Sam and I head over to where a couple of girls with clipboards are standing under a silver banner that reads ‘
Style and Food Magazine
Awards – Short-List Finalists’ to pick up my name tag. I scan the names for Leyla’s – her blog is on the list too, but her tag’s already gone.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to do this bit for me, Sam?’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.’
‘You can’t blame any of this on me,’ he says, putting his hands gently on my shoulders and smiling. ‘It’s all your work. It’s all you. In fact it couldn’t be more you.’
‘Let me just pin this name on you for a little bit … just till after the speeches.’ I make a grab for his lapel. My, but this boy does scrub up well. I can’t quite believe how dashing he looks in his suit. He has even managed to get a good haircut, and he’s promised he won’t pop out for a fag till midnight.
‘You know I can’t be trusted speaking in public,’ I say. ‘Not after the last time!’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ he says. ‘That was one of the highlights of my time at NMN. That and the time Steve Pearson got locked in the toilet overnight.’
I don’t expect to bump in to Jake immediately. I was hoping to neck a couple of glasses of champagne at the very least, to calm my nerves. But of course things never ever turn out the way you play them in the fantasy in your head. He’s there, of course – with her, of course. And the first thing I feel when I see him is a tiny jolt of shock, followed by a balloon-burst of disappointment. I’ve waited so long for this moment and now that it’s here how could it be anything other than an anti-climax?
He looks fine. Not amazing, not terrible. A little bit chunkier than when I last saw him. A little bit older. So do I, I’m sure. Does he look happy? He looks a bit tired and a bit bored. Not unhappy. But he doesn’t look as happy as me.
I instinctively check his left hand to see if he’s wearing a ring. He isn’t, and she’s not wearing an engagement ring. And I realise that I would actually feel OK even if she was wearing a massive rock: she has ceased to be shrapnel. And then I suddenly understand that over the last year something truly wonderful has happened. The feelings of love I once had for Jake have become something better. They have gone through pain and turned into indifference. And when you truly don’t care any more, you are finally free.
Because Polly was so right. If he hadn’t left me, then sure, maybe none of the bad things would have happened in these last two years, but none of the good things would have happened either. If we’d stayed together I would have just bumbled along. I’d have always had someone to come home to, to watch a DVD with. And I would have hidden in that relationship and put him first, so that I never had to try or fail at anything that was all my own. He pushed me onto that path to freedom, though I didn’t want to be pushed. Freedom. That’s a much greater luxury than a Birkin bag.
So I really should go over now and thank him. But I’m not going to. Not because I’m going to ignore him. I’m not. I give him a little wave and a smile. Just for old times’ sake. No, I don’t go over to him because I have somewhere far more important that I’m meant to be: front row table in the Grand Room, taking my seat for the ceremony. And there’s a few VIPs already sitting there who I need to say an urgent hello to.
Polly, six months pregnant with baby number two. Rebecca and Luke, holding hands under the table. The pair of them look like they should be in a Kooples ad, they’re so perfectly beautiful together. Frandrew, still together and still snogging like teenagers at the back of a bus. Debbie, without that idiot husband of hers. Dalia, back with that idiot boyfriend of hers. Mum, Dad, Terry! Marjorie’s sitting next to Terry, almost smiling. And there’s lovely, sweet Andy Ashford with his wife.
This time last year, all I could think about were the things I didn’t have: a boyfriend. Someone to go on mini-breaks with. Younger skin. Size ten jeans that fitted me. A really good marble pestle and mortar. A promotion. Something solid in the ground to say ‘I’ve done OK, I’m not a total failure.’
I wanted so many things that I didn’t have. But I look around me now at the people gathered at this table and I no longer think of all the things I don’t have. But of all these things I do. Because it’s not about scrabbling in the void for people to share your loneliness. It’s about filling the void with the people you love, to share the good times.
The ceremony has started and everything is such a blur that I don’t hear my name called out as the winner is announced but suddenly my mum is grabbing my arm and whispering loudly.
