A Good Butcher is a Pearl Beyond Price

We just got back from visiting my father in rural Norfolk. His village is a sizable one, with two very small supermarkets and a variety of other shops. Happily for him and the rest of the village (or the carnivores at least) that includes two good butchers. A good butcher in my book can be judged on his (or her) sausages and minced beef (ground beef for our American friends). Simple things maybe, but they reflect the care and attitude of a skilled tradesman.

I live in a city, but the only butcher's shop nearby was not very good - mince gristly, sausages when I tried them tasteless - and unsurprisingly it closed some time ago. Strange how in this aspect of retail supply a city should be poorer than a village - maybe the supermarkets here the reason. One strand of my freelance writing work, however, takes me to towns and villages where there are still good craft butchers, a definite perk. A couple of years ago Roy Porter (picture) who has a shop near Clitheroe was very impressive, and recently Riley's in Crawshawbooth was equally good.

The difference between a butcher and the butchery at a supermarket seems to be mainly to do with the cheaper cuts - try to find them in your supermarket, where it appears animals no longer come with innards - rather than at the top end. Doubtless margins are lower on the cheaper bits than the expensive ones. At one butcher in the village I bought some excellent beef shin to make a simple stew for the four of us yesterday. Browned and then stewed for two-and-a-half hours with root veg and onions the meat made its own sauce, and even after seconds there was enough for my father to use as the basis of a meal today after we had gone. It cost about £2 each. There are exceptions to the supermarket butcher rule - Morrison's is good on offal and the tough bits that need slow cooking, and so (at the other end of the social scale perhaps) is Waitrose, where I bought ox cheek on Saturday.

The stew made with shin beef was another dish demonstrated to my son in preparation for his eventual escape into the big wide world as a student. He is learning the easy core skills of the home cook, in that case: brown the meat in small batches so it fries not steams; fry the onions before putting them in the stewpot (nobody likes boiled onions do they?); use some suitable liquid to deglaze the pan in which the meat browned (Adnams Broadside that time); cut the carrots and other root veg in good chunks so they retain their shape rather than disappear into the sauce; stew in a low oven for two hours or more. We sprinkled a bit of flour on the meat and veg before adding the beer from the frying pan and some boiling water. No stock cube, no stupid packets of casserole sauce mix. And it tasted great, because the meat was top notch. 

Austerity Action and Corporate Coffee

We are living through austere times. During this recession we expect to receive less from the government whatever anyone says, and know that we will have to contribute more. We understand that, and hope it is a temporary situation. 

I pay tax. I guess that just about everyone who reads this - if anyone does - makes their contribution to society by paying income tax and maybe corporation tax. Even if I could afford teams of clever corporate tax lawyers I would not wish to avoid tax, however pious that sounds. It is part of being a good citizen. Starbucks does not apparently share that moral position, finding legal ways to avoid paying corporation tax here of late. So I will not be buying any of their products until I am told that they have changed, learning the difference between legal and moral. Losing my occasional purchase won't make much difference to the company. But if we were all as individuals to take this stance, they would have to take notice. Jimmy Carr got the message about what we thought of his - again perfectly legal - tax wheeze very rapidly, and had the sense to act. No campaign was needed, no marches, he obviously felt the force of public disapproval. Why not Starbucks?

Do Flavours Become Old?

My bedtime reading currently is Elinor Fettiplace's Receipt Book. Elizabethan and Jacobean recipes are set out in the original flexible spelling, then explained and commented on by the erudite Hilary Spurling. The seasonality of cooking is one thing that hits you - Mrs Spurling set it out by month - but also the flavours that the cook in those times most leaned on, some of which we use very little today.

Is this a matter of fashion, availability, or does taste evolve in some way perhaps to keep pace with technological change - the fridge and freezer, rapid transport - and the 'new' ingredients that become available?

I like to think I use a wide palette of spices and other flavour enhancers, but some things that were central to old Elinor's culinary world are pretty alien to mine - I wonder who nowadays really uses the cloves they buy, for example? Even in bread sauce I would use nutmeg in place of the overpowering clove. But at least I have a little bottleful in my cupboard whereas rosewater  is absent - I  had a bottle years ago and think it disappeared through a temporal warp vortex, as one day it was gone though I'd hardly used a drop. Rosewater for the Jacobean cook was the stock-cube of today's, which says a great deal about our loss of subtlety.

A myth should be debunked here: spices were probably not then used much if at all to mask meats etc going off, they were far too expensive to waste thus, and those with the money to spend on exotic ingredients would not have been foolish enough to endanger their health with rotting flesh, or desperate enough to have to. Spices were used to produce food that tasted good.

