Whatever my last post may imply, it's not all doom and gloom chez Seren. Take Saturday, for instance. Saturday was a Very Good Day.
When we lived in York, D and I used to set whole days aside to go round and visit all the tourist hotspots. It's so easy to take stuff for granted when it is under your nose. We haven't done so much of that in Leeds - the whole marriage separation thang may be partly responsible - but last Saturday we went to visit Salts Mill which has been on the radar for a while.
It's a funny old place. A Grade II listed World Heritage Site which is essentially a middle class shopping Mecca. It's an old mill building, dating back to the 1850s which has been converted into a peculiar mash up of gallery (primarily Hockney) and very, very exclusive shopping mall complete with eateries. It sounds like I'm being sneery and I really am not. I had a fabulous time wandering around and I would urge anyone in the Bradford area to pop along for a mooch. I intend to do all my Christmas shopping there.
Of course, being a responsible food blogger I insisted that we stop for lunch at the Salts Mill Diner (one of, I think, three separate places to eat).
I went for one of the specials of mushroom ravioli with spinach in a garlic and chilli butter. It was nice, although rather polite - every component could have been taken up a notch or two. D opted for a chicken Caesar salad, a rather unusual choice for him which he appeared to enjoy well enough although I, personally, was rather perturbed by the inclusion of olives.
Given that we were both rather restrained and resisted the urge to indulge our mutual love of kitchen implements and overpriced stationery, on the way back we treated ourselves to a trip to Waitrose to stock up on Saturday Night Provisions which included the wee beastie on the left; a spatchcocked chicken which we left to bathe in a concoction of olive oil, half a head of crushed garlic, lemon juice and lemon thyme leaves before setting to cook over white hot coals. The result was an utter delight. I have long been wary of barbecued chicken but spatchcocking is undoubtedly the answer: twenty minutes on each side gave perfectly cooked results. I left the butchery element to the male contingent but he reports it to be quite disarmingly easy. We served the meat with nothing more than salad and crusty bread which is, quite frankly, all it really required.
It was a quiet, pottering sort of day but a lovely one nonetheless. The kind of day that it is good to remember during darker moments (see last post. Or not.)