I think last night - with reference to the subject of the previous post - that I actually composed a dish, rather than conducted another person's recipe/score. Certainly I had no written source to work from, nor experience of eating a similar dish.
With some white and rather pappy hot dog buns to use up to make room in the freezer I decided to make a bread and butter pudding, but had none of the dried fruits or peels that would usually go in one. What I did have was plenty of walnuts, so I went with them.
Butter was mashed up with the walnut oil normally reserved for salad dressings, and two tbsps of Tia Maria (one of those things that seem to turn up in the drinks cabinet with nobody aware whence they came) to make it a coffee and walnut version. Walnuts broken into small nibs were put between the two layers of buttered bread, some of the liqueur poured on the upper layer of bread, a Tia Maria rich custard mix poured over the lot, and the top sprinkled with sugar and a bit more cinnamon. Cooked at 180C for 45 minutes it came out beautifully risen and browned.
The Dear Leader (may her enemies writhe in agony) was kind enough to say it was good, and after a pico second's persuassion graciously accepted a second helping. We'd only eaten a salad as the first part of the meal, so little or no guilt was suffered.
It would be (and will be) improved with a very strong expresso used to up the coffee flavour (like a tiramisu), and next time I make it I'll pound some walnuts to add to the custard (just milk, beaten eggs and some sugar with a tsp of cinnamon) and thus increase the walnut flavour too - what we ate last night was rather too genteel, but it was also extremely enjoyable: the texture of the slithery base contrasted as it should with a B&BP with the slightly crisp top, and the flavour was very coffee and walnut cake.
Conductor and composer. Where's my bloody knighthood? Maybe I need to work on my orgasm-while- smelling-a-fart face.
Wednesday, 9 December 2015
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
Composer or Conductor?
It struck me recently that as cooks we fulfil one of two roles: we are the equivalent in music of the conductor, or the composer. Both are honourable occupations, though I think most of us would hold the composer in higher regard. I get the impression few conductors would share that opinion, however.
When I follow a recipe (I rarely weigh out every ingredient, but use recipes as guidelines) I am being a conductor, taking the ideas of another person and making the best of them, putting my own personal twist on them. I have to balance the ingredients, as the conductor balances the sections, though at the end of the meal I don't do my Mark Elder last chord face - think having an orgasm and simultaneously smelling a particularly noxious fart.
It is far, far tougher being a composer. There are very few new things in food. Many that are claimed as new are either a) not; or b) bloody awful - some of the now long past nouvelle cuisine horrors for example. When I started to consider this topic I tried to think of any dish I had actually created, and even those that may fit the bill, like a crab and pumpkin soup, tend to have been a variation on a theme, as it were.
Looking again at the comparison of music and food I've come up with some matches:
Beethoven: A huge rib of beef, satisfying, timeless, done to perfection.
Tchaikovsky: Poire Belle Helene (named for an Offenbach opera btw) with much too much chocolate.
Boulez: Fish heads with asparagus, mango and porridge prepared in a concrete mixer then thrown at a wall by a blind man wearing boxing gloves - and if you don't like it you are clearly a useless idiot.
Back to being a conductor tonight. I must dig out my mutton dressed as lamb black polo neck.
When I follow a recipe (I rarely weigh out every ingredient, but use recipes as guidelines) I am being a conductor, taking the ideas of another person and making the best of them, putting my own personal twist on them. I have to balance the ingredients, as the conductor balances the sections, though at the end of the meal I don't do my Mark Elder last chord face - think having an orgasm and simultaneously smelling a particularly noxious fart.
It is far, far tougher being a composer. There are very few new things in food. Many that are claimed as new are either a) not; or b) bloody awful - some of the now long past nouvelle cuisine horrors for example. When I started to consider this topic I tried to think of any dish I had actually created, and even those that may fit the bill, like a crab and pumpkin soup, tend to have been a variation on a theme, as it were.
Looking again at the comparison of music and food I've come up with some matches:
Beethoven: A huge rib of beef, satisfying, timeless, done to perfection.
Tchaikovsky: Poire Belle Helene (named for an Offenbach opera btw) with much too much chocolate.
Boulez: Fish heads with asparagus, mango and porridge prepared in a concrete mixer then thrown at a wall by a blind man wearing boxing gloves - and if you don't like it you are clearly a useless idiot.
Back to being a conductor tonight. I must dig out my mutton dressed as lamb black polo neck.
Monday, 23 November 2015
A Matter of Tripe and Death
A matter of tripe and social death to be more accurate.
With flat cap on head, whippet down my trews, and clogs on my feet I cooked tripe one night last week. It is something that I make infrequently, though the Dear Leader (may her reign of terror never end) enjoys it as much as I do. Perhaps it is tripe's association with poverty that we'd prefer to detach ourselves from.
For the record the tripe I used was the prepared version sold in Booth's, supplied by Andy Holt's Real Lancashire Black Pudding Company, and very good it is too. The recipe I used was my standard one for the stuff - for two of us I prepared about a pound and a half of chopped onion, three quarters of a pound of that tripe cut into commemorative stamp rectangles, lots of pepper, a bit of salt, a grind of nutmeg (posh aren't we?) and a pint of milk all in one pan brought to a simmer and cooked very slowly thus for about an hour. The cooked milk, an antique ivory (who let Nigel Slater in here?), is thickened with a roux before being returned to the tripe and onions and the lot served with buttery mash.
The result is delicious, almost too sweet for a savoury dish. It slips down the throat beautifully, the tripe with a texture/feel like oysters, the onions melted into the sauce until their presence is hard to detect. This is something that merits inclusion in a meal with friends, but I would not dare to because of its poor origins.The French are far less class conscious about their food, indeed they are proud when dishes have peasant origins, but we still seem intent on following their haute cuisine rather than cuisine paysanne or even bourgoise. In this context a typically British saw springs to mind - it is social death to serve offal at a dinner party.
Why is that?
I would welcome a plate of kidneys devilled or otherwise at some social troughing. I think there are few meats as delightful as lamb's liver, if it is cooked so the inside remains pink and moist. Of all the beef stews (casseroles or perhaps ragout, surely - Mrs Bottomley-Smythe) oxtail is the most unctuous and satisfying. Do sweetbreads, horribly expensive and hard to source, still count as offal? As with the lamb's liver, cooked with a gentle hand they are sublime. I love pig's trotters cooked to jellied perfection.
Will I then have the courage of my convictions (I rarely do) and get around to serving say a tripe amuse bouche or hors d'oeuvre (there we are again, as so often in culinary matters we slip into French to 'raise the tone,' as per Mrs Bottomley-Smythe) to dinner party guests? Probably not. In Britain even in 2015 it would still be social death. So in a French saying of which Mrs B-S would not approve, vive la revolution! Aux tripes, concitoyens.
Monday, 16 November 2015
Obsessed with Onions
I go through phases when certain ingredients grab my attention to the point that they for a while become obsessions. These may be triggered by food I'm served, by a TV cookery show, something read in a cook book (the most frequent source), or by an aspect of a dish I've prepared, as was the case last week.
A biryani made with loads of onions in the sauce/body of the dish was finished with some caramelised and slightly crispy fried onions on top of the rice. Biryanis, btw, give the lie to an advert about takeaways where a supposed law of the curry is that the sauce always goes on top of the rice. Onions for that dish provided the deeply savoury flavour at the heart of the sauce, whilst onions from the exact same bag gave it a sweeter finish, the same ingredient made entirely different by different cooking methods.
Other things enriched that curry - potato, pumpkin, peas, plus ginger and spices. But it was the onion that caught the palate's notice. No wonder there were riots in India a few years ago when onions were in short supply - what would we do without them? I love raw onion in salads; baked onions; in cheesy potato grattins; onion gravy... but most of all I love fried onions, mahogany to black, the way mobile burger bars get them - you fear for your health on so many levels, but what a wonderful flavour.
On Lancaster market this Saturday I bought a 5kg bag of white onions for £2, ridiculously good value (the delightful examples within are a bit undersize for the supermarkets' cretinous policies). As an aside, my £10.10 worth of fruit and veg purchased there would probably provide the vegetable matter (and much of the starch) to get us through the week if we wanted to be frugal - 3 persimmons, 4 giant baking spuds, 5kg white onions, 2 avocados, 15 clementines, 1/2lb mushrooms, 4 limes, a mango, a papaya, 2 bags of tiny sweet peppers, a big swede, a head of celery and a cucumber. I may have missed something else out [I had as I discovered when checking this - add three pomegranates and the same number of sweet potatoes].
With a stock of sharply tasty onions to hand (they rate about Brief Encounter on the peeling tears scale, happily not The Railway Children ending though) I've begun a campaign to make the best of them. Yesterday was French onion soup, cooked slowly for about 90 minutes. I guess around 30 or so onions went into the pot, cooking down to creamy khaki before being thickened with flour ('Daaarling, nobody uses flour to thicken nowadays' - sod off), perked up with a glass of white wine, let down (physically rather than morally) with some ham stock, and finished with a dog end of a French cheese whose name escapes me grated in. It was wonderful, a gloop rather than a liquid, and begged for a glass of roughish red to accompany it. We had two, one for each bowlful. The Dear Leader (may she rule 1000 years) was gracious in her praise.
That barely made a dent in the onion mountain. Tomorrow (man cannot live by onions alone) will be - so very Northern I want to say 'hey up lad' - tripe and onions. Anyone who has never tried it, I pity you.
A biryani made with loads of onions in the sauce/body of the dish was finished with some caramelised and slightly crispy fried onions on top of the rice. Biryanis, btw, give the lie to an advert about takeaways where a supposed law of the curry is that the sauce always goes on top of the rice. Onions for that dish provided the deeply savoury flavour at the heart of the sauce, whilst onions from the exact same bag gave it a sweeter finish, the same ingredient made entirely different by different cooking methods.
Other things enriched that curry - potato, pumpkin, peas, plus ginger and spices. But it was the onion that caught the palate's notice. No wonder there were riots in India a few years ago when onions were in short supply - what would we do without them? I love raw onion in salads; baked onions; in cheesy potato grattins; onion gravy... but most of all I love fried onions, mahogany to black, the way mobile burger bars get them - you fear for your health on so many levels, but what a wonderful flavour.
On Lancaster market this Saturday I bought a 5kg bag of white onions for £2, ridiculously good value (the delightful examples within are a bit undersize for the supermarkets' cretinous policies). As an aside, my £10.10 worth of fruit and veg purchased there would probably provide the vegetable matter (and much of the starch) to get us through the week if we wanted to be frugal - 3 persimmons, 4 giant baking spuds, 5kg white onions, 2 avocados, 15 clementines, 1/2lb mushrooms, 4 limes, a mango, a papaya, 2 bags of tiny sweet peppers, a big swede, a head of celery and a cucumber. I may have missed something else out [I had as I discovered when checking this - add three pomegranates and the same number of sweet potatoes].