Our contemporary love of nutmeg and mace links us with those times, even moreso perhaps cinnamon. I very occasionally use Orange Flower Water too. Cloves have a flavour that I associate with the cooking of relatives long deceased. But it is not just spices that seem to fade away in cooking. Take raisins: in my Sixties and Seventies childhood they were included in curries, cakes and pies, covered in chocolate as a special treat to be eaten in the cinema, the tough little buggers eaten I'd estimate twice a week. I barely use them now, and have to buy them in specially when needed. Elinor Fettiplace seems to have employed them for every other dish. As my son loathes all dried fruit perhaps they will fade out of the culinary picture entirely when his generation pushes mine away from the hob.

We should not forget such ingredients, so I am going to make an effort to use the occasional clove, hide raisins - one 'receipt' in the book for chicken cooked in mutton broth has raisins (later sieved out) to add depth and sweetness for example - and buy rosewater too. In austerity terms these things should attract the cook for giving loads of taste for very little money - a single clove makes itself known in a big apple pie. More bang for your groat as it were.

Everyone Loves Noodles

I was going to call this post something like 'a quick supper', which the dish was, but that would have been too Nigel Slater - good ideas, prissy-fussy writing style.

Those nearly straight to wok noodles - softened in boiling water for a minute or so - are a godsend when you need to get food on the table quickly. Work had kept me from preparing anything, and both Joe and I were hungry, so a noodle dish was the simple solution. Or as Nigel would write: Work had kept me at my desk facing a pale antique-ivory screen, looking out over the trees shedding their leaves of medieval gold. Both Joe and I were hungry. So a noodle dish made a quick and comforting supper. At this time of year noodles call to me etc.... And we're back again.

Quick tends to mean with little or no meat, thus cheap-ish. In this case I defrosted a bag of tiny prawns for the protein component, so not for pennies but still economical. Chopping veg into matchsticks in order that they cook at the same speed is easy when they are peppers and carrots, but onions are trickier, a case for judgement - you want a bit of browning, thus thin half-moons here. A red chilli cut into fairly wide slices perked the dish up, and added a touch of colour.

Thursday and not a lot of fresh veg in the kitchen, so I defrosted some broccoli florets (top bargain by the way and these were not mushy as I had feared when buying as an experiment) and when drained added them to the stir-fry that with soy sauce and a dash of sesame oil had a touch of braise about it at the end. Not a scrap left over.

The Casserole Queen

Not me - if I were the casserole queen I'd demand to use the line let them eat casserole - but some annoying actress on a TV ad, saying (obviously from her script) she merits that title because she re-heats something bought at Morrison's or Asda (I think). I hate to think what it costs to feed a family on such cook-chill stuff, but I'm willing to bet it is rather higher than the cheapo midweek chicken stew we had two nights ago: £1 for four plump chicken drumsticks, £0.50 for a half-pack (if that) of 'recipe bacon' (as ever I found one with what amount to massive bacon-chop off-cuts, perfect to dice big or small), a giant leek from the allotment, two big carrots, a parsnip, an onion, and three spuds. A single red chilli and a shake or two of smoked paprika pepped it up, celery salt and a fat clove of garlic added depth. Thickened with cornflour (how unfashionable) it was unctuous and comforting, with a bit of bite too. The juices we dipped up with doorstep slices from a cottage loaf.

If the lot - enough for dinner for we two lumberjacks currently at home, and for me to reheat next day for my lunch - came to £2.50 I'd be surprised. The sad thing is that many of those who really need to get by on such sums will be spending more on the supermarket versions, lacking the basic cookery skills to fend properly for themselves.

On Variety - but not Brucie's Version

Variety is the spice of life, and of food. That less than spectacularly original thought came to mind after I noticed someone pushing yet another wonder-super-magical-anti-everything food the other day. Cranberries or blackberries I think, but couldn't swear to it as my mind switches off as soon as these items appear on radio, TV or in an article. Eat tonnes to live forever or something. The dull truth is that the body needs a load of different minerals, vitamins and other components, so the best health policy for those not afflicted with allergies is eat as many different things as you can, not focus on the properties of one, however beneficial to certain conditions.

That translates in shopping terms into not just buying the same old same old every weekly trip to Tesco/JS/Waitrose etc. I am as guilty as the next man or woman, my basket generally contains carrots, onions, peppers and mushrooms. We all have staples, habits, tropes. Admittedly we have the allotment for other stuff (still picking Jerusalem artichokes, leeks, kale, runner beans and  red cabbage), but I am going to push myself to add different fruit and veg, different colours of the same veg and fruits, and different ways of preparing them.



