Tuesday, 27 July 2010

That's the sound we like!

Just a quick wee message to celebrate my gorgeous sister's engagement.

We shopped till we dropped and ate out al fresco at the almost new Piccolino's in Clitheroe.

The bubbles were flowing.

Congratulations to the lovely couple!


Tek me t'Three Fishes Luv

Being taken out for the night by a non drinker is always a huge coup. Like that rogue pound coin found in your winter coat pocket in September, the sly after eight mint that got away in the box full of empty wrappers or weighing yourself at someone else's house only for the scales to have dropped five pounds.

Upon this very evening, my partner in crime and I headed not to far from our hometown of Blackburn to the pleasant village of Mitton.

Having just returned back home to the Lancashire region after a stint of living in the West Midlands I am like a calf finding it’s feet and falling in love again with the natural beauty and magical lure of our humble county.

The drive for us this evening through the charming little chasm of Whalley and on into Mitton itself, was not for hedonistic view finding purposes but to fill our bellies with fine Lancashire fayre. The wipers were working overtime, squeaking innocuously in tune with merriment. A blanket of sapphire blue mingled with slate grey in the sky above us.

The swirling B roads en route to our destination favoured by ramblers, cyclists and bikers always exude to me an air of mystery. The bobbing trees protecting the roads like a guard of honour, enveloped in the swooshing glory of both the Hodder and the Ribble, yes, as my grandparent's would say, and with a gulp and lump in my throat, this truly is God's country.

The despondent and melancholy tones of your typical July evening in Lancashire certainly did not befit our chipper and auspicious mood.

After all. We were hungry people.

The place in question, The Three Fishes at Mitton.

As ubiquitous to our gradely county as creamy Lancashire itself, The Three Fishes has been attracting good Lancashire folk (and those from further afield) since 2004.

Thanks to the genius mastermind of Mr Nigel Haworth, the good townspeople are now able to experience Michelin starred cooking in a homely, toasty environment in the rolling splendour of the Ribble Valley.

A staunch user of local produce, the Three Fishes and it's fellow Ribble Valley Inns are abundant with some of the most shining jewels from the fields and coastlines of Lancashire. Nigel is a champion of sourcing his ingredients within the region and the suppliers sit proudly upon the walls and are mentioned on the menu's. A true ambassador for the county and the amazing array of produce it has on offer, Nigel works very closely with the farmers, suppliers and growers in the quest for creating a menu that will make Lancashire proud.

The produce is used with spirited wit, charm, patience and sensitivity to create a true gastronomic experience.

Only on our journey to Mitton, my friend and I were lamenting on the “good old days of Blackburn” when you could find at least one good place to eat. People loved nothing more than to get bedecked in their finest apparel and enjoy the notion of eating out and sheer enjoyment through food.

Mr Haworth has played a superb role in bringing the best of Lancashire to the forefront our own palates and to the screens in our living room.

An accomplished chef in his own right, Mr Haworth has been “grafting” as we would say in the north for well over 20 years.

Born in Accrington (or Accy) to those on the right side of the Pennines, Mr Haworth has been something of a silent assassin in the culinary world, earning the respect he so rightly deserves from many great chefs all over the world.

Being a Lancashire lass myself, I have studied Mr Haworth’s work since my days as cooking student in Blackburn.

He was the first person we could identify as trying to put Blackburn and indeed Lancashire itself on the map.

The Three Fishes is one of those places that I want to go when I am feeling in the mood for full on comfort eating. The type of meal where you might need to wear a loose fitting dress for that extra boost of support. I am not part of a gang of female dieters who steal other people’s bread, chips, puddings and nibbles of cheese.

If I am ordering. I am having it. All.

My friend in the driving seat had not visited before and having been told in advance that we had to be early, we hot footed it down before 8pm as well advised by the assistant on the telephone.

Our damp 7.55pm arrival was greeted with a bubbly smile and our names were etched onto the already bustling chalkboard. We were told a wait of 45 minutes which soon squashed down to 25 minutes.

Time to sample the fine beverages upon offer.

The décor in The Three Fishes is quintessential countryside chic. I think of a slick saloon vibe when I look around. The bar area has a feel of the “Deadwood Stage” in Calamity Jane with it’s warm chocolate hues and stone floors. An Inn in every true sense of the word. No chrome seats, glass tables or feathered chandeliers here. Real and honest to the core.