With a stock of sharply tasty onions to hand (they rate about Brief Encounter on the peeling tears scale, happily not The Railway Children ending though) I've begun a campaign to make the best of them. Yesterday was French onion soup, cooked slowly for about 90 minutes. I guess around 30 or so onions went into the pot, cooking down to creamy khaki before being thickened with flour ('Daaarling, nobody uses flour to thicken nowadays' - sod off), perked up with a glass of white wine, let down (physically rather than morally) with some ham stock, and finished with a dog end of a French cheese whose name escapes me grated in. It was wonderful, a gloop rather than a liquid, and begged for a glass of roughish red to accompany it. We had two, one for each bowlful. The Dear Leader (may she rule 1000 years) was gracious in her praise.
That barely made a dent in the onion mountain. Tomorrow (man cannot live by onions alone) will be - so very Northern I want to say 'hey up lad' - tripe and onions. Anyone who has never tried it, I pity you.
Friday, 6 November 2015
Only the Lonely
Midweek the Dear Leader was away overnight on teaching duties (Fortifying Your Secret Island 101), and Sternest Critic was staying an extra night of his 'reading week' at university before venturing home for his version of R&R, S&S (sleep and steak). I was thus left alone, and was just looking to make a quick and simple supper, and to enjoy something that I would not have cooked if enjoying company.
There are some things that are best eaten alone: curried sprouts probably head that list, with the sauce I made for penne pasta - a sort of reformed putanesca - not far behind. Olive oil was warmed with sliced garlic (lots), and a red chili snipped into it in the vain hope of avoiding chili-eye, then a whole tin of anchovies chopped and added with their oil. When they were all melted together and vaguely cooked through three fresh tomatoes minus their skins were grated in and the lot heated to bubbling point. With lots of pepper and salt and a generous amount of grated parmesan it was utterly delicious, but must have given me breath like a particularly unhygienic medieval French peasant's.
Kippers I feel qualify for the best eaten apart list, unless both of you indulge. When we were on Islay and Jura last summer I opted for kippers at breakfast a couple of times, while DL went for something that when we were in the car later in the day was less assertive. But these foul smelling things (sprout curry apart) do tend to be very tasty. The exception is durian. I had heard much about it so when given the chance to try some (in Johor Bahru, just over the causeway from Singapore into Malyasia) I did. The smell, people said and wrote, is vile, but the taste sublime. They were right about the smell - think a long untended septic tank - but not the taste, which I'd describe as mildly mucal watered down mango. That is something best eaten by other people.
There are some things that are best eaten alone: curried sprouts probably head that list, with the sauce I made for penne pasta - a sort of reformed putanesca - not far behind. Olive oil was warmed with sliced garlic (lots), and a red chili snipped into it in the vain hope of avoiding chili-eye, then a whole tin of anchovies chopped and added with their oil. When they were all melted together and vaguely cooked through three fresh tomatoes minus their skins were grated in and the lot heated to bubbling point. With lots of pepper and salt and a generous amount of grated parmesan it was utterly delicious, but must have given me breath like a particularly unhygienic medieval French peasant's.
Kippers I feel qualify for the best eaten apart list, unless both of you indulge. When we were on Islay and Jura last summer I opted for kippers at breakfast a couple of times, while DL went for something that when we were in the car later in the day was less assertive. But these foul smelling things (sprout curry apart) do tend to be very tasty. The exception is durian. I had heard much about it so when given the chance to try some (in Johor Bahru, just over the causeway from Singapore into Malyasia) I did. The smell, people said and wrote, is vile, but the taste sublime. They were right about the smell - think a long untended septic tank - but not the taste, which I'd describe as mildly mucal watered down mango. That is something best eaten by other people.
Monday, 2 November 2015
The Importance of Eating Turnips
As far as I'm concerned the turnip (I resisted the cliche 'humble turnip' though it wasn't easy) is the Erik Satie of the vegetable world; looked down on by lovers of vegetables regarded as more accomplished, aparagus perhaps the Debussy of the greengrocer's shop, but offering lots of surprises and an ever-present strength.
A couple of varieties will feature in this evening's root salad, just peeled, cut into matchsticks, and teamed up with carrot, kohl rabi, celeriac (perhaps it's going too far to call celeriac the JC Bach of the plate, wrongly overlooked in favour of its more famous relative) and beetroot, only the celeriac needing blanching. Exceptionally virtuous certainly, but with real gourmet merits as well, the turnip will stand out in this company. It makes a fine soup too, Creme a la Vierge; takes some beating in the form of glazed baby versions as a Spring accompaniment to lamb; and with only a couple cooked with the spuds for a mash lifts it in the flavour stakes.
With our supermarkets never out of flashier veg imported from the rings of Saturn I think we need to make an effort to get back to our roots, as it were, and make the most of the turnip and others of its ilk, including the carrot and even the much despised Swede (logical that, given the Swede is actually a turnip, though not one I'd be for eating raw). I experimented with a mash that incorporated spuds, turnip, Jerusalem artichokes and parsnip the other day, which was far more interesting than the ordinary spud-only type, and as a bonus had matured in flavour overnight when I used the few spoonfuls remaining as the basis of (I can't bring myself to use the word rissoles) 'potato cakes' mixed in with some chopped ham, cheese, and a couple of eggs. And anway, I really wanted to use that title.
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
Mr Green, Killed in the Dining Room, with Bacon, by Dr Black
It's high time Dr Black got to kill the bastards who've been murdering him since 1949.
The title of this post is I hope clearly intended to touch on the recent report that the WHO published stating that processed meats are carcinogenic. Do I hear a 'what's new?' May I suggest that billions be saved in nutritional research with the publication of a report that states:
a) Variety in our diet is good for us;
b) Too much of any one foodstuff or food group is likely to be bad for us;
c) More veg and fruit than carbs, more carbs than protein;
d) Eating should enhance our feelings of wellbeing, so the occasional naughty treat is fine;
e) Constantly worrying about food is itself likely to be carcinogenic.
The press is doubtless to blame for the way the report has been portrayed. One starts to imagine that a Sunday morning bacon butty will lead at the very least to a near death experience.
Whatever happened to pleasure?
As a Green Party member (though after a recent phone call from one of their metropolitan fundraisers, possibly not for too much longer) I'd like to point out the environmental side of such foods: sausages make excellent use of bits that we'd otherwise prefer not to ingest; properly air-dried ham is a very eco-friendly way of preserving food (less energy intensive than freezing it, clearly); and bacon is bloody delicious. That latter point is environmental in my mind, as I'm a part of my environment and the way I feel after what is probably a fortnightly indulgence raises the happiness quotient around me by 13.72 per cent.
That percentage is to my mind probably as valid as the much quoted 18 per cent increase in risk of bowel cancer if you eat processed meat: how much processed meat? what sort? how often? what effect does the rest of ones diet have? (our veg- and fruit-rich one I'd hope would mitigate most/all the effects of two slices of Parma ham served with fresh figs as a starter recently), what effect does ones general health have on the calculation? what impact does the quality of the stuff have on nasty things it may do to ones body?
The Mediterranean diet is much lauded by nutritionists and their ilk. Salami, Mortadella, Coppa, Pancetta...
All that said, I'm thinking about applying for a £10 million grant to research the effect of wine gums on men in their mid-fifties. The Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine surely beckons.
The title of this post is I hope clearly intended to touch on the recent report that the WHO published stating that processed meats are carcinogenic. Do I hear a 'what's new?' May I suggest that billions be saved in nutritional research with the publication of a report that states:
a) Variety in our diet is good for us;
b) Too much of any one foodstuff or food group is likely to be bad for us;
c) More veg and fruit than carbs, more carbs than protein;
d) Eating should enhance our feelings of wellbeing, so the occasional naughty treat is fine;
e) Constantly worrying about food is itself likely to be carcinogenic.
The press is doubtless to blame for the way the report has been portrayed. One starts to imagine that a Sunday morning bacon butty will lead at the very least to a near death experience.
Whatever happened to pleasure?
As a Green Party member (though after a recent phone call from one of their metropolitan fundraisers, possibly not for too much longer) I'd like to point out the environmental side of such foods: sausages make excellent use of bits that we'd otherwise prefer not to ingest; properly air-dried ham is a very eco-friendly way of preserving food (less energy intensive than freezing it, clearly); and bacon is bloody delicious. That latter point is environmental in my mind, as I'm a part of my environment and the way I feel after what is probably a fortnightly indulgence raises the happiness quotient around me by 13.72 per cent.
That percentage is to my mind probably as valid as the much quoted 18 per cent increase in risk of bowel cancer if you eat processed meat: how much processed meat? what sort? how often? what effect does the rest of ones diet have? (our veg- and fruit-rich one I'd hope would mitigate most/all the effects of two slices of Parma ham served with fresh figs as a starter recently), what effect does ones general health have on the calculation? what impact does the quality of the stuff have on nasty things it may do to ones body?
The Mediterranean diet is much lauded by nutritionists and their ilk. Salami, Mortadella, Coppa, Pancetta...
All that said, I'm thinking about applying for a £10 million grant to research the effect of wine gums on men in their mid-fifties. The Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine surely beckons.
Thursday, 22 October 2015
More Autumnal Than Falling Leaves
Being able to cook truly seasonally is one of the big benefits of growing your own, though careful shopping can bring the same end - some things like decent culinary pumkins, Jerusalem artichokes and British apples are not always easy to find.
I just got back from spending a happy half hour of my lunchtime picking stuff from our allotment, the day job of writing magazine articles having taken up my morning. Conscience about getting back to it is nudging me gently in the ribs now. The three carrier bags of veg brought home hold turnips, beetroot, kale, apples, runner beans, parsnips, Jerusalem artichokes, leeks, the final pair of tiny pumpkins, and a load of courgettes and patty pan squash. The last two tell a tale perhaps about how our climate is changing: summer squash are now harvested through October and even into November if we're lucky.
Last night's main was venison sausages, potato-pumpkin-and-turnip-mash, roast onions and apple sauce. As autumnal as the brown and gold leaves carpeting sunny Fulwood. More so, as the leaves have been falling since late summer, possibly because it was unseasonably dry then. It may well be my imagination, but I feel more at one with the universe having indulged in something in keeping with our place and time than if I had eaten asparagus from Peru, for example. The Dear Leader lit candles in the dining room, we drew the curtains on the dark night, and the house had a sense and apple-rich scent of the season.