‘Hurry up, get up there before they change their minds …’
I take a long slow sip of water, then a quick gulp of champagne, then a bit more water, and I move slowly to the stage. I feel a wave of nerves push me up the steps and carry me over to the microphone.
I take a deep breath. And another. And then I begin.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Susie Rosen. I run a blog called The Leftovers.
‘I started writing this blog twelve months ago and I had three people reading it, only one of whom wasn’t a relative. Last week a lady called Jenny Knight in Norwich became my 100,000th subscriber. Waitrose signed up as my biggest advertiser. And you,
Style and Food Magazine
(my favourite magazine, by the way, I have always been a fan!) voted me as your best new website of the year.
‘Leftovers started out as a collection of tasty, budget-conscious recipes with a clever search engine that my very talented friend and business partner Sam designed. And now it’s grown into something a bit bigger. It has a scrapbook section where readers post photos of their own recipes. And there’s a Swapsies section, where you can exchange or give away bits of kitchen equipment you don’t use any more … And then there’s the newest section of the site which is like a dating website but based on food. It’s called Meet Up/Eat Up. You don’t have to go out one-on-one either – if there’s a few of you who are single you can go out for a meal as a group.
‘Leftovers. It’s a funny old word. To some people it might sound a little bit negative. Like the things that got left on the table, the things that no one really wants. A dollop of mashed potato. Two chicken thighs that didn’t get eaten because you were saving room for that more exciting dessert. The last scraping of caramelised onion chutney in the bottom of the jar, the square of Cornish Cruncher cheddar at the back of the fridge that you failed to wrap properly.
‘But take that slightly hard cheese and grate it. Warm the potato, stir the cheese through. Add a lump of butter. Add a lump of butter to everything. Take those pieces of chicken and spread that not-quite-enough scraping of onion chutney on top, then layer the potato on and put it in the oven. In twenty-five minutes you’ll have a dish I call “Sam’s chicken”. Tender chicken, golden cheesy mash, with a sweet, sharp hint of caramelised onion.
‘And there you were, thinking of throwing all that in a bin.
‘That’s the thing about leftovers. With a little thought, a little imagination, a little faith – you can see the potential in what’s left on the table. You can put in some work. And you can make something.’ I resist the urge to look at Sam, though even against the bright lights of the stage I can still make out his expression – a huge grin, full of pride.
‘You can make something worthwhile,’ I say, feeling hope rise up in me so strongly I have to take a breath.
‘You can make something good.’ I allow myself the tiniest of smiles in Sam’s direction.
‘Maybe something even better than you started with.
‘My name is Susie Rosen.’ And I am a Leftover.
This pasta is my slightly indulgent take on an Amatriciana – the classic Roman sauce of tomato, bacon and cheese. It is nowhere near authentic, but it is easy, delicious, comforting and not that bad for you, in a relative universe. These quantities make enough sauce for two people, but I’ve written as a ‘serves one’, so that if there is one of you, you can eat the leftover sauce the following day once you’re engrossed in your new book and can no longer be bothered to cook.
Ingredients:
100g linguine
70g cubed pancetta
A knob of butter
1 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion – red or white – or 1 echalion/banana shallot, chopped
1 large clove of garlic, thinly sliced
A pinch of red chilli flakes
A pinch of sugar
A pinch of salt
A tin of Italian tomatoes – preferably peeled cherry tomatoes
40ml of single cream
Pecorino (or parmesan)
Method:
Heat the butter and olive oil in a saucepan over a medium heat until the butter has melted.
Add the onion/shallot and cook over a gentle heat for five minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add the pancetta and garlic, and cook for a further ten minutes, stirring, so that the onion starts to turn golden, but doesn’t turn brown.
Add the tomatoes, chilli flakes, salt and sugar. Stir, and leave to cook on a low heat for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile cook the pasta in boiling salted water.
Two minutes before the pasta is ready, add a dollop of single cream to the tomato sauce, stir, taste for seasoning and bring back to a simmer.
Drain the pasta, pour the sauce over it and grate some fresh pecorino on top immediately.