I already have an unofficial policy of not having the same starch-base two days in a row, or the same meat if meat is used, but that won't be enough.

Variety in cooking styles too can't be a negative - Ruth pointed out the other day that though not on a weekly cycle repeats or close-to-repeats have of late come up every fortnight or so - Chinese, a braise, casserole, steak night, pasta with sauce, risotto, gratin, paella all favourites. So we are agreed variety is a good thing. A boring conclusion but not as boring as the the supposed king of Variety (and actual emperor of self-regard), Bruce Forsyth.

Umami - Not Uvavu

My recent trip to Parma revived my interest in both Parmesan cheese and the taste for which we use the Japanese term umami. Last night's meal was turkey and mushroom risotto, which was enlivened by the use of a fair sprinkling - more like covering - of Parmesan. I had tasted the risotto before and after the addition, and  can say for sure that it wasn't just an addition. There is a culinary magic at work that, as with the best food and wine pairings, produces a third flavour out of the ether. The dish became far more savoury, the mushrooms and bacon cubes (recipe bacon cut by me, as ever) altered in taste too, and there was a richness well beyond what you'd expect from the weight of the grated cheese included. 

So reaching for the cheese is not uvavu - for those of a very young persuasion check out Shooting Stars with the wonderful Vic and Bob. It is umami. 

There is Nothing Like an Egg

We have chickens at the bottom of our very long (and thin) garden. No neighbours at the back to annoy - there are allotments over the brook - so that's the best place for them. At present we have two laying, one in retirement (though perhaps laying very very occasionally still) that we are too cowardly to do away with, and one youngster still a good fortnight off being productive. The upshot is we get two eggs a day currently. Eggs that taste of egg are a boon to the cook.

Yesterday I made a cake spiced with mace and cinnamon, into which two very fresh eggs went. Last week egg mayonnaise, such a simple thing to do, was as ever appreciated as the eggs taste wonderful. We just gave a couple to the people who have moved in next door, saying sorry for recent escapes into their garden by the youngster who doesn't yet know better. Where she is getting through the hedge and chicken wire still a mystery.

Omelettes are equally enjoyable, and the simplest thing to make. Made with good eggs like these you don't need a filling. I have a feeling that as austerity bites further, and we find that we don't bounce back to quite as high as we were before, that more people will be keeping hens.

There is a lesson in the keeping of them for the cook or menu planner too. I am convinced the more they are out and about, adding variety to their diet (layers' pellets plus loads of scraps and plenty of seed), and the happier they are, the better the eggs. It's hard to verify this hypothesis scientifically, but I remain certain. And the stuff they eat to make the eggs better is an eye-opener: blood-worms are a special treat; wood-lice; slugs; larvae found in the soil (species unknown); grass; dandelions; the occasional mouse-head left by our cat; once or twice when we couldn't intervene in time a baby frog. Nature red in beak and claw as it were. But no complaints as there is nothing like an egg, or (Wodehouse would be proud) a good egg.

Simple Savoury Pies

One of my fondest childhood culinary memories is of a great aunt who every time we went to stay with the family would produce what used to be called a plate pie - a shallow pie-dish filled with something savoury, like (her version) mince, onions, and tiny diced carrots, sometimes with small pieces of spud to bulk it out. This was covered in decidedly thick shortcrust pastry, so it was a filler-upper. And a very cheap supper.

Cow Pie

I felt a bit ashamed the other day using bought puff pastry (but it was Sainsbury's own, far cheaper than the big brand one and no damn different) to make something along those lines. I had three chicken thigh fillets to use, some scraps of cooking bacon (I say again, what is the other stuff for if not for cooking?) one of our big thick leeks sliced finely, and a few mushrooms. Each element was cooked separately in oil and butter, one after the next - a question of capacity and washing up - then mixed in the oval dish and the lot cooked in the fan-oven at 180C for about 25 minutes (not the 10 claimed on the packet). Served with beans and stovies it was a one course meal that warmed, filled and satisfied. At a rough guess the pie cost £3.50, and for something that substantial bought in packets I reckon we'd have paid £6 in the shops.

With the upsurge in interest in baking chi-chi cakes and muffins recently it is time we had a revival of the great British pie on TV (producers, please employ me to work on this). The cow pie pictured above, enjoyed at a Keswick pub-restaurant, shows the way forward.

Star Star Anise

Home-made Chinese food too often focuses on stir fries to the exclusion of many more interesting methods and recipes. In my past life I got to travel in China, Taiwan and various Asian countries where the Chinese tended to dominate business (as they soon will around the world). A frequent favourite dish on those travels was variations on beef soup flavoured with star anise, the best being made with oxtail.