A gust of cheese on toast and the faint aroma of homemade chips were a welcoming aroma.

Being cold Annie, The Three Fishes and it’s room brimming full of people made it a perfect environment- not a cardigan in sight!

My abstaining companions eyes lit up as he saw the array of cold non alcoholic beverages on display, in particular, the Sarsaparilla.

Being one of our many driving topics of conversation, it was only customary that when in Lancashire….

I of the non driving variety ordered a Tanqueray and tonic on ice. When on school holidays……….????

My driver would fit in well with the Sarsaparilla society in their heyday.

Sarsaparilla owes it’s creation to the temperance movement in the late 1800’s in Lancashire primarily. It seems that we are true party people who have always enjoyed a jar or seven.

A certain Mrs. Lewis at this time, was not happy with level of carousing and boozing amongst the town.

Now, it is worth a mention here to hold our good Lancashire folk in high esteem here.

This was a time of heavy industry. Most of the towns that stretched the borders of the Pennines were cotton mills.

You see, before we were just known in a Beatles song and for our terrific football team winning the premier league in 1995, we were the Kings of Cotton.

Honest, hardworking men and women would be working long hours and many would leave work in the dark. Customarily, the workers would head to the pub after a long and tiring day.

Mrs. Lewis was very proactive in her campaigns against the drinking and was involved with different council boards to try and stop the amount of alcohol being consumed in Blackburn.

There were many people (notably angry wives) who agreed with her plight and so came the Temperance Bars popping up on high streets of Lancashire.

The idea of the Temperance Bar was a place for people to enjoy a social chinwag but with non alcoholic drinks.

The menu du-jour being a heady mix of herbal drinks such as Dandelion & Burdock, Herb Bitters, Cream Soda, Black Beer Raisin and Sarsaparilla.

(It is also just worth mentioning through pure fascination that another Lancashire favourite VIMTO was created through the temperance movement)

Cheers Mrs. Lewis!

The Sarsaparilla in question here at The Three Fishes was supplied by a local producer Mawson’s.

Dark, sticky and just the right level of fizz, with subtle smoky undertones of liquorice and the sassiness of the Sarsaparilla root.

My friend was on a temperance binge and decided to order another Mawson’s favourite of Dandelion and Burdock.

Now, like any good northern girl worth their salt, I love a good cold D & B. Usually with a bag of extremely vinegary chips, but the notion of being all dressed up and in the warm bosom of the Ribble Valley salivating over the scrumptious TF menu made it even more delicious.

So, the drinks were a hit.

Now, on't tucker.

Silence, concentration and serious thinking time. A few fervent ooh’s and aah’s later and crucial decisions had been made.

Determined to have my three courses, I chose the new addition to the menu, the Goosnargh Duckling Pastry with Homemade Piccalilli.

What is not to enjoy here?

I recognized this instantly as a homage to fellow Lancashire lass and Northcote Chef extraordinaire Lisa Allen.

Only recently, following the great tradition of her mentor Mr. Haworth, Lisa went on to win the starter course of The Great British Menu 2010 of which she executed a stunning dish with bags of Lancashire tongue in cheek humour; Wild Rabbit and Leek Turnover with the said Homemade Piccalilli.

The two greedy pigs at the Three Fishes decided to opt for plan which would lead us onto a win win situation.

He wanted fish, I wanted pastry. He wanted to try the duck, I love anything containing fish.

So, the fish soup arrived with dinky pots of “wicked” mayonnaise, the heavenly butlers Lancashire cheese and large circles of garlic croutons.

What I love so much about food at The Three Fishes and it’s sibling Ribble Valley Inns is the deep rooted northern humour exuding from the menu and in the presentation.

Nigel is a true Lancashire lad who if I had to hazard a guess, used to make bread “fishes” from white sliced Warburton’s and throw them into his soup.

The fish soup was velvet thick and bursting with la Coeur de la mer. A cheeky take on the French Provençal classic Bouillabaisse and Rouille. Except we get a naughty pot of cheese to crumble in too.

The sweet Goosnargh duck oozed with every reason of why chefs from Macclesfield to Mayfair want to use them on their menu.

A cross between Aylsebury and a Peking, gives the bird its unique balance in meat and without sounding too Benny Hill, a good breast.

Like chewing through melted toffee, the meat was wrapped delicately with a crisp and honey coloured layer of pastry which provided the perfect balance of a buttery crumb which silently smashed into crumbs allowing a mop up with fingers at the end.

