The Obamas are going to be eating at Fifteen when they're in London. No word on the menu for that evening, but they could try the pot roast shoulder of Pete Gott’s rare breed pork (cooked in quince and sage) with braised fennel, purple sprouting broccoli and pan juices. I'm not a big dessert fan, but even I could probably enjoy Amedei dark chocolate semifreddo with Italian blood oranges and marbled shortbread, Or Glazed Amalfi lemon tart with limoncello syrup and crème fraîche, Or Prosecco rhubarb jelly panna cotta with golden raisin and pistachio biscotti
But I'd likely be predictable and go for the cheese tray: Your choice of two cheeses, served with home made date and walnut bread:St Maure (Loire, France), Morlacco (Vento, Italy), Lincolnshire Poacher (Lincolnshire, England) or Stichelton (Nottinghamshire, England). In England, I'd pick the English cheeses.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."