Tonight though the meal will be different the results will, I trust, be similar. Steamed kale with anchovies, garlic and pepper on toast as a starter, a thick vegetable soup with leeks at its heart as the main. To lower the tone somewhat (hugely), no Jerusalem artichokes till the weekend, as the DL is giving a workshop ("Death Rays and How Best to Develop Them," I think) tomorrow, and were she to fart loudly and repeatedly as she addressed her adoring audience of master criminals and dictators it would mean the gulag for me. Again.
I just got back from spending a happy half hour of my lunchtime picking stuff from our allotment, the day job of writing magazine articles having taken up my morning. Conscience about getting back to it is nudging me gently in the ribs now. The three carrier bags of veg brought home hold turnips, beetroot, kale, apples, runner beans, parsnips, Jerusalem artichokes, leeks, the final pair of tiny pumpkins, and a load of courgettes and patty pan squash. The last two tell a tale perhaps about how our climate is changing: summer squash are now harvested through October and even into November if we're lucky.
Last night's main was venison sausages, potato-pumpkin-and-turnip-mash, roast onions and apple sauce. As autumnal as the brown and gold leaves carpeting sunny Fulwood. More so, as the leaves have been falling since late summer, possibly because it was unseasonably dry then. It may well be my imagination, but I feel more at one with the universe having indulged in something in keeping with our place and time than if I had eaten asparagus from Peru, for example. The Dear Leader lit candles in the dining room, we drew the curtains on the dark night, and the house had a sense and apple-rich scent of the season.
Tonight though the meal will be different the results will, I trust, be similar. Steamed kale with anchovies, garlic and pepper on toast as a starter, a thick vegetable soup with leeks at its heart as the main. To lower the tone somewhat (hugely), no Jerusalem artichokes till the weekend, as the DL is giving a workshop ("Death Rays and How Best to Develop Them," I think) tomorrow, and were she to fart loudly and repeatedly as she addressed her adoring audience of master criminals and dictators it would mean the gulag for me. Again.
Wednesday, 21 October 2015
Eggs! Eggs! Damn All Eggs! (But Not All Cookery Writers)
So, as regards the eggs, said Lord Worplesdon, as all right thinking people will be aware. The title is prompted by the number of eggs now in our kitchen, seemingly increasing whenever my back is turned, and how to make the most of them.
For a cook it's actually quite a nice problem to have, if it qualifies as a problem at all. We breakfast on them every two or three days, and have enough for scrambled eggs to be served up as more than a small yellow stain on toast. An omelette or fritatta appears on the dinner menu about once a week; egg mayonnaise sandwiches occur at lunch with the same frequency; eggs boiled or poached are added to green salads with lardons and walnuts. The list of favourites goes on, but it's good to add new ways to use them up.
I was drawn to refer to Elizabeth David for eggy ideas recently. Inevitably an excellent one was rapidly found, and it suited another of our gluts - tomatoes ripening on the conservatory windowsill. Every cook has his or her favourite writers, Ms David one of my sacred quartet along with Jane Grigson, de Pomiane, and HF-W. I am pushed to ponder here, rather appositely, a chicken and egg question: have I chosen those four because they suit my cooking and tastes; or did they create my cooking and tastes?
David and Grigson were the first food writers who entranced me as a callow twenty-something, by which time, however, I was already fascinated by and reasonably adept at cookery; de Pomiane came to my notice rather later; and HF-W is younger than I, which points towards them fitting what I look for in a food writer as the correct answer to the above query. That they write well, or extremely well, comes high up the list; that they are rooted in French, Italian and British cookery before other styles is also important; and that their dishes are about making the most of ingredients, not making a show of them, is vital too.
The Elizabeth David dish by the way (from that holiest of texts, French Provincial Cookery) was an hors d'oeuvre of thinly sliced toms layered in a shallow dish with sliced boiled eggs, each layer of tomatoes seasoned as you go, some finely chopped onion strewn on top, the lot dressed with oil and vinegar. So simple, but so satisfying and tasty. It could be tarted up with chopped parsley, gherkins, capers, or olives and not suffer (though it would be wrong to add more than one or two of these).
For a cook it's actually quite a nice problem to have, if it qualifies as a problem at all. We breakfast on them every two or three days, and have enough for scrambled eggs to be served up as more than a small yellow stain on toast. An omelette or fritatta appears on the dinner menu about once a week; egg mayonnaise sandwiches occur at lunch with the same frequency; eggs boiled or poached are added to green salads with lardons and walnuts. The list of favourites goes on, but it's good to add new ways to use them up.
I was drawn to refer to Elizabeth David for eggy ideas recently. Inevitably an excellent one was rapidly found, and it suited another of our gluts - tomatoes ripening on the conservatory windowsill. Every cook has his or her favourite writers, Ms David one of my sacred quartet along with Jane Grigson, de Pomiane, and HF-W. I am pushed to ponder here, rather appositely, a chicken and egg question: have I chosen those four because they suit my cooking and tastes; or did they create my cooking and tastes?
David and Grigson were the first food writers who entranced me as a callow twenty-something, by which time, however, I was already fascinated by and reasonably adept at cookery; de Pomiane came to my notice rather later; and HF-W is younger than I, which points towards them fitting what I look for in a food writer as the correct answer to the above query. That they write well, or extremely well, comes high up the list; that they are rooted in French, Italian and British cookery before other styles is also important; and that their dishes are about making the most of ingredients, not making a show of them, is vital too.
The Elizabeth David dish by the way (from that holiest of texts, French Provincial Cookery) was an hors d'oeuvre of thinly sliced toms layered in a shallow dish with sliced boiled eggs, each layer of tomatoes seasoned as you go, some finely chopped onion strewn on top, the lot dressed with oil and vinegar. So simple, but so satisfying and tasty. It could be tarted up with chopped parsley, gherkins, capers, or olives and not suffer (though it would be wrong to add more than one or two of these).
Tuesday, 20 October 2015
Alternative Equivalence
The hunt for the ponciest title for a post goes on.
With Halloween less than a fortnight away the shops are full of pumpkins, and I find it sad (and wasteful) that so many of them will not be used for culinary purposes. I have nothing against making lanterns out of the things, but do try to use the scooped-out flesh too please. We have about 10 small pumpkins drying and hardening in our conservatory, to extend their storage life, and a few still to be gathered from the allotment. I don't grow the monster ones anymore, small son having grown into large (student) son unlikely to be revisiting trick or treating and Halloween parties anytime soon, and the dinkier ones (think the size of a crown green bowling wood - how Northern is that?) are tastier and provide enough for a single serving or a soup ingredient.
Soup was what one such became last night, and what a soup. Simple, velvety, delicious. There is a traditional French soup made with pumpkin (potiron in French btw, as enjoyable a word to savour as our own pumpkin) and pounded shrimps, but not having shrimps I ventured crab instead. Tinned crab is a store-cupboard standby here, not as good as fresh, but not too far off. Trying substitute ingredients like that can lead to interesting discoveries.
From start to ready took just 25 minutes. A chopped onion was gently sauteed in butter until opaque, then a sliced clove of garlic added for a further minute or two. A spud cut into little dice went in, then the chopped pumpkin flesh (peeled, de-seeded and de-fibred). When they had all sweated for five or six minutes a pint of hot chicken stock went in, followed by 1/4 pint of hot milk. Lastly the tin of white meat crab chucks joined them to warm through, and the lot was zhooshed with a hand blender until really smooth, with salt and plenty of pepper to get the seasoning right. It even gained a (pointless) cheffy foam on top with the blending.
That made enough for a bowl and a half each. It was like a crab bisque without the faffage of crushing and sieving the shell. The crab dominated the flavour, the veg lent it just the right consistency. The pumpkin I used - seeds from Garden Organic - is green-skinned and -fleshed, so you'd have guessed pea soup by looking at it. I'll repeat the exercise with one of the orangey-yellow variety, expecting it to be more pleasing to the eye. Definitely to be tried again more than once this autumn.
With Halloween less than a fortnight away the shops are full of pumpkins, and I find it sad (and wasteful) that so many of them will not be used for culinary purposes. I have nothing against making lanterns out of the things, but do try to use the scooped-out flesh too please. We have about 10 small pumpkins drying and hardening in our conservatory, to extend their storage life, and a few still to be gathered from the allotment. I don't grow the monster ones anymore, small son having grown into large (student) son unlikely to be revisiting trick or treating and Halloween parties anytime soon, and the dinkier ones (think the size of a crown green bowling wood - how Northern is that?) are tastier and provide enough for a single serving or a soup ingredient.
Soup was what one such became last night, and what a soup. Simple, velvety, delicious. There is a traditional French soup made with pumpkin (potiron in French btw, as enjoyable a word to savour as our own pumpkin) and pounded shrimps, but not having shrimps I ventured crab instead. Tinned crab is a store-cupboard standby here, not as good as fresh, but not too far off. Trying substitute ingredients like that can lead to interesting discoveries.
From start to ready took just 25 minutes. A chopped onion was gently sauteed in butter until opaque, then a sliced clove of garlic added for a further minute or two. A spud cut into little dice went in, then the chopped pumpkin flesh (peeled, de-seeded and de-fibred). When they had all sweated for five or six minutes a pint of hot chicken stock went in, followed by 1/4 pint of hot milk. Lastly the tin of white meat crab chucks joined them to warm through, and the lot was zhooshed with a hand blender until really smooth, with salt and plenty of pepper to get the seasoning right. It even gained a (pointless) cheffy foam on top with the blending.
That made enough for a bowl and a half each. It was like a crab bisque without the faffage of crushing and sieving the shell. The crab dominated the flavour, the veg lent it just the right consistency. The pumpkin I used - seeds from Garden Organic - is green-skinned and -fleshed, so you'd have guessed pea soup by looking at it. I'll repeat the exercise with one of the orangey-yellow variety, expecting it to be more pleasing to the eye. Definitely to be tried again more than once this autumn.
Monday, 12 October 2015
Simply Seasonal
In the civilised world, and Preston almost qualifies, nobody is truly self-sufficient but we can all be a bit more self-reliant. To that end we recently had solar panels fitted, something that will reduce our carbon footprint a bit more, though I am pretty sure that growing lots of our own food has a bigger impact on that front - but only if we actually eat the stuff.
The trouble is that certain foodstuffs tend to come in gluts. We have half a dozen apple trees of different types, the idea being to spread the season, but it's still pretty much compressed into a tall bell curve with September and October acocunting for 90 per cent of our crop. Cobnuts are worse, you have to harvest them before the squirrels (utter bastards with fluffy tails) nick the lot, so the yield from our two trees is now picked and drying in the conservatory. This year beetroot can be added to that list, as we got relatively few earlier on, but all the remaining ones have started to balloon in the last couple of weeks, and need using up before the frosts get them and/or they go woody.
