Since I started reading Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Cookbook I've had definite cravings for their magnificent Côte De Boeuf and decided to recreate just a flavour of it using Puddledubb buffalo steaks from the Farmers' Market.
The meal would probably have gone smoother if I hadn't sliced off the tip of my middle finger whilst cutting the frites having just sharpened up the knife with typically poor timing.
It didn't stop us from enjoying our dinner though it might have delayed it somewhat whilst we applied bandages.

Tried a Mackerel ceviche this time. It made Rachel cry, but that might have been more to do with the recent phone call from her ex than tears of joy at the happy memories it evoked.

Here's a little dinner I cooked up at 9 minutes past 9 on the 9th of September '09.
Ok, it was actually the 8th of September, but a man can dream can't he?
The olives come from a marie claire cookbook, in fact the only reason I bought the book in the first place was because this green olive recipe caught my eye.
Good job they were so tasty...

Rachel has been demanding ceviche "like her Mother(-in-law) used to make" for ages now, unfortunately the ceviche her Mother-in-law used to make was apparently shredded with a fork before being soaked in lime juice, which is a bit hard on any less-than-stridently flavoured fish, and tends to turn my face inside out. Rachel says they used to mix in grated carrot, coriander and possibly onion, leave it overnight, then squeeze out the lime from the fish by hand, which might help I guess (though the implication is - you need to make handfuls). This was then served with onion and chopped tomatoes on tostadas.

Apparently Mexicans prefer "fatty" seafood, such as mackerel and pompano, though I've also seen plenty of recipes using red snapper

The Starbucks where I buy coffee. every. day. has a Borders bookshop around it, and since they have strategically placed their bargain cookbook island between the entrance and the coffee, I am forced to examine their latest cheap(ish) cook book offers. every. day.
Today's book has a ceviche recipe so I decided to give it a bash for tonight's offering, and also, rather foolishly, decided to scrape the lemon sole off its skin with a fork rather than slice it into strips for the marinading.

This time I half planned the backup rainy day alternative of grilling the kebabs. It had to be done though - I've been promising Rachel something in a Satay Sauce for ever.

Oh, by the way - if you ever get to cook on a real barbecue - blackened pineapple slices (about ½" thick) are absolutely lovely. Peel off the outside, but don't core them or they'll fall apart.

No sooner had we decided on a barbecue for dinner, and I'd spent quite a lot of pennies on a lovely big chunk of monkfish and some monster tiger prawns, the heavens opened, it poured rain for the rest of the day and I was forced to resort to grilling as a pale imitation of a bed of hot coals.

On 21st June Mrs Eldorado, Mr Munro and I visited this noisome island, partly for calisthenic purposes, and partly lured by reports of a cavernous entrance to the Underworld At The Centre Of The Earth.
Contentedly settled on Seacliff beach 'neath the lowering cliffs of Tantallon castle, surrounded by picnicking paraphernalia, spouses, and combined offspring I have to relate that we were completely deceived by the seductive morningtide whose softly swelling seas and gently suckling breezes lured us to her watery depths.
We scarcely imagined, from the comfort of our sandy beach, the wild and terrible storms shortly to descend upon us.
Donning protective garments we launched our three sturdy coracles into the calm clear waters and after paddling some thirty minutes with light effort we obtained the Eastern seaboard of the Great Bass. Rising ponderously from the ocean, the swollen craggy mass swarmed with the foul airs and lice of a million pestilent seabirds. Screeching herring gulls and poison-necked gannets drenched us with ordure from above as they swirled and skulked in their intricate layers of choreographed aerial assault.
Seeking protection of the great overhanging cliffs we began investigating the narrow defile within whose watery cleft is reputed to lie the immense cave whose entrance is only accessible "at dead ebb of spring tide". Since we had meticulously timed our visit for high water, we expected to find meager evidence of this subterranean chasm, and were therefore little disappointed when we determined no obvious means of ingress.
Thus rebuffed we determined to circumnavigate the vast and stinking adamantine block, and set off with a stiffening wind at our backs for the western side, to seek out the furthermost entrance to this unyielding fastness, passing on our way numerous twitching adventurers, biliously clad in yellow oilskins aboard gaily coloured motor vessels whom we regarded with great scorn.
Rounding the island's rocky northern promontory, we at once found ourselves in the alien climate of Southern Italy.
The sweeping western bay sheltered us utterly from the sea breezes beyond, and adrift in a vast mattress of choking feathers, the pitiless face of the midday sun now directly overhead beat down heavy rays which stirred not a breath of air in this fetid, stifling cove.
Conscious of the deadening hand of this oppressive atmosphere I cautiously drifted stern-wards into a deceptively narrow crack in the inner wall of the bay and was treated to a brief view of the tremendous cavern within before a sudden and terrifying assault from an army of spectral-eyed, raven-toothed sea monsters rising from the deep forced my hasty retreat.
Returning with my reinforcements, together we three friends were finally able to beat back the family of frightened seals and Mrs Eldorado, penetrating further into the deathly gloom than we others dared, reported sight of a glimmer of light deep within the vastness.
And so, braving the jeering shags circling overhead and the surging tide which crashed and groaned before us, we made to beach our slender vessels on the pebbly beach within, struggling to hold them ashore against the grasping tow.
Having taken great care in our preparations for the voyage we carried not a lamp between us and were therefore hopelessly blind in the now stygian gloom.
So girding our loins and linking our bodies for safety we thrust our way by feel and touch forward into the greasy depths, all the while fearing further attacks by killer seals or a sudden fall into the bottomless Bass pit we sensed yawning mere inches from our feet.
Pitching rocks and pebbles before us to cast forth shadows of sound we crept on our way like bats, though the plunging stones spelunking into the oily pools ahead only served to increase our unease.
Tightly sheathed in rubber as we were, however, we had little to fear from the watery hollows and were soon climbing sturdily towards the waxing sunlight, though truth be told straining against its intensity as we were, this made our progress more difficult.
Finally we burst forth into the light of the Eastern shore, high in the inaccessible defile we had glimpsed in our earlier reconnoitrings, and gazed down in relief at the great frothing cobblestones below.
Though we saw no prospect of easily accessing this entrance from the sea, we were able to descend close enough to touch the surface of that surging liquid and thus lay claim to having successfully penetrated the secret passage of the Rock. The first to our knowledge in One Hundred years.
Fortunately the return journey was more easily accomplished with the light of experience and sunshine now behind us, and the shallow puddles between us and our trusty canoes seemed now a trivial barrier.
Launching from the pebbly beach into the rolling waves was merely a matter of delicate timing, and bidding farewell to the friendly seals cautiously shadowing our progress we paddled from the shady grove and the slumbering shelter of the mighty rock out into the throat of a veritable tempest.
Unbeknownst to us whilst we took our pleasure within, a violent storm had arisen without and lashed up wind and wave to ferocious assault, but we had little choice than to do battle.
So we hardy souls lowered our heads, stiffened our sinews, pointed our fragile boats into the teeth of it and made hard for the distant shore.
Though we were never so relieved to reach the safety of St Baldred's Beacon and our sandy bay many hours later, nonetheless Mrs Eldorado took time, tossed and lashed as we were, to laugh at the seas tempestuous might and stopped, casually, to drink from her water canister mid-crossing.

We were a little disappointed, perhaps, at not obtaining the fabled Land Beneath The Sea, but our survival of the journey was certainly not the least interesting incident in a climactic day's adventuring.

K. Sourville