I have since found that a passable imitation can be made with leftover beef gravy (real gravy, not the stuff made with powder) or the juices from a beef stew. On Saturday we had one such, started as ever with a gently fried chopped onion, to which a finely chopped red chilli was added before the sieved juices of a stew from two days earlier were poured in and two whole star anise and a couple of big chunks of ginger were plopped in to simmer nicely for the best part of an hour (the few scraps of meat added at the last minute to avoid them going stringy along with a ready softened nest of noodles).

Not haute cuisine, but a good element of a Chinese meal that had the twin virtues of tasting great and costing next to nothing. Made with leftovers but there were no leftovers afterwards this time.

On Perfect Kitchens and True Wealth

Since watching an edition of Grand Designs the other day I have been thinking about perfect kitchens and what they show. This has not involved considering what is the perfect kitchen, but what the pristine, beautifully designed, faultlessly curved versions seen on such programmes say about the owners and their attitude to food.

First I must say something about that programme and its presenter. The idea of new projects, innovation in building methods, and pushing the boundaries generally is great. Most of the buildings are excellent. But Kevin McCloud may well be the least critical critic on TV. He comes across as a nice chap, and at times hints at dislikes, but never have I seen him come out and say in terms something is horrid or stupid, which several have been. The programme that made me think about kitchens was one such: the house shouted at its surroundings, was far too close to neighbours, and the design looked like a child had made it from cereal boxes glued together.

But to the kitchen. It was white, totally white. Nothing to be seen on any surface. No life to it. This was an ornament not a place to make food. As far as I could see the couple building the house had no children, though perhaps they had flown the German-tiled antiseptic nest. Having kids is not of course a mark of happiness, but having a life where food you make yourself for yourself and others is, at least for me.

I would find it hard to imagine any good food coming out of such an operating theatre environment. Where is the fruit ripening? The bag of just-bought (-picked) vegetables? A bottle of wine getting to room temperature? The innumerable utensils a real cook employs and wants to hand, not hidden behind silently sliding doors?

We have friends who are not without money, somewhat minted in fact, but a good part of their wealth is beyond money, it is (to be sententious) in the warmth of home life, family, friends, activity, spontaneity. Two families in particular have kitchens buzzing with activity, slightly chaotic, alive. Food is to be seen and smelled. Every time I see the - depending on fashion - stainless steel everywhere, perfectly white, or stained wood - kitchens on Grand Designs and other windows on the modish wealthy, I think how sad the people concerned are: trying to make the kitchen a thing of clean-lined art, rather than just (if just is the word) making good food in the kitchen.  

On Cooking and the Future

All my recent posts seem to have been recipe-based, so it's time for a little philosophy. Or at least something not based on a recipe.

I find myself thinking ahead these days in two specific ways. The first is wondering about death - still way off I hope, but at 53 not as far away as when I was 33. The second is about what we will be eating tomorrow. And that latter part in itself splits into two sections: the evening meal, which is our big family moment of the day - nobody is at their best for breakfast - and into which I try to pack as much nutritious pleasure as possible; and the future of food.

That future of food thing was given a jolt this morning with news items on Today about poor harvests worldwide, the need to accept knobbly fruit and veg (for goodness' sake it's the taste that matters), and the growing pressures of the global population boom. One speaker who may even have been a Tory politician heaven forefend spoke some sense, predicting further shocks to come - Asian prosperity means that middle class Asians are demanding more meat, and that in the end means higher prices for grain all round.

Henry Rowntree, from whom we buy Aberdeen Angus beef every now and then told me of a visit by Brazilian farmers. They wanted to improve their stock with help from his bulls, but said they were no threat as within four or five years Brazil will be a net importer of beef, prosperity again driving demand.

A grain farmer interviewed on Today spoke about why the lousy summer has slashed his yield, but with uncharacteristic optimism said it will all be ok in the end, these things go in cycles etc. Having observed the vile summers we have had for the last four years I wonder. Has the climate in Britain, in Northern Britain in particular, changed to include a wet season in place of a summer?

All of which prompts various thoughts, in no particular order: enjoy things while we can; grow more of our own, prices ain't going to fall anytime soon; avoid waste; invest in umbrella futures; and pass me a glass of decent red wine.