Like a hidden foil egg in my grandma’s allotment at Easter, I dug out the shard of scratching that accompanied my mound of salad leaves and chewed it with great gusto. The utopian balance of charred crunchiness played against the gooey and spongy texture was a triumphant end to my starter.

The soup was being given the full kiddy treatment. After said adult and I had taken a sensible dash of the soup sans accoutrements, it was time to chuck in.

The wicked mayonnaise was smeared onto the discs of mini garlicky breads and submerged into the sea of reds and rust. I was a little bit Mrs. Lewis about adding the delectable Butlers into the fish soup, however, I am a keen advocate of cheese on other soups and obviously beans so I threw down the gauntlet.

A sneaky little addition which added a new dimension to our French fancy.

A thumbs up and empty dishes all round.

Listening to the buzzing whirr of fast paced conversation between the tables made me happy again to be back in Blackburn.

Our main courses were made upon decisions not too dissimilar to planning a family holiday.

What was the weight allowance? How long would it last? Would I enjoy it? Have I ever had it before? Who do you know who has had it? Is it warm? Is it cold? All vital investigations to be made.

Again, a tie break decision at the crucible and it was all about being able to have a bite of whatever they are having time.

Gingerly, I went for the classic Three Fishes Fish Pie and Sarsaparilla went for the much celebrated Three Fishes Burger which masquerades as 100% chargrilled ribble valley steak on an English Muffin.

The service time was good enough to have a good nosey and gossip amongst the other diners, but also to realise that I was ready for my next course.

A stolen glass of crisp Prosecco later and the main courses were on their way.

Great hunks of salmon, cod and king prawns bathing in a blanket of creamy parsley sauce and housed in a roof of golden crispy mash potatoes. All the credentials of a fantastic fish pie.

I slipped up on missing that it does not come with any buddies in tow. Petis Pois or perhaps some buttered spinach would have also not gone a miss, but nobody likes a greedy piglet now.

Having eaten the steak burger countless times, I am an ardent “pusher” to any new visitors. Sat like a Buddha on it’s fat chopping board platform, the minced steak burger hangs out of the muffin almost goading you to take it on. More like a steak mountain, I am always amazed that people do not feel the need to squash or de-bread their first bite.

A potent blend of summer barbecues and a slap up steak dinner, this dish deserves it’s place on the menu of all the Ribble Valley Inns.

A truly chivalrous and lion-hearted dish, you could be fooled that this was strictly one for the boys, but I have seen many a fine filly punching their way through the mass of meat and dripping fried chips.

A forgotten hero of the platter I always feel is the deliciously creamy mustard. I like to put the homemade ketchup onto the burger for added lubrication purposes and the mustard is solely for chips only.

My burger eating friend is not a follower of the cucumber. Even in it’s delicate swirls of ribbon, he was not being fooled. Being Polish and raised on the stuff and with the insider info that it is actually pickled makes the cucumber a nice little bonus for my fish pie.

A wave of euphoric silence and half groaned yoga positions gave only one suggestion.

We were both beaten.

What? No puddings!

By Eck indeed.

Had we have stayed, it was all about the bramley apple pie, needless to say for the greed factor and for the fact that unlike your average gastro pub, this is served with condensed milk AND a piece of cheese in the pie.

Now that is why it certainly is not grim up north.

In a time of cutting back on dining out and treating yourself once a month, The Three Fishes is a highly recommended choice for your pennies.

Just make sure you are not the one driving.

Thursday, 15 July 2010

Nu Potato

Growing up with lots of hungry men in my family (I have once witnessed my brother in-law devour 22 mini new potatoes in one sitting) I have had to endure the presence of the new potato on the table most of my life. Sitting on the table with all the self righteousness of Amanda Holden on the Britain's got Talent panel. We know they have to be there, but come on, what do they honestly know about entertainment?

The only new potatoes that I ever enjoyed were from the "potato man" in Blackburn town centre where I grew up as a young girl.

Whereas now young children will be able to gorge themselves on polyfilla bread and mechanically chopped chicken burgers for 99p at our larger conglomerates, we were fed a bags of buttery new potatoes for 20p no less. Now I love the 20p coin all day everyday for it's whimsical little shape and ability to buy small chocolate bars like fudge and Taz, but seriously, apart from minuscule advent calendar chocolate, what can you buy these days for 20p?

