-negotiable, it is essential for depth and sweetness of flavour
2 potatoes
1 head of celery including leaves
sea salt and peppercorns

Rinse the split peas well. Place in a large saucepan with water and pork ribs. Bring slowly to the boil and skim off any scum, drain and rinse. Return to the saucepan with the stock. Bring the boil and reduce to a simmer. Peel and dice the potatoes and celeriac , wash and chop the leeks and add to the saucepan. Cook for 1½-2 hours, (until the peas are tender and breaking up), skimming if needed. Twenty minutes before the end of cooking, remove the ribs, cut off any rind and de-bone, cut in small pieces. Don’t grumble, it’s a pain but it will mean you can eat your soup so much quicker. Chop the celery and leaves. Add the meat, celery and sausage to the saucepan.Slice the sausage, stir in until warmed through and sprinkle with celery leaves or flat parsley to serve. Adjust the seasoning before serving.

For the full experience, eat with candles, Old Masters, dark beer and pumpernickel bread.

Soup for Miracles

My cousin Angus was a pyromaniac before he could walk. Not an arsonist, let's just get that straight. He loved, respected and was enraptured by fire. Not just the flames, but the whole religious ritual. Before the NS's abdication, we lived in Cumbria in a house on a cliff with a fireplace that all the children could stand up in together. Every Christmas Eve, the dads bundled us overexcited kids into wellies and waterproofs and marched us through the gloaming over the field with the Roman remains, scrambled us down the brows and onto the beach to womble* for the Christmas Log.

This huge lump of tree was then hauled back up the cliff using old rope, chains and as much bot-power as social services would let them get away with. Whining was verboten, especially with Santa's Fairies on constant lookout for places to leave the apocryphal lump of coal. The Northern Socialist would then channel his inner Thoreau and build the fire using the Guardian, twigs, the scantest bit of coal and finally, the Christmas Log. This would then burn for about three days, sparking and whistling. Strange colours would flame out of it, whooshing among the crannies and no doubt getting us kids all well off our tits on chemical fumes. No matter. While the grown ups were in another room shrieking to Morcambe and Wise, we would lie in the dark, rapt on the hearthrug, Christmas lights twinkling, and make last-minute bargains with Santa.

Angus always came the closest to getting a coal-stuffed stocking. He hated leaving the fire, and would push Santa's fairies to the limits of patience dragging his feet in protest at the unfairness of leaving his place of worship by the hearth. In the morning, he was always first downstairs, loudly lisping tales of still-burning miracles to bedrooms flurried with wrapping paper and spent stockings.

When I was at University, he came to stay with me for a night in my terraced hovel. I assumed at fifteen, he'd be keen to enjoy cheap unsupervised booze. Instead, I went to the pub and he stayed behind, cleaned out the chimney in my dank little room and built me a crackling, beautiful fire.

Seven long years ago, he married a wonderful girl. They waited to have a baby. And waited. Through all the cousins' babies, he kept the fires burning. He taught my son and nephews how to use a chainsaw and took them on tractor rides and always smiled. It must have been very hard for them - I cannot think of two people more suited to parenthood. Last month, at long last, they had a son. Many tears of joy were shed, many glasses raised, many fires lit.

Today they came for lunch and I met a bonny happy baby. His parents beamed non-stop. While Angus inspected the chimneys, I made them a firey soup.

Angus's Soup
Fry onions and garlic in the time-honoured way. Add a teaspoon each of cumin and smoked paprika. Chuck in several handfuls of red lentils, add two cartons of tomato passata and top up with (sorry Antonio) vegetable stock. Simmer while you hoist a month-old baby onto your shoulder and breathe in the smell of skin and wonder. When the lentils are tender (about 40 minutes) serve with rustic bread and eat with one hand, patting the sleeping baby with the other. Feeds vegetarians and carnivores alike.

*"..making good use of the things that we find, things that the everyday folk leave behind.." For more of this click here.

Smashing Pumpkin Risotto

A few weeks ago I shamelessly blagged my way into was lucky enough to be invited to a dinner party at one of the bot's wee chums whose father is a chef with a Michelin background. We had seven breathtakingly delicious courses, including scallops 'flown in by Rick Stein's people' and the most delicious pumpkin risotto I have even been introduced to. The chef is a delightful fireball of Spanish and Italian parentage, and his years of cooking for premier footballers have resulted in a spectacular four-star vocabulary. I was astounded to see a fair whack of the risotto disappear down the Colonel's neck - a solid meat-and-two-veg lad, his previous encounters with it (ugh, shudder, wet rice etc) are best forgotten. I asked Antonio exactly how he made it; pumpkin was a gift, premium Parmesan and chicken stock. "Always chicken stock. Even for da vegetarians." Pause while he sloshed more red wine into our glasses. "Eespecially for da faakin vegetarians."

So, this golden October afternoon, the bots, dog and Colonel jumped merrily to at my command. We donned adorable Gap hats and bright wellies and strolled along the river to the organic vegetable market to buy the perfect pumpkin to recreate Antonio's triumph. The dog didn't eat a single mouthful of slurry; the children skipped ahead hand in hand, leaping in delight, catching the leaves which twirled to the ground; the sun obligingly shone prettily through the oaks and glinted off the boats in the estuary.

As Antonio would say, deed we faaak. I left squabbly bots and Colonel debating TV choices - Sky Sports versus Disney, it's a constant narrative - and roared off in the car to Sainsburys, where I grabbed an intensively farmed pumpkin and whizzed home.

Here, with a little interpretation from me, is Antonio's Risotto:

Risotto cannot be hurried. You need to park yourself stoveside, glass in hand, with some chilled out music and plenty of time. I recommend a long cold vodka and tonic and JJ Cale. No telly schedule and not Golden Earring*. You know who you are.