For a cook situations like that are fun. I veer between thrifty and profligate, and both stances can be accommodated simultaneously in this period. An idea borrowed from HF-W - for a salad of boiled beetroot in apple sauce - led to a gratin of boiled beetroot and two sorts of apple, a cooker reduced to sauce (with a spoon of honey) and an eater chopped small and fried in butter before the lot was mixed together and baked with a cheese topping. It could have been a waste of good produce, but was very enjoyable, sweet and savoury in one blast.
It's good when the gluts can be combined like that. Another recent example was lettuces (oakleaf and cos) cut before the frosts start, made into a big salad with more boiled beetroot, boiled eggs (our chickens working overtime currently), and toasted cobnuts. I could have added chopped parsley and some chicory leaves, but wanted to keep it simple. It was doubly satisfying in both the filling-up sense and in being seasonal, and triply because beyond the dressing the Sainsbury family benefitted by not one penny from it.
The trouble is that certain foodstuffs tend to come in gluts. We have half a dozen apple trees of different types, the idea being to spread the season, but it's still pretty much compressed into a tall bell curve with September and October acocunting for 90 per cent of our crop. Cobnuts are worse, you have to harvest them before the squirrels (utter bastards with fluffy tails) nick the lot, so the yield from our two trees is now picked and drying in the conservatory. This year beetroot can be added to that list, as we got relatively few earlier on, but all the remaining ones have started to balloon in the last couple of weeks, and need using up before the frosts get them and/or they go woody.
For a cook situations like that are fun. I veer between thrifty and profligate, and both stances can be accommodated simultaneously in this period. An idea borrowed from HF-W - for a salad of boiled beetroot in apple sauce - led to a gratin of boiled beetroot and two sorts of apple, a cooker reduced to sauce (with a spoon of honey) and an eater chopped small and fried in butter before the lot was mixed together and baked with a cheese topping. It could have been a waste of good produce, but was very enjoyable, sweet and savoury in one blast.
It's good when the gluts can be combined like that. Another recent example was lettuces (oakleaf and cos) cut before the frosts start, made into a big salad with more boiled beetroot, boiled eggs (our chickens working overtime currently), and toasted cobnuts. I could have added chopped parsley and some chicory leaves, but wanted to keep it simple. It was doubly satisfying in both the filling-up sense and in being seasonal, and triply because beyond the dressing the Sainsbury family benefitted by not one penny from it.
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Foodie Cold Cures
I'm not at all convinced that any foods can cure the common cold. In fact I'm pretty sure they can't. But there are definitely some that make you feel better more quickly.
SC is currently suffering with stage 2 man flu, thus the topic of this post came to mind. Stage 2 is when you still manage to remain brave, especially after 12 hours of deep and dreamless.
My favourite specific against the cold is noodle soup. Slithery starch from the noodles, chili to kill all known germs, hot stock for soothing the throat and rehydration, and a solid thrutch of garlic combine to bring a little hope to the sufferer. I just served that for a most un-English Sunday lunch, given the lad's dire need.
I'm not Chinese, and nor really is that soup. When I did go down with man flu in the Far East I was advised by the wonderful Agus Sutono to eat star fruit, which really did help. Whatever happened to the star fruit? I can't remember seeing one in the UK since the turn of the century.
Jewish mothers of course swear by chicken soup. My friend Ben Patashnik was insulted when I called him a cliche as he pined for his mum's cure-all broth. Sorry Ben. A University in America (where is the city of A btw?) has, if memory serves, proven there are anti-viral properties in well-made chicken soup. As there probably are in any decent foods. Again, it cannot hurt to pour nourishing hot liquid down the patient's throat.
Chocolate sales got a boost a year or two back when the dark version was shown to help people with bad coughs. (Which prompts the question, what is a good cough?) Not only did it coat the irritated bits, but some marvellous chemical in chocolate did us good, or so the chocolate marketing foundation claimed to have demonstrated. I reckon wine gums would do the job too.
Given he has now been home for a week, and by my (how sad is this?) calculation we have had more than 50 different fruits, vegetables, legumes and leaves since he got here, I wonder about the preventative powers of foods. I have served enough garlic to make an Italian peasant roll his eyes. Not a day has gone by without us enjoying fresh citrus juice in our brekky smoothie. Still the germs rule.
Maybe he brought it back from Wales. The Dear Leader has not succumbed yet, and for the good of all mankind I trust she will not. Being dropped nto the shark tank is as nothing to the fate of her minions when she has the sniffles. Only one in a relationship can wear the trousers, and luckily I look good in skirts. In accordance with that situation she gets man Leader flu, than which there is nothing more terrifying.
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
Squash - not the Robinson's Sort
Diversity being my watchword, I've determined of late to explore the wonderful world of the squash, as few if any vegetable families match it for the range of shapes, colours and tastes. Actually for pedants like me it's one of those annoying vegetables that taxonomically is a fruit. E.L. Wisty had a similar dilemma with the banana, which he pointed out is in fact a whale. Such matters aside, the squash offers the intrepid cook (and cultivator) great opportunities to explore new worlds of flavour.
We have grown the giant pumpkin of Halloween fame for many years, and while some have been sacrificed to lantern use, others have ended up as pie, custard, soup, mash and curry. Sadly the big pumpkins tend to have a rather dull flavour, a bit earthy, pleasantly savoury, but not exciting, so we have branched out into more exotic options. Some - the Turk's Turban for example - is a bit more interesting on the flavour front, and much more as a gardening status symbol. The patty pans we've given a go have been hugely prolific, and rather sweet and green on the palate, to date no disappointments there.
This year the greenhouse and conservatory are nurturing perhaps 20 different plantlets, all grown from seed. We'll be stuck for space, even with an allotment, as they tend to spread far and wide, but if we can select and raise say 10 of the healthiest among them I'll be happy. If I remember I'll report later in the year on the culinary worth of whatever squashes we grow and cook.
The supermarkets appear to be getting in on the act too. Last night we ate a squash, red lentil and chickpea soupy-stew (based on an HFW recipe with plenty of amendments), using a squash that while similar in appearance to the butternut was a different flavour - think marrow with a touch of new potato. Very enjoyable, and as part of our partially reinstated alternative eating programme (all having slipped a pound or three upwards since Christmas) a filler-upper with few calories. It was a one-flame dish too, cooked in phases - onion 5 mins; spices and garlic 5 mins; squash, tin of toms, stock, red lentils 25 mins; orza pasta 10 mins. No need for late-night snacks after such a dish. I leave it to the reader's imagination, however, to contemplate the other night-time consequences of a squash, lentil and chickpea combination.
We have grown the giant pumpkin of Halloween fame for many years, and while some have been sacrificed to lantern use, others have ended up as pie, custard, soup, mash and curry. Sadly the big pumpkins tend to have a rather dull flavour, a bit earthy, pleasantly savoury, but not exciting, so we have branched out into more exotic options. Some - the Turk's Turban for example - is a bit more interesting on the flavour front, and much more as a gardening status symbol. The patty pans we've given a go have been hugely prolific, and rather sweet and green on the palate, to date no disappointments there.
This year the greenhouse and conservatory are nurturing perhaps 20 different plantlets, all grown from seed. We'll be stuck for space, even with an allotment, as they tend to spread far and wide, but if we can select and raise say 10 of the healthiest among them I'll be happy. If I remember I'll report later in the year on the culinary worth of whatever squashes we grow and cook.
The supermarkets appear to be getting in on the act too. Last night we ate a squash, red lentil and chickpea soupy-stew (based on an HFW recipe with plenty of amendments), using a squash that while similar in appearance to the butternut was a different flavour - think marrow with a touch of new potato. Very enjoyable, and as part of our partially reinstated alternative eating programme (all having slipped a pound or three upwards since Christmas) a filler-upper with few calories. It was a one-flame dish too, cooked in phases - onion 5 mins; spices and garlic 5 mins; squash, tin of toms, stock, red lentils 25 mins; orza pasta 10 mins. No need for late-night snacks after such a dish. I leave it to the reader's imagination, however, to contemplate the other night-time consequences of a squash, lentil and chickpea combination.
Friday, 22 May 2015
The French Country Hotel Test
In my distant youth family holidays were largely spent camping in France and Switzerland. Finances were rarely flush, so we lived off dishes cooked beside the tent, or later in the caravan, bulked out on occasion with frites from the camp shop. When economies allowed we had a special treat of eating a meal out, generally in a small hotel restaurant. The quality, simplicity and generosity of that food is part of my culinary DNA now.
Best of all such places was the Midi Papillon in St Jean de Bruel, south of pre-bridge Millau. My parents had found a campsite nearby at Nant that was so good they did a deal to leave their tourer there permanently, Ruth and I free to use it when they did not.
By chance they and we discovered the Midi Papillon, and pockets by then being deeper would eat there maybe three times in a fortnight. Buying The Sunday Times on our way over we were delighted and annoyed to find it listed in their top 10 restaurants in France. Yet a seven course tasting menu cost little more than a Berni Inn steak and chips follwed by Walls Ice Cream.
The Midi Papillon (run by the Papillon family - how nice to be called Mr Butterfly) merited the honour. Highlights included stuffed sheep's feet: gelatious, meaty, herby, delicious; freshwater crayfish in a muscat and cream sauce (with a bib unpretentiously provided, the sauce flew everywhere); the best Vieux Cantal and Roquefort cheeses in the world (Roquefort is made half an hour away by the hazardous Cevenne roads); and soups.
The aroma of beautiful freshly cooked soup at home still conjures up memories of such pleasures in those hotels. For the hotelier of course it is a cheap dish, made no doubt with vegetables past their very best, stock that uses bones and trimmings from other dishes, and enormous care. Such soups appear daily as one of the two options on the Table d'Hote menu. But nobody objects, especially as they will be eaten with baguette of perfect crispness. Tired and troubled on a business trip I once arrived late on at a small auberge in Bourgoin Jallieu. That soupy smell greeted me, and I chose soupe au pistou for my first course. It was so good I finished the tureen. The chef-proprietor, clearly pleased by my appreciation of his food, chatted with me - he'd worked at the Dorchester it turned out.
Earlier this week we had such a super soup moment ourselves. A cauliflower bought for a salad I never got around to making needed using up, or so I thought - once the leaves were peeled back it was revealed as blemish-free. Cooked with butter and cream (a rare treat these days), an onion, a few chopped celery stalks and leaves and some chopped chard stems for bulk and depth, and using cheaty bouillon vegetable stock, its scent pervaded the house and greeted the Dear Leader when she returned from her travels and travails. It would have passed the test of acceptability in a small country hotel in France. There were no leftovers.
Best of all such places was the Midi Papillon in St Jean de Bruel, south of pre-bridge Millau. My parents had found a campsite nearby at Nant that was so good they did a deal to leave their tourer there permanently, Ruth and I free to use it when they did not.