You were handed a small white paper bag brimming with warm nutty potatoes shimmering like amber birthstones. The bag had soaked through and become almost translucent by the time you had exchanged your silver for them and your hands had become a mixture of hot grease and lost skin.

Walking the streets munching through your sweetie bag of complex carbs, you could see other kids happily slurping on their potato skins.

I noticed about 4 years ago, a pseudo potato man had returned to the very same spot only to be bombarded by swarms of 20 and 30 somethings who had been indeed raised on the nutty potatoes.

Having the company of two of the said hungry men last week, I needed to think of ways to make the new potato friendly to eat for the ladies.

Mounds of salt and even more salty lurpak usually suffices. However, I am in love with the lemon at the moment and all it's acidic and potent Mediterranean glory.

I call them...well lemony potatoes......?

I have a perfect recipe which involves par boiling the new potatoes in salted water which have been cut in half.

Place in a roasting tin and roll them in extra virgin oil and rock salt. The oil must coat each potato. Use the fine side of the grater (not the one that mushes all the cheese up and you can never figure out a purpose to use it) to grate the zest of one large lemon and bung in. Use the whole juice to coat the potatoes too. Finely grate or crush 2 cloves of garlic and chuck in. Use your hands to give the potatoes a lovely juicy bath of gorgeousness.

Place in a pre heated oven at gas mark 5 for 30-40 minutes until extra crispy.

Serve in a small paper bag or with a meal if needs be.

Friday, 9 July 2010

St Bernard

I have a piece of paper in front of me and the word Russia in a bubble.

Think of words Laura. Think.

Vodka of course, or wodka, coleslaw, borscht, cold, fur coats, the Kremlin, Gorbachov, Anna Kournikova , Chicken Kiev and James Bond films.

I could not muster 10.

I have always been fascinated with the notion of spy's and indeed the word spy. Our tabloids have been awash recently with the furtive few who have made their way into the US.

When I think of Spy's I tend to think of that Slugsworth chap who accosts young Charlie Bucket with information on the Everlasting Gobstopper. I have also watched every Bourne film at least 6 times and know that Spy's can also be quite normal looking blokes who go by the trendy name of Jason.

I was stunned by the equally stunning spy who is caught up in the latest scandal in the US, 28 year old Anna Chapman. Like something more expectant from a 60s spoof movie of the cold war, Ms Chapman is one of 11 spy's who has been working in cahoots and infiltrating in amongst typical suburban America. The spy's were a very back to basics crew using all the Pink Panther techniques of invisible ink, bag swaps and transmitter radios.

I like the subterfuge and clueso feel good factor of these heists, especially as she also hung out in one of my fave haunts, Starbucks. Why not write secret notes on serviettes whilst enjoying a skinny hazelnut with poppyseed muffin?

Back onto the cold front for Ms Chapman and back to some decent Ruski cooking.

I have been flirting with the Cold front recently, namely the freezer aisle in the supermarket and the shaped meat products.

Not one to invest in such uniformed protein shapes, I allow myself these as a treat once in a blue moon.

A snack (it does not have the sustenance of a meal) that has been a firm favourite in my back catalogue since the 80s is that of the Bootiful Bernard Matthews Mini Kiev.

As it goes, I feel the same for Turkey as I do about Tennis. I can cope with it once a year. It is dull, full of promise and like the length of a game, can be unpredictable when cooking. In fact Andy Murray should be on the Bernard Matthews adverts as opposed to our ruddy faced faux-farmer (more on him later).

I had some very special guests visiting my lair last week and I wanted a meal that would provide sustenance after a long journey, yet a big fat warm cuddle and tickle under the chin.

I allow myself a bag of Mini Kiev's every year.

A staple in my childhood diet. Back when our meals were autistically planned by my Mum, we knew that one day would be a processed food day. The whole house would be full of a smell similar to that in a hot and stuffy pie and cake shop. Buttery and warm.

The mini kiev's went in a perfect partnership with another big player from the freezer. Curly fries.

Bouncy, podgy and glistening with crispy oil, they had all the credentials of a delicious accompaniment to our Kiev. If you were really lucky, sometimes your curly fries had obviously spent a little longer on the extruding machine an you ended up with some serious slinky ring curly fries.

Beans provided the necessary moisture to this otherwise labour intensive meal on our incisors and molars.

