Centuries later we’re still at it. I had Wensleydale with fruitcake for elevenses on Sunday.  No dried fruit is complete without a little nibbelette of the Good Stuff.  And at the wedding, we served the cake with not one, but two cheeses of note.  I hope you’ve figured out that one of these was Wensleydale. 

The other was the delicious Wells Alpine, from the noble country of Norfolk.

This wasn’t a random choice, by the way, my fabulous Mother-in-Law lives there.  A marvellous and dairytastic weekend took place pre-Christmas to select the Wells Alpine from amongst all the other local offerings.  My idea of heaven. Beach walks and cheese tastings with people I love.  Along with a visit to Bakers & Larners of Holt. I’ve written before about my passion for this store, so I won’t bore you again except to say that if you’re going anywhere near Holt, get thee hence with all due haste through their doors and then pootle around this treasure trove with due reverence. Then go to Byfords for lunch.

I digress.

We nearly had a trauma because we couldn’t get any Wells Alpine before the wedding. I was emailing the lovely cheese maker and everything. The only Yorkshire stockist couldn’t guarantee they would have some, and it was proving rather elusive online.  I may have cried actual tears over this.  

So the Mother-in-Law flung herself on the mercy of Bakers & Larners, and lo! I arrived home from the dentists one day to find a leaky box on the doorstep. It was on one of those rare sunny days we had in May, so it’s a good job I am friends with the postman. He’d shoved it half into the hedge to try and keep it in the shade. I still have a cheese-box-shaped hole in the hedge, but let’s not be picky. I had cheese. And some rather soggy cardboard.

They sell slices of this normally. I wouldn’t recommend eating 3.5kg of cheese in one go.

And, it went down a storm at the wedding – the cheese, not the cardboard, that is. There was some left, so that came to France. Apart from the bit which stayed with my folks, because I’ve succeeded in converting the Yorkshire branch of the family into Wells Alpine enthusiasts. 

The other day I mentioned, as you do, that we’re off to Norfolk in August. This was met with cries of relief and several orders for cheese.  The New Zealand branch are apparently jealous because they can’t have any – due to their import rules, not because I’m mean and don’t like them, before you mark me down as anti-Antipodean.

So I’m wondering if there’s something in this. Should I be setting up a stall? Perhaps starting a campaign to twin Yorkshire with Norfolk? Orchestrating a Cheese Exchange? Or perhaps starting an alternative career as a Cheese Trader?

• Putting on weight
• Forgetting to do stuff
• Managing not to commit relative-cide
• Buying too much cheese but of the wrong type
• Not eloping
• Managing to order the Other Half’s wedding present from a company which put a picture of it on the outside of the box.

It’s the last one which has tipped me over the edge. I mean, how flipping stupid can you get? I can’t tell you what it is but I will when I can, and then you will look back and think FOOLS. At the company, not me. I hope.

I’m not sure he’s noticed. He may not have done, he’s got Man Flu, the vicious kind which requires a bottle of red wine and a nice supper in front of the telebox. Possibly the application of some kind of American crime drama, preferably a previously viewed episode which will require minimal concentration.

So tonight, my friends, I will prepare possibly the comfiest comfort food ever: Soupy Chicken. Easy to make, delicious to smell, and tempting to the most sniffly palate.  I almost – but not quite – guarantee instant recovery from all sorts of ailments with this one.

And if anyone can tell me where I can buy 1.5kg of Wells Alpine Cheese online, I’d be ever so grateful.

Ingredients

• 2 chicken breasts (do buy the best you can afford, it makes such a difference and makes me happy)
• 1 tin condensed chicken or mushroom soup
• The equivalent of said soup tin in milk
• 1 onion
• A couple of handfuls of mushrooms, sliced
• 1 darn good shaking of mixed herbs
• A splash of olive oil

Method

Preheat oven to 180°. Have your casserole or oven proof dish ready on the side.

Finely chop onion, then sauté in the olive oil until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the sliced mushrooms and herbs (I like to use about 1 tablespoon, use more than you think) and give it another 5 or so minutes on the heat, so the scent of the herbs just starts to come out and the edges of the mushroom have softened.  Before the mushrooms start to brown, take the pan off the heat and scrape the mushrooms, onions and herbs into the casserole dish.

Return the pan to the heat and add your chicken breasts. They’ll take about 5-7 minutes to brown, don’t worry, you’re not aiming to cook them right through at this stage. If you have fat happy chicken breasts (now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write) then you may wish to help them on their way by flattening them out a little to start them cooking from that angle. Just flip and squish with a spatula.

When the meat is brown, place on the top of the onions and mushroom mix.  Twist a bit of black pepper on the top.

Return the pan to the heat, turning it down a smidgen, and pour in your soup. Then, and this is the crucial bit, fill the soup can up with milk. Use a spatula to swoosh the leftover soup into the milk, before adding the milk in the tin to the soup in the pan. It will go kind of funny and not want to mix into the soup, but keep stirring and gradually it will assimilate until you have a simmering sauce.

Pour over the chicken, mushrooms and onions, stir around, add a bit more milk if you think it needs it / splash of cream if you have it / seasoning or anything else you fancy.

Pop in the oven for about 45-50 minutes til bubbly and smelling divine.  Check the chicken is cooked through before serving please, and if it’s not quite there then cover the dish with foil and return it to the oven for 15 minutes before checking again.

Serve with mashed potatoes and peas for full invalid rescue attempt.

Obviously, that isn’t a picture of their actual cosies.   My mum’s name isn’t Tilly. You’ll have to take my word for it that they loved them.  Oh, and before I forget to tell you: the gin and tonic proved to be the perfect present. Even the gift wrapped lime went down well (have you ever tried to wrap a lime? Not the easiest of fruits to cosset with paper and sellotape).

Yesterday was gorgeous. A walk in the sun, picnic lunch outside, a snooze on the sofa in the afternoon.  Even the post-walk birthday cake did not sink, due more to the infallibility of the lemon drizzle recipe than the attention of the baker, who was distractedly trying to iron and lay the table at the same time rather than paying attention to the oven timer.

Dinner was – if I say so myself, immodestly – bloody lovely.  

My mangled version of chicken tartiflette was a triumph of potatoes, chicken and cream.  The conversational silence as plates were scraped and juices slurped said it all, really. I feel I should rename it Yorkiflette Chicken.  And the raspberry and apple crumble with custard disappeared at a rate of knots.  I think you could say it was a success.  Even The Boo tried to get in on the act, leaping up at a moment of distraction and sticking her nose in the custard.  You’ll be pleased to hear that it was my bowl, not anyone else’s, that she attempted to raid.  And when forcibly removed, she thoughtfully provided background music until ushered from the room in disgrace.

The cheeseboard was practically cleared: all the Binham Blue went, the Wells Alpine was tasted to high acclaim, and the Wensleydale was perfectly crumbly.  It was the perfect amalgamation of Norfolk and Yorkshire on a plate.

The fridge is a lot emptier than it was at the start of the weekend, which is a relief as it was starting to get embarrassing to field a bottle of wine or a bag of salad every time you opened the door to get milk for a cuppa. The one saving grace is that I have a small portion of leftovers for lunch.  It’s all that’s saving me from wailing that life isn’t fair, heading back to bed and pulling the duvet over my head in disgust.    

I suspect I’m on a culinary come down.