By chance they and we discovered the Midi Papillon, and pockets by then being deeper would eat there maybe three times in a fortnight. Buying The Sunday Times on our way over we were delighted and annoyed to find it listed in their top 10 restaurants in France. Yet a seven course tasting menu cost little more than a Berni Inn steak and chips follwed by Walls Ice Cream.
The Midi Papillon (run by the Papillon family - how nice to be called Mr Butterfly) merited the honour. Highlights included stuffed sheep's feet: gelatious, meaty, herby, delicious; freshwater crayfish in a muscat and cream sauce (with a bib unpretentiously provided, the sauce flew everywhere); the best Vieux Cantal and Roquefort cheeses in the world (Roquefort is made half an hour away by the hazardous Cevenne roads); and soups.
The aroma of beautiful freshly cooked soup at home still conjures up memories of such pleasures in those hotels. For the hotelier of course it is a cheap dish, made no doubt with vegetables past their very best, stock that uses bones and trimmings from other dishes, and enormous care. Such soups appear daily as one of the two options on the Table d'Hote menu. But nobody objects, especially as they will be eaten with baguette of perfect crispness. Tired and troubled on a business trip I once arrived late on at a small auberge in Bourgoin Jallieu. That soupy smell greeted me, and I chose soupe au pistou for my first course. It was so good I finished the tureen. The chef-proprietor, clearly pleased by my appreciation of his food, chatted with me - he'd worked at the Dorchester it turned out.
Earlier this week we had such a super soup moment ourselves. A cauliflower bought for a salad I never got around to making needed using up, or so I thought - once the leaves were peeled back it was revealed as blemish-free. Cooked with butter and cream (a rare treat these days), an onion, a few chopped celery stalks and leaves and some chopped chard stems for bulk and depth, and using cheaty bouillon vegetable stock, its scent pervaded the house and greeted the Dear Leader when she returned from her travels and travails. It would have passed the test of acceptability in a small country hotel in France. There were no leftovers.
Monday, 18 May 2015
Hops Are Not Just for Beer
As someone deeply in love with beer I find the title of this post slightly apostatic (can you be slightly apostatic? I guess the Inquisition in such cases would singe people alive), but it fits. A week back I cooked a risotto using hop shoots from the plant we put in a decade ago at the end of the garden. Every year I say I'll do it, every year I forget. Till now.
In Norfolk where I spent my formative years you'll see loads of wild hops in the hedgerows, or at least the few that have not been grubbed up by the greedy bastard corporations that own the ever-expanding prairies there. Yet I never enjoyed hop shoots as a food in the six-fingered county; I came across it thus in Italy on my business travels, then researched the stuff here. Oddly the only shop I ever encountered them in was a Morrison's near Bury in the Nineties, bought and used never to be seen in store again.
The risotto also included wild garlic from the edge of the stream that marks the southern border of our vast estates. The smell in situ is stronger than the flavour, but the wide leaves added colour and a bit of texture, backed up with some peas and wilted spinach. Very green all round.
Sadly I over-cooked the shoots, not having done any for about 20 years. Happily by way of contrast there are plenty more on the way, so I will learn from my error and improve.
The free of charge bit delights me, naturally, but so too does the addition of something new to our diet, albeit fleetingly seasonal. My aim in cooking for pleasure and for health is to use a wide range of fruits and vegetables, and of funghi, meats and fish, the logic being that we are omnivores designed for such a diet. There is more chance of getting all the micro nutrients you need if you eat a bit of everything except people.
I've just ordered a book by Tim Spector (who should be a secret agent with that name, but is a professor of interesting things to do with genes and our tummies at UCL) that looks at the same idea from a different angle, namely that the vital microbes in our lower gut need variety, and they largely determine our digestive health, our weight, and even mood if I understand aright. Can't wait to read it. Men and their fixation with bowels, hey?
In Norfolk where I spent my formative years you'll see loads of wild hops in the hedgerows, or at least the few that have not been grubbed up by the greedy bastard corporations that own the ever-expanding prairies there. Yet I never enjoyed hop shoots as a food in the six-fingered county; I came across it thus in Italy on my business travels, then researched the stuff here. Oddly the only shop I ever encountered them in was a Morrison's near Bury in the Nineties, bought and used never to be seen in store again.
The risotto also included wild garlic from the edge of the stream that marks the southern border of our vast estates. The smell in situ is stronger than the flavour, but the wide leaves added colour and a bit of texture, backed up with some peas and wilted spinach. Very green all round.
Sadly I over-cooked the shoots, not having done any for about 20 years. Happily by way of contrast there are plenty more on the way, so I will learn from my error and improve.
The free of charge bit delights me, naturally, but so too does the addition of something new to our diet, albeit fleetingly seasonal. My aim in cooking for pleasure and for health is to use a wide range of fruits and vegetables, and of funghi, meats and fish, the logic being that we are omnivores designed for such a diet. There is more chance of getting all the micro nutrients you need if you eat a bit of everything except people.
I've just ordered a book by Tim Spector (who should be a secret agent with that name, but is a professor of interesting things to do with genes and our tummies at UCL) that looks at the same idea from a different angle, namely that the vital microbes in our lower gut need variety, and they largely determine our digestive health, our weight, and even mood if I understand aright. Can't wait to read it. Men and their fixation with bowels, hey?
Sunday, 3 May 2015
Market Forces
A timely reminder yesterday that supermarkets are not the only, or the best, places to food shop. The Dear Leader took me to Preston Indoor Market while we were in town, and it was worth the detour. Two best buys were duck-egg-sized cream aubergines from the Asian veg stall, and un-vinegared whelks from one of the fish stalls (it also yielded some fine naturally smoked haddock enjoyed for breakfast this dreary Bank Holiday Sunday). Not only was the fish stall offering a wider range than Sainsbury's or Booth's, but it appeared better kept/more freshly sourced. And the prices on both were competitive - a huge bunch of coriander for 70p for example, easily four times what you'd get for the money at JS.
We'd invited some friends for a pretty impromptu Chinese-y meal, so most of the market finds were included in that, the little aubergines (the Americanism egg-plant in their case would have been perfectly valid) in a Thai green curry with other veg, the whelks as one of the starter dishes.
In my old life I travelled frequently in Taiwan, several times taken to one of those fish restaurants with stalls outside displaying the available ingredients. Asked what I fancied one time I opted for the whelks, partly because I love seafood, partly to see what Chinese cookery would do with them - this proved to be a simple dish of just the whelks barbecued with chili aplenty, and it proved a revelation.
I rinsed our £2.50 worth, then marinated them for three or four hours in a paste made with red and green chilis and coriander, a little soy sauce and sesame oil. Stir fried with some more green chili, soy, and sping onion they were lovely rather than rubbery as it were.
Whelks are, if not a superfood, a terrific one. Stuffed full of protein, minerals, vitamins and a little carbohydrate they're little packets of goodness. But equally importantly, they bring a taste of the sea in the way the more revered oyster does - and at a fraction of the price.
We'd invited some friends for a pretty impromptu Chinese-y meal, so most of the market finds were included in that, the little aubergines (the Americanism egg-plant in their case would have been perfectly valid) in a Thai green curry with other veg, the whelks as one of the starter dishes.
In my old life I travelled frequently in Taiwan, several times taken to one of those fish restaurants with stalls outside displaying the available ingredients. Asked what I fancied one time I opted for the whelks, partly because I love seafood, partly to see what Chinese cookery would do with them - this proved to be a simple dish of just the whelks barbecued with chili aplenty, and it proved a revelation.
I rinsed our £2.50 worth, then marinated them for three or four hours in a paste made with red and green chilis and coriander, a little soy sauce and sesame oil. Stir fried with some more green chili, soy, and sping onion they were lovely rather than rubbery as it were.
Whelks are, if not a superfood, a terrific one. Stuffed full of protein, minerals, vitamins and a little carbohydrate they're little packets of goodness. But equally importantly, they bring a taste of the sea in the way the more revered oyster does - and at a fraction of the price.
Monday, 20 April 2015
Time's Cruel Quirks, and Kinder Ones
As I speed through the third decade of my thirties time, its benefits, passing and cruel jokes at our expense has begun to assume more significance than it did in my salad days (accompanied in the Sixties and Seventies of course by Heinz salad cream). With experience has come a reasonable knowledge of restorative beverages, and the money to pay for a decent standard thereof. But annoyingly once we are of a certain age the body's tolerance for alcohol reduces, so an evening of anything more than mild conviviality can leave one feeling delicate next day. Thus we try to drink well rather than lots.
A new quirk of maturity hit me recently. Enjoying a night's sleep a month or so back I began what seemed destined to be that very rare pleasure, a sex dream. I make no apologies for my subconscious. Several (it would appear said subconscious is decidedly ambitious) of my wife's former colleagues (attractive female ones) were seated around our table with the Dear Leader, all dressed somewhat inappropriately for the March weather, though despite them being seated at a round table I could only see their backs wherever I stood. I sported an apron, and nothing else.
Tragically the dream took a diversion. For their meal I was preparing pork sausages (way ahead of you Sigmund) fried then sliced on the bias and the flat faces browned, with apple juice added to the pan to caramelise and create a sticky jus. The dream had become culinary not carnal. I focused on what heat would be needed to keep the apple flavour but make a nice syrupy sauce to grace the meat, and if it needed herbs (I now, fully conscious, think a touch of sage). Even in the dream I felt this was missing the point, but was seduced by the simple recipe idea, rather than as might have been hoped the company.
Carpe diem seems very brusque, however rapidly time is racing. Whatever the latin for embrace in place of seize seems more inviting. We did that yesterday by planning for the promised sun. A lamb shoulder on a generous bed of sliced leeks (picked the day before on the allotment) and bruised garlic cloves went into a very low oven (110 celsius) mid-morning, a bottle of Christmas-leftover Babycham (the Dear Leader enjoys retro sometimes too) to keep it all moist. A lidded pot let the whole steam gently. When we ate in the garden mid-afternoon the sun shone, the meat fell off the bone, and the sweet mushy alliums and a big serving of steamed Red Russian kale were ideal partners. As was a half-bottle of Rioja. Should we regret not having the head anymore for a full midday Sunday bottle, or celebrate having the nous to construct such a pleasant hour?
A new quirk of maturity hit me recently. Enjoying a night's sleep a month or so back I began what seemed destined to be that very rare pleasure, a sex dream. I make no apologies for my subconscious. Several (it would appear said subconscious is decidedly ambitious) of my wife's former colleagues (attractive female ones) were seated around our table with the Dear Leader, all dressed somewhat inappropriately for the March weather, though despite them being seated at a round table I could only see their backs wherever I stood. I sported an apron, and nothing else.