The plate was a sea of rust and terracotta.

Not a green in sight.

And that was the way we liked it.

For those of you who led unprivileged lives as children, or had to exist on a sodium free diet and munch raisins on your lunch as opposed to Wagon Wheels.

Mini Kiev's are a dinky spherical ball of chopped and shaped Turkey meat. The ball is then injected with a heavenly narcotic blend of salty cream cheese and a garlic and parsley sauce. The deviant ball is then rolled in an autumnal batch of Annatto E160 breadcrumbs.

12 minutes from frozen for optimum oozage, the spongiform construction of the kiev provides a perfect host to the heady sauce that is penetrating the porous walls like Kerry Katona being under interrogation from Piers Morgan and Max Clifford after a night on blue wkd.

Like all things affected during the recession. I was surprised by my short change from the bag. Feeling through the bag, I could detect 8 balls. That is 2 and a half each for my soiree. Not a chance. I'll take 3 bags squire.

The dimensions make it easy work for full inhalation should you wish to eat it "dry" that is, with no accompaniments.

Carving into your turkey and there it is. Glutinous liquid gold. My guests were intoxicated and equally enthused with the notion of injected foods. More please!!!

Mr Matthews has been hit hard in his barbour jacket since the factory scandal in the annus horribulus of 2006 where two factory workers were caught on hidden camera playing baseball with live Turkeys, then the outbreak of Bird Flu. I am firmly of the opinion though that even animals are allowed days off sick. Mr Oliver then didn't do any favours with his exposure of the rabid Turkey Twizzlers on his school meal's horror campaign.

Yes, Bernard and his bootiful Turkey was well and truly stuffed.

A man who I would personally prefer to see suited and bootifully booted in Barbour attire is Marco Pierre White. The godfather of the kitchen has signed a six-figure deal to promote the turkeys and pre-prepared foods made by Bernard Matthews Farms.

To be frank, the scandal only put me off the boxes of crepe paper ham for a couple of years, but I still kept faithful to my beloved Kievs.

Traditionally made in Russia using it's more socially acceptable sibling, chicken, the Kiev is a gastro classic which is enjoying an electro induced 80s revival in many slick restaurants now. The Kiev is ideal for appealing to your inner child. Like tapping onto a soft boiled egg or poking a chocolate fondant pudding, there are very few pleasures for me.

Carving into your turkey and there it is smeared all over your plate in all it's wobbly garlicky glory. Injected food is a feat of physics in itself. I am shocked that Heston has not taken the opportunity to wreak havoc with homemade kiev's in his fat duck test kitchens yet.

My friend and I at this point (at least once per month) wax lyrical of fallen soldiers that have been AWOL from our supermarket shelves.

Ketchups, another injected food had all the script of a classic accompaniment to our Kiev. Being beige, it would have been perfect on the colour wheel of beige's and bronzes that bestowed us.
A potato croquette injected with ketchup which were cooked from frozen, have not been seen since the easily the start of the 90s. Frozen food fables say that they were pulled off the production line for health and safety regs. Damn you ES 00001. The underlying reason being that the temperature of the Ketchup was too high and providing people with a serious case of Pizza chin (the light abrasions suffered from escapee Pizza cheese on the chin).

4 rogue balls left in the freezer went down nicely as a cheeky amuse bouche to stave off the hunger pangs earlier this week.

So there you have it. Throw on your diadora tracksuit and Casio watch, whack on some KLF and you have yourself a little slice... er sorry sphere of history.

Friday, 2 July 2010

Give Peas a chance

The nut bowl. A paddling pool of sweat, salty residue, fecal matter and coli forms.
Like any greedy oik worth his salty fingers, I love a good nut. I tend to veer towards the safety of a dry roasted myself. If that nut was to personify anybody, for me it would be the boss himself. Mr Bruce Springsteen. Musky, a faint hint of nicotine, rock and roll, edgy, the last to leave a party. Yes, this peanut knows how to have itself a good time.

Halcyon memories of many a Christmas day spent on the floor of my Grandma’s house with my brother searching for stray dry roasters that have escaped their Pyrex prison.
An antipodean friend of mine who for the nomenclature of this tale goes by the prefix “Aussie” Ben is the reason behind today’s posting.