Peel and dice a pumpkin. Heat olive oil and a knob of butter and gently cook a diced oinion until soft. Add the pumpkin and stir gently until it starts to colour. Chuck in a few handfuls of arborio rice and stir to coat in the oil. Here's where it starts to be relaxing. You will have prepared a jugful of warm stock, either because you did the right thing by last Sunday's chicken carcass, or because you have microwaved a tub of Joubere Stock or even added a cube to hot water. It depends how poncy you feel. Ladle by ladle, add the stock, SLOWLY, stirring between each ladleful until the rice has absorbed the liquid. When it starts to get sticky and dry, add the next lot. Stir constantly, enjoying the slow rythm and the thought you are following the motions of Italian mamas through the centuries. Alternatively, stir with one hand, slurping your v&t and refereeing the ongoing TV control war in the next room at the top of your voice.

Either way, eventually, you will end up with a gorgeous savoury mess of cooked (but still al dente - keep tasting to check, you don't want it to overcook) rice and tender bits of pumpkin. Add a splash of vermouth or white wine. Chuck in two handfulls of finely grated parmesan, stir till melted and serve immediately. If you can be arsed, or have somebody to seduce, hollow out the pumpkin shell and serve the risotto in it. It is an absolute show-stopper. Sprinkle prettily with parsley, sit on the TV control and enjoy.

* Hideous seventies one-hit-wonder rock band. From Holland.

Chicken Soup for the Bots

So with the bots away (abseiling and down a mine respectively) for the week, I ran away to London to get my hair cut.  I had every intention of a couple of elegant little blogs filed from there, but for all sorts of reasons, some technological, others involving vodka, it didn't happen. I did have a couple of meetings to while away the afternoons though.

I will spare you recent developments in Data Protection Legislation.

More interestingly, I invested in my first grown-up scarf, which is this one is you are as nosy as I am. Liberty was doing a pop-up collaboration or some such trendy nonsense with Hermes. Two of my favourite brands in a one-er, I thought. In fact it was complete bollocks. The scarves I saw looked as though someone had eaten a paint box and then thrown up on some rather itchy fabric. So I allowed myself to be taken through into the Scarf Room and talked into a more traditional pattern. I expect this means I have probably reached middle age. I expect it is this realisation that sent me screaming into the arms of several cocktails in some rather louche company later that evening.

Which sadly meant that I didn't get to the Maharaja exhibition at the V&A, but I think that you should go. It looks amazing and I will make time to nip in next week when I'm supposed to be at a conference.

Back to Planet Mummy yesterday. My son Freddie? Came home? Talking like this? At like his camp, yeah? There was this like mega-awsome guy? Called Spanner? Who like loved his stripy cool socks? This way of speaking takes so much longer than the way he used to speak last Sunday, so it took quite some time to hear that Spanner was really christened Simon and other riveting bits about this mystery teen who has so captured my lad's admiration. Freddie stank like a pole cat. He apparently wore the same pair of Spanner-blessed socks ALL WEEK. He then slept in his tracksuit and didn't bother wearing pants for the last two days. Horrible little beast.

Rose of course had showered every day and spent lots of time planning outfits from the 36,293 pieces of clothing she took Up North. They learned about smelting and electricity and Victorian ironwork. Nobody got Swine Flu but one person had Usual Flu. Rose was homesick for ten minutes on Tuesday until one of her friends sang her a Leona Lewis song. A new boy turned out to be a complete laugh and told them a brilliant story about how his mother once laughed so hard that she weed all over the sofa. I am very much looking forward to meeting her.

Both children? Came back with spare sweets and like voices like Eartha Kitt? They want to go to bed like sooooo soon? And don't care? About the X-Factor? They have asked for chicken soup? On the sofa? For supper?

Chicken Soup that Mends Everything*

Sling a whole chicken, bunch of parsley, onion, peppercorns and a couple of carrots into a pot, cover with water and simmer for a couple of hours then cool. Drain the stock off, pour back into the pan with a large chopped onion, diced potato and carrots. A parsnip is as exotic as you should get - there is no place here for butternut squash or anything else of that ilk. While the vegetables are cooking, strip the meat from the chicken carcass, chop and add to the broth. Serve with love.

*broken hearts, hurt feelings, struggles with hard sums. Not being picked for netball, not being picked for anything. The recession, global warming and terrorism.

Gary, Gary, Gary, Fight, Fight, Fight

Does anyone else share my flexible relationship with reality when it comes to celebrities, particularly chefs on the telly? Perhaps because I spend more time reading cook books than is healthy for someone of my overactive imagination, I really believe that I know them all personally. I used to go to cocktail parties on Oxford lawns with Nigella, both trussed up in jade taffeta. Rachel Allen and I had sleepovers and hung round stables together. John Torode nicked my dinner money and told everyone when I got my first bra. And I think everyone I know imagines giving Gary Rhodes a good shoeing behind the cricket pavillion.

However, on a day like this when the wind and glowering skies dictate my menu, it's to lovely Mr Slater I will turn. He'll whisk round my kitchen making this and this, while I sit nursing one of these. We'll have a good laugh about the excruciating algebra class we took; he'll tousle his godson's head and over a bottle of this will admire how elegantly I have adapted to life here in Bonkers-on-Sea, reminding me of London's bomb threats, knife fights and puke-spattered pavements. And Hatchards, cocktails at Claridges and 24-hour falafel.

Anyway, tomorrow I am going to dinner at a new mummy's house. Points for being overheard saying "god, I need a drink NOW". Double points because it was 10.30am. Perhaps there'll be puke on her pavement.