Tragically the dream took a diversion. For their meal I was preparing pork sausages (way ahead of you Sigmund) fried then sliced on the bias and the flat faces browned, with apple juice added to the pan to caramelise and create a sticky jus. The dream had become culinary not carnal. I focused on what heat would be needed to keep the apple flavour but make a nice syrupy sauce to grace the meat, and if it needed herbs (I now, fully conscious, think a touch of sage). Even in the dream I felt this was missing the point, but was seduced by the simple recipe idea, rather than as might have been hoped the company.
Carpe diem seems very brusque, however rapidly time is racing. Whatever the latin for embrace in place of seize seems more inviting. We did that yesterday by planning for the promised sun. A lamb shoulder on a generous bed of sliced leeks (picked the day before on the allotment) and bruised garlic cloves went into a very low oven (110 celsius) mid-morning, a bottle of Christmas-leftover Babycham (the Dear Leader enjoys retro sometimes too) to keep it all moist. A lidded pot let the whole steam gently. When we ate in the garden mid-afternoon the sun shone, the meat fell off the bone, and the sweet mushy alliums and a big serving of steamed Red Russian kale were ideal partners. As was a half-bottle of Rioja. Should we regret not having the head anymore for a full midday Sunday bottle, or celebrate having the nous to construct such a pleasant hour?
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Time, Coffee, Breakfast, and Mr Kurtz
Reflecting on why our breakfasts are currently more enjoyable than ever before in our 99 years of marriage, the conclusion is that we now have time, or at least we more frequently have time, to spend over said meal. Sternest Critic is off at university so we no longer have the school bus rush. I have worked from home since 2007, and since last summer the Dear Leader has two or more days a week when world domination is plotted here rather than at one of her secret bases.
I do not believe that either food or drink can be truly savoured unless there is time available to focus on them. A cup of coffee gulped en route to the office will not give the same pleasure as the same cup sipped calmly at the table. It's not a matter of focussing intently from first sip to last, but the greater opportunity to take a moment and notice. Stop and smell the flowers, or the coffee, as it were.
This brings me to the horror of grazing, and the (exaggeratedly) reported death of the family meal. As an admitted hedonist I would take some persuading to swap my time at the table (morning, noon or evening) for time spent on another activity. An extra hour spent texting friends, retweeting what some pointless celebrity('s PR hack) has written about toenails, or playing games on my phone would none of them tempt me to change.
If you graze then it's just re-fuelling. Quality is sacrificed for convenience. Reheated rubbish that can be carried without spillage will be preferred to anything that needs a slow simmer and has sloppy juices.
I am standing for the Green Party in my local ward this May. When I rise to absolute power, as seems inevitable (the Dear Leader busy developing a mind-altering ray even now), grazers will be sent to re-education camps in the foothills of the Norfolk mountains to face a stern regime of meals featuring dishes lifted from the finest pages of de Pomiane, David, and (Jane) Grigson. They will be forced to sit for a minimum of half an hour over each meal, with no TV, music, or access to personal electronic devices. Anyone failing to engage in delightful conversation during the evening sitting will be required to spend another 15 minutes over cheese*. The horror, the horror. Conrad was deliberately ambiguous with those death-bed words, but I wonder if what Kurtz was imagining was people on the go eating as breakfast those strange squashed-egg and sausage patty efforts foisted on the world by McDonald's. I may be wrong of course.
* Those putting butter on their cheese biscuits will naturally be shot for the good of the gene pool. I'm no extremist, but tolerance has its limits. Anyone asking for cheese with bits of mango, or cranberries, or ginger in it will be treated far more harshly.
I do not believe that either food or drink can be truly savoured unless there is time available to focus on them. A cup of coffee gulped en route to the office will not give the same pleasure as the same cup sipped calmly at the table. It's not a matter of focussing intently from first sip to last, but the greater opportunity to take a moment and notice. Stop and smell the flowers, or the coffee, as it were.
This brings me to the horror of grazing, and the (exaggeratedly) reported death of the family meal. As an admitted hedonist I would take some persuading to swap my time at the table (morning, noon or evening) for time spent on another activity. An extra hour spent texting friends, retweeting what some pointless celebrity('s PR hack) has written about toenails, or playing games on my phone would none of them tempt me to change.
If you graze then it's just re-fuelling. Quality is sacrificed for convenience. Reheated rubbish that can be carried without spillage will be preferred to anything that needs a slow simmer and has sloppy juices.
I am standing for the Green Party in my local ward this May. When I rise to absolute power, as seems inevitable (the Dear Leader busy developing a mind-altering ray even now), grazers will be sent to re-education camps in the foothills of the Norfolk mountains to face a stern regime of meals featuring dishes lifted from the finest pages of de Pomiane, David, and (Jane) Grigson. They will be forced to sit for a minimum of half an hour over each meal, with no TV, music, or access to personal electronic devices. Anyone failing to engage in delightful conversation during the evening sitting will be required to spend another 15 minutes over cheese*. The horror, the horror. Conrad was deliberately ambiguous with those death-bed words, but I wonder if what Kurtz was imagining was people on the go eating as breakfast those strange squashed-egg and sausage patty efforts foisted on the world by McDonald's. I may be wrong of course.
* Those putting butter on their cheese biscuits will naturally be shot for the good of the gene pool. I'm no extremist, but tolerance has its limits. Anyone asking for cheese with bits of mango, or cranberries, or ginger in it will be treated far more harshly.
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Lord Emsworth and I
Breakfasting is rather an art I feel. It's of course a cliche that the first meal of the day is the most important, setting one up nutritionally and spiritually for the next 14 or 15 hours. Over the last week or so I've enjoyed very contrasting ways to break my fast. During our recent stay at my father's house it was variations on the grilled platter - sausages, bacon, black pudding, toast, eggs etc - that saw my weight rise and energy fall. I love all of those items, but perhaps once a week (or more sensibly once a fortnight) suffices to have them all together.
By way of contrast I feel full of beans (though they are not on the menu) after our habitual start to the day of strong (real) coffee, a homemade smoothie, and toast and marmelade or poached egg. Lord Emsworth, from what one can gather from the Blandings novels fared best on Dover sole, not something I've ever eaten before noon. We have in common, however, that something light and carefully chosen does make one feel at ease with the world. And of course we are both sound on pigs.
There is no 'right' breakfast in terms of a set menu. I've eaten curry in India and congee in Indonesia, pastry or rolls and coffee in the USA and France, steak in South Africa, black bread and blacker tea in the USSR, and felt good after all of them because the food satisfied not just my thirst and hunger but also a feeling of belonging and of well-being. How the kids I sometimes see eating crisps and drinking Red Bull on the way to school must feel I can only imagine. Not, sadly, important enough for their parents to have provided something more beneficial.
A lot of schools now are offering breakfasts to pupils, and it's not just the under-privileged who maybe need this - I know of a kid at a fee-paying establishment where it's not lack of money but parental laziness that sees him reportedly start his day more often than not on an empty stomach. That is sad in at least two ways - for his educational performance, but also for the missed moment of family bonding, of contentment and care that a simple breakfast can give.
It's a missed moment of culinary art too. Preparing the perfect poached egg is simple but rewarding - water barely simmering, a splash of vinegar because fresh eggs (as they should be, and with our own chickens are here) tend to disintegrate without it, eggs carefully broken and slipped into the water (I don't see the point of the cheffy whirlpool thing), drained and en-toasted when the yolks are runny and the whites soft but formed - it's a skilful ritual worth the effort.
By way of contrast I feel full of beans (though they are not on the menu) after our habitual start to the day of strong (real) coffee, a homemade smoothie, and toast and marmelade or poached egg. Lord Emsworth, from what one can gather from the Blandings novels fared best on Dover sole, not something I've ever eaten before noon. We have in common, however, that something light and carefully chosen does make one feel at ease with the world. And of course we are both sound on pigs.
There is no 'right' breakfast in terms of a set menu. I've eaten curry in India and congee in Indonesia, pastry or rolls and coffee in the USA and France, steak in South Africa, black bread and blacker tea in the USSR, and felt good after all of them because the food satisfied not just my thirst and hunger but also a feeling of belonging and of well-being. How the kids I sometimes see eating crisps and drinking Red Bull on the way to school must feel I can only imagine. Not, sadly, important enough for their parents to have provided something more beneficial.
A lot of schools now are offering breakfasts to pupils, and it's not just the under-privileged who maybe need this - I know of a kid at a fee-paying establishment where it's not lack of money but parental laziness that sees him reportedly start his day more often than not on an empty stomach. That is sad in at least two ways - for his educational performance, but also for the missed moment of family bonding, of contentment and care that a simple breakfast can give.
It's a missed moment of culinary art too. Preparing the perfect poached egg is simple but rewarding - water barely simmering, a splash of vinegar because fresh eggs (as they should be, and with our own chickens are here) tend to disintegrate without it, eggs carefully broken and slipped into the water (I don't see the point of the cheffy whirlpool thing), drained and en-toasted when the yolks are runny and the whites soft but formed - it's a skilful ritual worth the effort.
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
How Fast is Fast Food?
With the Dear Leader away at a conference of super villains - she's giving a paper titled 'When Minions Betray Us - Towards a Theory of Creative Executions' - I was only cooking for two last night, Sternest Critic being home for Easter. The temptation was to do steak as we're blokes. Actually, if I understand the TV adverts, real men don't cook even that, they only ring for takeaway.
I made us some Chinese-ish food, (having travelled many a time and oft in China, and worked with Chinese businessmen throughout South East Asia, I know that a) there is no such thing as 'Chinese food', and b) My version of what I've eaten there is not at all authentic) as I'd been busy doing stuff and it was getting to the point that post-gym SC was turning a cannibal eye on me. Dinner was ready in about 15 minutes, 20 tops. On the very rare occasions we do dial for 'fast' food they always say 'about half an hour', and it takes closer to 60 minutes.
Anyone brave enough to have read early posts on this blog will perhaps recall that my favourite ever cookery programme was a dramatised take on de Pomiane's finest work, French Cooking in 10 Minutes. Think Jamie Oliver, but avec charm and sans annoying Essexisms. And half a century before the pukka prat was the first person ever to discover rapid cookery. The book and the programme show how you can produce four and five courses in 10 minutes (charcuterie starter, fruit as pud, cheese, there's three with no cooking needed). You're limited (no roasts, bakes, slow simmers etc), but it's not the idea to do this all the time.
Our two substantial dishes took twice de Pomiane's target, but for something with plenty of healthy protein and veg, and a bit of carb, not one morsel of which remained uneaten, it's still not a bad effort. Thanks for asking, stir-fried chicken with mushrooms and broccoli, and prawn and crab (tinned white meat) with bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, sweet pepper and fine egg noodles. The former had chili added, the latter plenty of garlic, both had soy sauce and sesame oil.