Swiss Bliss

Swiss chard is something you hardly ever see in supermarkets - it tends to fade quite quickly, the bright green leaves look tired after a day and where the stem is cut turns an unappealing purply-black. So best to grow it yourself. More positive reasons to love the stuff are that once established it survives frosts and stands over the entire winter even in the wilds of Preston; you get two veg for the price of one - the leaves cooked like spinach, stems treated entirely differently; and the stems in particular have a pleasing sweet earthiness about them. Inevitably some cookbooks equate them to asparagus (along with a dozen other veg that taste nothing like the magic green sticks), but they have a fine flavour of their own.

Sunday's roast was followed by a gratin of the stems, cut into 2cm pieces and parboiled for five minutes. The  bechamel was flavoured with grated Parmesan which suited the sweetness of the chard, and in the post-roast oven browned nicely. It was almost a pudding -  if I'd used ground almonds in place of flour as a thickener it would have been even more like some medieval sweet-savoury offering.

It's always a good sign that nothing is left in the dish, but sadly this year we have grown very little chard - not for want of trying, the wet weather took its toll - so at most we can look forward to two more repeat servings now.

Pate on the Hoof

Yesterday thinking it was stewing beef I defrosted what turned out to be liver, part of a box of meat that I had delivered by the excellent Henry Rowntree (pictured with one of his prize bulls), whose Aberdeen Angus farm I visited some time ago for Meat Trades Journal and Lancashire Life. We buy a 10kg box from him every few months: his meat is great, and at £120 delivered it is far cheaper than we would pay for similar quality (were it available) in the supermarket. Booth's and maybe Waitrose are the only ones I'd expect to have meat approaching his in quality.

My error, and as my son won't eat liver as is I had to use it to make pate, which he does like. Guess it must be the texture of liver that puts him off. So with a 99p pack of Sainsbury's basic bacon lardons (plenty of the fat needed for the dish), an onion, four small cloves of garlic and a glass of  leftover red wine, plus celery salt, sage and thyme from the garden, and lots of pepper, I set about it. No egg because I zapped the meats fine enough for them not to be too crumbly, and because I forgot to use one.

Using what was doubtless calf's liver made me wonder how it would turn out, pig's being the norm, but reasoning that chicken liver is softer still but makes great pate (I wish I could find how to do the accents) I went ahead.

The result is a very winey-herby-garlicky pate that will be a starter tonight (as ever with pates will have grown in flavour overnight) when we have a friend over taking potluck, and tomorrow when some more are here for what will be a sort of mezze. Or meze.

Making pate always brings home the savings that can be had by doing the cooking yourself instead of buying ready-made. I reckon the amount now garlicking out our fridge would have set us back about £7, maybe more. With a food processor it is ridiculously easy, zap, mix, season, put in a shallow ovenproof dish and cover with foil, put that in a roasting dish with boiling water 1/3 the way up, and cook for about 90 minutes in  an oven at 150C, removing the foil lid 15 minutes from the end to let the top brown. You can tell it's done by the smell, the fact that it comes away from the sides of the dish, and being doubly careful by pricking it with a knife - the juices should be clear, and the knife clean when removed.

Bread-stick Bonus

Baking rolls yesterday to go with homemade burgers I had some dough left over. Waste not etc, so I decided to give bread-sticks a go.

The dough btw was made (in my bread-maker) with 3/4 strong white bread flour and 1/4 cornmeal, largely because I have some cornmeal that needs using soon, but also because it gives a nice hint of gold to the end product. As I've had problems with bread rising of late I used a whole sachet of dried yeast, part of which was revived in some warm milk. It seemed to work well.

Forming the sticks was a challenge, but fun. It took me back to infant school days playing with plasticine, rolling a small ball into a sausage into a snake. As with those rather earlier efforts the final shape was less than even, but that (I hope) added a certain rustic charm to the snack.

The uncooked sticks were placed on a steel tray and left to rise for an hour or so, then put into the top of an oven just set to 220C (that is, they were put in a cool oven as it heated to 220C). I do that instead of putting bread in a pre-heated oven to give it a bit more rising. They took longer to bake than I had expected, almost as long as the sizeable bread rolls, so approaching 20 minutes, though I took the very thinnest out sooner, judging by their colour that they were done.


Sternest critic - my son - tried one and said less than flatteringly that he didn't believe I had made them. Crunchy, with a nice yeasty bread flavour, they were a winner, and I'll do more in future. On my austerity hobby-horse they were almost free, made from a scrap of dough that might have been binned otherwise (though I would probably have made a small roll for later use).



The picture shows the fatter models as the thin ones went almost instantly.

If anyone in the big-wide world can given me ideas about how to make them more even, and evenly thin to boot, I'd be grateful. I'm wondering if I could get some Parmesan to cling to the surface to add another dimension, but they were very good as they were.