* You can see a more visual guide to cooking this recipe on my blog - pastafriends.blogspot.co.uk – if you find that sort of thing helpful, which I do.
For what it’s worth, my recommendations as to what to read next are as follows:
If you’re looking for something very funny, try
Bossypants
by Tina Fey.
If you’d prefer a smart, sharp thriller, try
Gone Girl
by Gillian Flynn.
If you want a proper book, I’m a big fan of
Beyond Black
by Hilary Mantel,
The Stone Diaries
by Carol Shields, and
The Poisonwood Bible
by Barbara Kingsolver – all brilliant in very different ways.
And of course if you want a darkly comic book about love and cake, you could do worse than
Pear Shaped.
The very talented and handsome Gino D’Acampo has written two excellent books on pasta, and has kindly shared with me his recipe for spaghetti del poveraccio, poveraccio being Italian for ‘a very poor man’. This dish makes brilliant use of leftover breadcrumbs, and is the perfect store cupboard supper for a mid-week dinner when your fridge is bare …
Ingredients:
500g dried spaghetti
8 anchovy fillets in oil, drained and finely chopped
100g white breadcrumbs
4 cloves of garlic, peeled and cut into quarters
1 medium hot red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
3 tablespoons of freshly chopped flat leaved parsley
6 tablespoons of olive oil
Salt to taste
Method:
On a low heat, gently fry the garlic in the oil until golden all over. Remove the garlic and place the chilli and the anchovies in the oil. Cook for approximately 3 minutes, or until the anchovies are melted into the oil. Set aside.
In another frying pan, toast the breadcrumbs until crispy and golden brown. Set aside.
In a large saucepan, cook the pasta in the salted boiling water until al dente.To get the al dente perfect bite, cook the pasta for one minute less than instructed on the packet.
Once the pasta is cooked, drain and tip back into the same pan you cooked it in.
On a low heat, pour over the anchovy oil, the parsley and the breadcrumbs. Stir everything together for 20 seconds, allowing the flavours to combine properly.
Serve immediately.
‘Some things are just good to eat,’ says Ms Marmite Lover. If you look at her blog, marmitelover.blogspot.co.uk – or better still, buy her beautiful cook book,
Supper Club: Recipes and Notes from the Underground Restaurant
– you will see that everything she makes looks very good to eat indeed.
Ingredients:
8 slices of leftover brioche
½ a jar of marmalade
300ml single cream
300ml whole milk
60g sugar
2 eggs, beaten
100g unsalted butter
Sultanas soaked in Cointreau (an orange liqueur), if you like a touch of booze
Method:
Butter a baking tin. Cut the brioche into slices and butter both sides. Spread marmalade on the side facing upwards.
Place brioche in the buttered baking tin.
Mix the cream, milk, sugar and beaten eggs together. Pour over the brioche.
Drain and sprinkle the plump sultanas on top.
Bake at 180°C/356°F/Gas Mark 4 for 15 minutes or until golden brown.
Serve with double cream.
* NB. This recipe can be made with any leftover bread, preferably sweet – try pannetone, or challah (a braided egg bread available from Jewish bakeries).
I am embarrassed to admit that as recently as two years ago, I would get confused between Ryan Gosling and Ryan Reynolds. Both were good-looking, mousy haired and thirty-something, and I couldn’t really tell them apart. I’d never seen them in the same room or film; it’s possible they were the same person.
Now I look back and I am amazed and saddened that my younger self failed to invest sufficient attention towards Gosling. I had opportunities. I’d heard rumours, talk of ‘the hotness’ from friends and breathless media alike; but I was in the middle of a weird Alec Baldwin crush and paid no heed. While regret is a futile emotion and achieves nothing beyond self-flagellation I can honestly say that I regret this failure to notice and thus appreciate Ryan G. And while this is truly the worst pun I’ve ever typed, and I regret it too, let me say it in French anyway: je regrette Ryan. For in those pre-Ryan years, while I thought I was happily making my way through life, it turns out I was merely sleepwalking.