I could have griddled the chicken thighs and served them on tinned lentils perked up with mushrooms and garlic, with a green salad to follow and cut the time down below 10 minutes. Or done a chicken salad in the same time. Or any number of other possibilites.
My point is that to have something toothsome on the table rapidly need not involve a phone call and paying a small fortune for what may well be cook-chill stuff. So to the Just Eat campaign we say Just Piss Off.
I made us some Chinese-ish food, (having travelled many a time and oft in China, and worked with Chinese businessmen throughout South East Asia, I know that a) there is no such thing as 'Chinese food', and b) My version of what I've eaten there is not at all authentic) as I'd been busy doing stuff and it was getting to the point that post-gym SC was turning a cannibal eye on me. Dinner was ready in about 15 minutes, 20 tops. On the very rare occasions we do dial for 'fast' food they always say 'about half an hour', and it takes closer to 60 minutes.
Anyone brave enough to have read early posts on this blog will perhaps recall that my favourite ever cookery programme was a dramatised take on de Pomiane's finest work, French Cooking in 10 Minutes. Think Jamie Oliver, but avec charm and sans annoying Essexisms. And half a century before the pukka prat was the first person ever to discover rapid cookery. The book and the programme show how you can produce four and five courses in 10 minutes (charcuterie starter, fruit as pud, cheese, there's three with no cooking needed). You're limited (no roasts, bakes, slow simmers etc), but it's not the idea to do this all the time.
Our two substantial dishes took twice de Pomiane's target, but for something with plenty of healthy protein and veg, and a bit of carb, not one morsel of which remained uneaten, it's still not a bad effort. Thanks for asking, stir-fried chicken with mushrooms and broccoli, and prawn and crab (tinned white meat) with bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, sweet pepper and fine egg noodles. The former had chili added, the latter plenty of garlic, both had soy sauce and sesame oil.
I could have griddled the chicken thighs and served them on tinned lentils perked up with mushrooms and garlic, with a green salad to follow and cut the time down below 10 minutes. Or done a chicken salad in the same time. Or any number of other possibilites.
My point is that to have something toothsome on the table rapidly need not involve a phone call and paying a small fortune for what may well be cook-chill stuff. So to the Just Eat campaign we say Just Piss Off.
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Potage is for Peasants?
I detected a briefly raised eyebrow last night when I announced the main part of our evening meal was to be a soup. Had that meant some powdery packet jobbie I could understand the doubt, likewise had I been using tins (though Heinz tomato is a slightly perverse glory of our national cuisine). But this was a very hearty mushroom (a packet of dried porcini and a paper bag of supermarket white 'shrooms) and veg deal, incorporating homemade stock. Nothing was left in the pan, so it can't have been too bad.
Perhaps the problem is that we tend to see such fare as only a starter. Or that both our Dear Leader (ever present) and Sternest Critic (home for Easter) know I (like any half reasonable home cook) sometimes play the potage card to use up things not at the throwing out stage, but past their peak. It is an aid to frugality then, but also can be a delight: the two need not be incompatible.
One of the best things I ate in my distant youth was the sorrel and potato soup dished up by my exchange buddy Patrick Mulot's mum in Montfort L'Amaury (I spent three weeks with them after he had been three weeks with us). No need for truffle oil etc, it was perfectly balanced, filling, smooth, delicious. They were far from rich, and I seem to think we ate it twice a week at least, but no matter.
Likewise the table d'hote dinner menu at small French restaurants and hotels will always include a soup, generally vegetable, that you know is the chef cooking to a budget (it doesn't hurt that the crisply crusted bread on the table accompanies it to perfection).
But both those would be starters.
Is it a fear of appearing to be poor peasants that relegates soup to a supporting role? I have read restaurant reviewers who would go further: they hint soup is not worthy of their taste buds, or inclusion in a starry meal, consigning several thousand years of creative cookery to culinary oblivion in a few arch words. How sad. How shallow.
I was then delighted that the tasting evening menu last Thursday at Mitton Hall featured soup. The carnivore list had French onion with gruyere crouton, and the vegetarians (Dear Leader played that role, and designated driver. My stay in the Gulag will hopefully be short) enjoyed a take on Jane Grigson's 1970s-classic curried parsnip soup. Both were excellent (the parsnip particularly so), and I admired the chef for having the courage to offer superbly realised simplicity.
By way of contrast, on a press trip to Michelin-starred restaurants in South West France I tasted a spoonful of soup made with ground ivy (not tree ivy, that's poisonous). It was part of another taster menu by a well-regarded (particularly by himself) chef scaling new culinary heights. Someone should have pushed him off, it was foul. Fine new soups may yet be discovered, but will any of them be as excellent as that sorrel and potato plateful Patrick's mum surely learned from her mother and on back to Parmentier's introduction of the spud into the French diet? Potage may be for peasants, but it satisfies. So no eyebrow should be raised when it's promoted to the main event.
Perhaps the problem is that we tend to see such fare as only a starter. Or that both our Dear Leader (ever present) and Sternest Critic (home for Easter) know I (like any half reasonable home cook) sometimes play the potage card to use up things not at the throwing out stage, but past their peak. It is an aid to frugality then, but also can be a delight: the two need not be incompatible.
One of the best things I ate in my distant youth was the sorrel and potato soup dished up by my exchange buddy Patrick Mulot's mum in Montfort L'Amaury (I spent three weeks with them after he had been three weeks with us). No need for truffle oil etc, it was perfectly balanced, filling, smooth, delicious. They were far from rich, and I seem to think we ate it twice a week at least, but no matter.
Likewise the table d'hote dinner menu at small French restaurants and hotels will always include a soup, generally vegetable, that you know is the chef cooking to a budget (it doesn't hurt that the crisply crusted bread on the table accompanies it to perfection).
But both those would be starters.
Is it a fear of appearing to be poor peasants that relegates soup to a supporting role? I have read restaurant reviewers who would go further: they hint soup is not worthy of their taste buds, or inclusion in a starry meal, consigning several thousand years of creative cookery to culinary oblivion in a few arch words. How sad. How shallow.
I was then delighted that the tasting evening menu last Thursday at Mitton Hall featured soup. The carnivore list had French onion with gruyere crouton, and the vegetarians (Dear Leader played that role, and designated driver. My stay in the Gulag will hopefully be short) enjoyed a take on Jane Grigson's 1970s-classic curried parsnip soup. Both were excellent (the parsnip particularly so), and I admired the chef for having the courage to offer superbly realised simplicity.
By way of contrast, on a press trip to Michelin-starred restaurants in South West France I tasted a spoonful of soup made with ground ivy (not tree ivy, that's poisonous). It was part of another taster menu by a well-regarded (particularly by himself) chef scaling new culinary heights. Someone should have pushed him off, it was foul. Fine new soups may yet be discovered, but will any of them be as excellent as that sorrel and potato plateful Patrick's mum surely learned from her mother and on back to Parmentier's introduction of the spud into the French diet? Potage may be for peasants, but it satisfies. So no eyebrow should be raised when it's promoted to the main event.
Thursday, 19 March 2015
A Critique of Criticism
In the not too distant the Dear Leader and I are off to Mitton Hall, a rather swish country house hotel and restaurant, to do a review of their new tasting menu. I can feel the waves of sympathy flooding over me - having to work evenings. We are clearly looking forward to the experience. Being paid to eat well is not a bad gig.
But how critical will we be? And is the degree of perfection expected of our chefs healthy and fair?
Last night I cooked two dishes that could have been better. The dressing on the warm lentil and parsnip salad (one of the last of our parsnips from the allotment) needed to be far sharper; and the cheesy-oniony spuds done in the oven with the parsnip chunks could have done with higher heat and a few minutes longer. But both were still good, and I got no complaints: the two things went together well, and were perfectly acceptable.
It must be galling for pro chefs whose dishes stray slightly from the perfect path to be criticised when they are still dishing up excellent fare. Should our degree of criticism be related to the cost of the meal (the higher the cost, the greater the expectation of miracles)? Or to some accepted degree of difficulty (a la ice dancing) for each dish? Or do we judge them on their own standards, so someone with two Michelin stars is expected to be at least 99 per cent on song all the time?
I prefer not to regard every aspect of a meal, every dish and every detail, as an examination with a 100 per cent pass mark. It is the overall experience that counts. That could in itself be a tougher test than each dish being perfect, as if the balance or choice is out, that spoils things for me.
How healthy and useful is criticism? Being terribly British I'm embarrassed about the process, but if we keep quiet when served rubbish it's a disservice to future diners. I tend to vote with my feet (however difficult it is holding a pencil that way) and boycott a place that has failed me.
On occassion I've felt the need to be more direct - memorably when a meal at an 'Italian' restaurant was beyond Mr Bean: ordered a half bottle, got a full one and was asked to drink to halfway; garlic bread was in fact cold rubbery polenta that had never met any garlic; likewise the garlic and herb sauce with my main course, sans herbs, sans garlic, and with easily discernible lumps of the powder from which it had been knocked up. The evening was crowned when we asked for espressos and the waitress didn't know what they were (they had filter coffee, she thought). When the head waitress came over to ask, belatedly, the 'was everything alright?' question I let fly.
Does criticism do any good? A couple of years later that same place was the only restaurant open for Monday lunch when I had French colleagues to feed. It was no better. When rivals opened up nearby, it changed beyond measure (I was told - twice bitten, thrice shy).
But how critical will we be? And is the degree of perfection expected of our chefs healthy and fair?
Last night I cooked two dishes that could have been better. The dressing on the warm lentil and parsnip salad (one of the last of our parsnips from the allotment) needed to be far sharper; and the cheesy-oniony spuds done in the oven with the parsnip chunks could have done with higher heat and a few minutes longer. But both were still good, and I got no complaints: the two things went together well, and were perfectly acceptable.
It must be galling for pro chefs whose dishes stray slightly from the perfect path to be criticised when they are still dishing up excellent fare. Should our degree of criticism be related to the cost of the meal (the higher the cost, the greater the expectation of miracles)? Or to some accepted degree of difficulty (a la ice dancing) for each dish? Or do we judge them on their own standards, so someone with two Michelin stars is expected to be at least 99 per cent on song all the time?
I prefer not to regard every aspect of a meal, every dish and every detail, as an examination with a 100 per cent pass mark. It is the overall experience that counts. That could in itself be a tougher test than each dish being perfect, as if the balance or choice is out, that spoils things for me.
How healthy and useful is criticism? Being terribly British I'm embarrassed about the process, but if we keep quiet when served rubbish it's a disservice to future diners. I tend to vote with my feet (however difficult it is holding a pencil that way) and boycott a place that has failed me.
