Holiday kitchen confessional

So I am in the wilds of the northwest of Scotland this week, which I'm afraid is still a dire destination for a foodie ... yes there is lovely smoked salmon and the occasional kipper, but on the whole what is available to visitors (outside of chef-driven exclusive luxury lodges) is deep-fried stodge. The Scots are not unjustly famed for their oats porridge but they also invented the deep-fried Mars bar.

From the window of our holiday cottage I can see Loch Sunart lazily lapping at the shore in the early evening sunshine - at this time of year it never truly gets dark and last thing before going to bed I look out on the silvery ribbon of water and hope to see an otter (I have done before, not yet on this trip).

So we're back to basic self-catering holiday food: one-pot chicken casserole on our first night, which always pleases me in its deep chickenness. Plus, the first time David cooked it for me I knew I wanted to live with him forever. It's slow food but takes only minutes to prepare: brown two chicken legs (or one per person) in a little vegetable oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan or casserole dish, roughly chop an onion, a leek and a carrot, add to the sizzling pot with a few halved new potatoes, give everything a turn, add a heaped teaspoon of stock powder (or a cube, we're on holiday, no time to be snobby) and a few handfuls of red lentils, just cover with water, put the lid on, turn the heat down to minimum and take your glass of wine out onto the verandah for some Scrabble, Monopoly or the Times crossword. Sit back, chat, relax, refill the glasses; it's gonna be a while.

After an hour, when you can't take the delicious smells anymore and tummies are grumbling, wash a few heads of broccoli and add to the pot. The lentils will have thickened the sauce, so the broccoli will take a bit longer to cook - probably 20-25 minutes. Get the deep bowls ready to serve it in - it's warm, soupy, wonderfully fragrant and the chicken falls off the bone. If David wants to posh this up for me, he takes the chicken off the bone before serving but I don't mind. If I want to posh it up I add smoked bacon, a squidgen of hot smoked paprika powder, maybe some wild mushrooms. It's soothing, hearty and satisfying to take the edge of a long day whether that was toil and trouble in the city or a big walk up a big mountain.

Last night (Sunday, shops close early, how quaint) was a back-of-the-store cupboard and fridge clearout - a combination of last-minute things I'd chucked in the cooler-box and travelling larder before our 10-hour car journey. It felt like a student bedsit meal, and would have been if only I'd brought the garlic and the chilli. I cooked off some potato chunks while thinly slicing an onion and quarter of a white cabbage, and added some broccoli to the potatoes for the last few minutes, to soften. While they were cooking I opened (drum roll) a tin of tuna and grated some Mull of Kintyre (the one made famous by Paul McCartney) Cheddar cheese. I browned the onion and cabbage in a little vegetable oil, added the cooked potato, broccoli and tuna, stirred until it started to stick to the bottom of the pan, then turned it onto plates in an unholy mess, and covered liberally with grated cheese.

I know, I know. The shame. But even without the garlic and chilli it was delicious and plates were scraped clean. It looked like dogfood, and if I'd had fresh herbs to chop and sprinkle on top etc, but after a day walking the byways of Argyll, we wolfed it down.

Tonight's special is a little twist on a local staple: mince 'n' tatties. My mother remembers this as a favourite of my childhood and everyone knows how versatile a pack of beef mince is. The twist is that tonight it's venison mince and rice instead of tatties (plus the last of the broccoli). The other usual rules apply: chopped onion and carrot (still no garlic or chilli), in with the mince meat to brown, add half a tin of chopped tomatoes, a stock cube and some water or wine, and LEAVE IT ALONE for an hour or two, preferably three. It just gets better the longer it cooks while you look out the window counting birds and taking bets on what time the tide will turn.

As I write, David is cooking the rice ... yes, a skilled task, and one he tackles with pride. One of our first arguments revolved around the right way to cook an omelette and although he mostly leaves the cooking to me there are some areas in which I allow him free reign. He always cooks the rice, the mashed potato and all veg for meals, and although I cook steaks for a living, he maintains that his are better.

Pics to accompany this post to come (I didn't bring the plug-in for my camera. doh.)