Now first of all, I have to assess the reasoning behind men who are given a title to bolster their name. I guarantee that everyone somewhere along the road has been friends with or indeed met a “Scouse John” or a “Big Mike” it just goes with the territory of friendship circles.
You see, Aussie Ben is a man of many mysteries. He tells me that in his previous life, he has worked as a lorry driver, cocktail maker, run his own restaurant and been a Cowboy.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I cannot even contemplate how you begin to prepare your CV for a Cowboy job.
He had no lassoo, no bison, and no chewing tobacco like I had seen in Calamity Jane. Ergo, a pretty rubbish Cowboy by my standards.

A well travelled fellow. Aussie Ben takes great delight in freaking out our very parochial school children with bushtucker trial-esque food. Thus far, the kiddies have encountered Zebra, cuttlefish, Ostrich and god forbid, vegemite.
It was the brightly neon coloured tin that caught my eye.
Mr Oz brought in a delectable snack which would have had Mr Dry Roasted putting an extra 40kg on the bench press.

Wasabi Peas.

A vivaciously lurid snotty green colour which would fit in well with #B2E “Inchworm” in a Crayola colour comparison chart. A slightly bulbous appearance. A Marrowfat on Creatine if you will.
He claimed 3 was too hot to eat.

I don’t think that this guy knows quite who is dealing with here.

I raise your 3 to 7.

Four handfuls later of the stuff and I began to feel the effects. The Wasabi.
Wasabi, also known as Japanese Horseradish is much more fragrant than our creamy variety we layer on our sandwiches and provides an aftertaste similar to leaving Listerine in your mouth for too long.

I have only in the last couple of years got to know and enjoy the taste of Wasabi through visiting Thailand and Singapore where it is eaten at all times of the day. A delicious snack which compliments the sharpness of the Wasabi, is to slice up a ripe Avocado and dip into Wasabi. It is also delicious liberally spooned into mash and served with a mild white fish.

A member of the Brassica family, making it a cousin to the Cabbage and Mustard plant. I would imagine in your classic Brassica brawl, the Wasabi would lay down serious uppercuts and probably end up getting expelled from school at some point.

It can be sold as a powder, or ready to use paste, usually in the shape of a toothpaste. I do not condone such childish behaviour, however, purely for schoolboy giggles, the perplexity of an unsuspecting early morning wake up call of Wasabi-on toothbrush would be of much amusement to me.

Back in the classroom, the Year 9s were gazing at the A-H of edible obscurities that awaited them.
Lychees bobbing playfully were falsely accused of being eyeballs or pickled onions. Vegemite (the Aussie Marmite) was identified as tar, nutella and poo. The latter, being a decent call for me.
Fruit is standard for inducing a melancholy tone to children who feel that Toffee Apples, Oasis drink and those strips of Yoghurt they squelch down their throats are actually classed as their five a day.

I was mightily impressed that a few could spot Mango in a crowd.
Apparently, Mum has it on weight watchers and it is like only 1 point.

It was the plate of fat Neon bogey-peas that provoked the most laughs that I have had in a long time.
Some of the connoisseurs compared it to Bombay Mix, Chilli Powder, Curries. Cue a heap of exaggerated coughing and choking fits. At least I hope they are exaggerated as I am almost crying with laughter.

No one classified them from the Pea Province.
Again. Vegetable. Risky Terrain.

The reveal was a little bit like when Cilla Black used to bring over someone’s long lost Aunt that no one had seen or heard of for 17 years over from New Zealand on “Surprise Surprise”. The children were vacant, bemused and all together not too bothered about what they were.
Wasabi was a word that certainly no one had ever heard of.
Just as we were packing away, two boys were taking full advantage of the free food and utilising all the left overs when one of them turned to me and asked.

“Miss, have you got anymore of them Washable Peas?”

Who says you cannot impart knowledge.

Having just returned from a trip to our great capital, I spent the best part of the day in China town scouring the many supermarkets festooning the streets. Wasabi Peas are to the children and adults of China what Walkers crisps are to us.
The shelves were piled high with the stuff. Ridiculously cheap too, only £1.85 for a standard tin against the high street norm of £3.
Having always bordered on the side of being a sweet lover, I have been surprised by my affinity to our Brassica buddies. Less hydrogenated and Saturated Fat than crisps (a free snack on weight watchers!! Hell I may even just rejoin) I have found a guilt free snack with and with it's shadowy name, it certainly puts people off from wanting too many. Maybe washable would be a good idea?

Like John and Yoko said. Give Peas a chance.