On occassion I've felt the need to be more direct - memorably when a meal at an 'Italian' restaurant was beyond Mr Bean: ordered a half bottle, got a full one and was asked to drink to halfway; garlic bread was in fact cold rubbery polenta that had never met any garlic; likewise the garlic and herb sauce with my main course, sans herbs, sans garlic, and with easily discernible lumps of the powder from which it had been knocked up. The evening was crowned when we asked for espressos and the waitress didn't know what they were (they had filter coffee, she thought). When the head waitress came over to ask, belatedly, the 'was everything alright?' question I let fly.
Does criticism do any good? A couple of years later that same place was the only restaurant open for Monday lunch when I had French colleagues to feed. It was no better. When rivals opened up nearby, it changed beyond measure (I was told - twice bitten, thrice shy).
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
Bacon and Cream Make Everything Better
I was reading the excellent 'Edible Seashore' book by John Wright the other day (it's one of the River Cottage series), and was amused by his comment about (if memory serves) a cockle recipe which included bacon, cream and garlic, making the entirely sensible point that with those additions, pretty much everything tastes good. Looking over one of Nigel Slater's tomes shortly afterwards, it was clear that the fringed fop has built much of his style on that very thought. [I enjoy his ideas, but his writing style can be a trial - not everything is comfort food for goodness' sake - though why goodness and rice wine should be linked I have no clue]. Nigella Lawson, it could be said, did the same with buckets of thick cream (and a considerable cleavage).
With our now well-established healthy approach to matters culinary cream is a rare treat, but I had a hankering for lardons during a visit to Aldi for fruit bushes (£2.49 for three, and they're in very good nick, top bargain), and incorporated the pack in what would normally be a vegetarian warm salad, bacon replacing mushrooms. Naturally it worked, the other ingredients of blue cheese, rocket, roasted butternut squash (yes, it's a take on an HF-W recipe) greeting the salty stuff with open arms. As I had the oven on for the squash I cut large toms into thick slices and roasted them too for 20 minutes, half the time the squash got, and included a handful of bashed unpeeled garlic cloves, which roasted to nearly burnt brown were the most garlicky thing I've had in weeks. Cold the same toms are tastless; cooked and warm they are sharp and pleasing, a nice balance to the rest of the dish. Some walnuts warmed in with the bacon proved a bit superfluous.
The question is, would the dish have been, though clearly different, as good or even (whisper it quietly) better without the lardons? I actually think that as they were the overly dominant flavour (the slightly caramelised squash and the garlic equal second), taking a bit of limelight away from the veg, this was something that actually would have been better without bacon. My world view is shaken to the core.
With our now well-established healthy approach to matters culinary cream is a rare treat, but I had a hankering for lardons during a visit to Aldi for fruit bushes (£2.49 for three, and they're in very good nick, top bargain), and incorporated the pack in what would normally be a vegetarian warm salad, bacon replacing mushrooms. Naturally it worked, the other ingredients of blue cheese, rocket, roasted butternut squash (yes, it's a take on an HF-W recipe) greeting the salty stuff with open arms. As I had the oven on for the squash I cut large toms into thick slices and roasted them too for 20 minutes, half the time the squash got, and included a handful of bashed unpeeled garlic cloves, which roasted to nearly burnt brown were the most garlicky thing I've had in weeks. Cold the same toms are tastless; cooked and warm they are sharp and pleasing, a nice balance to the rest of the dish. Some walnuts warmed in with the bacon proved a bit superfluous.
The question is, would the dish have been, though clearly different, as good or even (whisper it quietly) better without the lardons? I actually think that as they were the overly dominant flavour (the slightly caramelised squash and the garlic equal second), taking a bit of limelight away from the veg, this was something that actually would have been better without bacon. My world view is shaken to the core.
Monday, 16 March 2015
Taste - not Everybody Has It
The title of this post doesn't refer to people who wear brown shoes with navy suits, or think stone-cladding is a good idea. It's about having the ability to actually taste things.
The thought has been prompted by my recent and continuing bout of man flu (if you could find one, it would have killed a lesser man, though I have naturally not made a fuss about it). Clearly serious though that particular emergency is, it's far less so than the situation of a friend going through post-operative cancer treatment. I read recently (in a piece plugging the Royal Marsden Hospital Cancer Cookbook) that one unpleasant side-effect of chemo is that much of the sense of taste goes, and that what's left tends to tell the brain everything tastes of metal. Nasty piled on nasty.
What is suggested to cleanse and please the palate with chemo patients, apparently, is pineapple, which flushes the taste buds and throat and speeds the recovery of the sense of taste. I found that with a mouth that was tasting of mucal grey-green (how unpleasant) fruits cut through that whereas vegetables failed with a whimper, and meat didn't even make that effort. I guess it's the acidity, though I prefer to think of it as nature's way of saying 'eat me, eat me'.
My step-grandmother lost her sense of taste after she banged her head in a fall. She loved her food, as her size evidenced, and the loss of any pleasure derived from meals was a cruel trick of fate. There are of course other aspects to the enjoyment of food. Travels in Japan showed me how that country's people value texture just as much as flavour, with some foods only explicable by their textures - I have a dim memory of some sweet bean cakes whose delightfully smooth centre in no way made up for their jam-gone-off taste. As Proust wrote (making a lot of fuss about tea and cake*), it is the taste that stays in our minds. What he didn't say is that taste is not only central to our memories, but for those of us whose basic needs are met, it is perhaps the core of the sensual part of our nature. An exceptionally cruel psychologist could carry out an experiment on a death row prisoner, offering the choice between a last hour spent with a girl- or boyfriend, or eating and drinking of the finest**.
Intensely selfish and focused on food as I am, I have started to worry about the gradual loss of taste as I age. Now in my very late 30s (my maths may be at fault here, given I was born in the late 1950s) I observe how my elederly father needs to cover his food with half an inch of salt to get any flavour from it. As he gave up smoking many decades back it is hard to blame tobacco for that.
As we are all, if newspaper reports are to be believed, destined to live to 135, loss of taste could be one of the many crosses we have to bear, as it is an embuggeratoin for those undergooing chemo. My sense of taste has started to recover from the man flu already. I intend making the most of it while I can.
(* Actually I loved reading Du Cote de Chez Swann at university, and of the five books I'm reading currently it's the only re-read)
(** May I combine the two?)
The thought has been prompted by my recent and continuing bout of man flu (if you could find one, it would have killed a lesser man, though I have naturally not made a fuss about it). Clearly serious though that particular emergency is, it's far less so than the situation of a friend going through post-operative cancer treatment. I read recently (in a piece plugging the Royal Marsden Hospital Cancer Cookbook) that one unpleasant side-effect of chemo is that much of the sense of taste goes, and that what's left tends to tell the brain everything tastes of metal. Nasty piled on nasty.
What is suggested to cleanse and please the palate with chemo patients, apparently, is pineapple, which flushes the taste buds and throat and speeds the recovery of the sense of taste. I found that with a mouth that was tasting of mucal grey-green (how unpleasant) fruits cut through that whereas vegetables failed with a whimper, and meat didn't even make that effort. I guess it's the acidity, though I prefer to think of it as nature's way of saying 'eat me, eat me'.
My step-grandmother lost her sense of taste after she banged her head in a fall. She loved her food, as her size evidenced, and the loss of any pleasure derived from meals was a cruel trick of fate. There are of course other aspects to the enjoyment of food. Travels in Japan showed me how that country's people value texture just as much as flavour, with some foods only explicable by their textures - I have a dim memory of some sweet bean cakes whose delightfully smooth centre in no way made up for their jam-gone-off taste. As Proust wrote (making a lot of fuss about tea and cake*), it is the taste that stays in our minds. What he didn't say is that taste is not only central to our memories, but for those of us whose basic needs are met, it is perhaps the core of the sensual part of our nature. An exceptionally cruel psychologist could carry out an experiment on a death row prisoner, offering the choice between a last hour spent with a girl- or boyfriend, or eating and drinking of the finest**.
Intensely selfish and focused on food as I am, I have started to worry about the gradual loss of taste as I age. Now in my very late 30s (my maths may be at fault here, given I was born in the late 1950s) I observe how my elederly father needs to cover his food with half an inch of salt to get any flavour from it. As he gave up smoking many decades back it is hard to blame tobacco for that.
As we are all, if newspaper reports are to be believed, destined to live to 135, loss of taste could be one of the many crosses we have to bear, as it is an embuggeratoin for those undergooing chemo. My sense of taste has started to recover from the man flu already. I intend making the most of it while I can.
(* Actually I loved reading Du Cote de Chez Swann at university, and of the five books I'm reading currently it's the only re-read)
(** May I combine the two?)
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
One Flame Cooking - Vegged-up Style
Vegged-up. Gosh, how demotic as a good friend would probably say.
My one flame cookery has tended to be a meat-centred thing, but inspired it has to be said by HF-W's veg book, and for reasons explored in another recent post, we've cut down on meat (not cut it out) and pushed the veg quota here. I'm a big fan of what our American cousins would call the dinner salad too, so put those factors together with the one flame idea and you end up with some substantial meatless feasts.
Best of those has to be the lentil-centric salad (lentil-centric being like London centric, but different in that one is concerned with a lot of rather greyish vegetables all looking alike with no space between them, the other has lentils. Boom-tish, I'm here all week).
In the trusty Le Creuset cast iron pan a chopped onion is fried gently, with a chopped red pepper for colour, some garlic sliced, then a posh sachet of lentils. Had some been available I'd have added a few cubes of bacon or slices of chorizo (people who pronounce that cho-ritz-o now quite high up my list of those due to die horribly when I rise to supreme power). So long as the onion and garlic are cooked it's just a case of warming the rest through, not even getting them hot (how very continental), as you eat this warm.
Lettuce or rocket or lamb's lettuce on the plate the lentil mix is added, some Parmesan shavings and walnuts put on top (with enough time then for the oil in the nuts to warm through a bit - I am not a fan of toasting them), and the lot dressed with a vinaigrette. It's the basis for further experimentation (adulteration?) - goats cheese or blue cheese are good, tomatoes go nicely, black olives and hard-boiled eggs fit in too. So long as there are not too many ingredients (in which case it evolves into another nice Americanism, the garbage salad) it remains a good solid filler-upper, and one that can be on the table in 15 minutes.
Does this count as austerity cooking? As Merchant Gourmet lentils (for 'tis he) only cost about £1.50, and the rest if no bacon or chorizo used would add another £1.50 tops, that's dinner for two or three for £3.
My one flame cookery has tended to be a meat-centred thing, but inspired it has to be said by HF-W's veg book, and for reasons explored in another recent post, we've cut down on meat (not cut it out) and pushed the veg quota here. I'm a big fan of what our American cousins would call the dinner salad too, so put those factors together with the one flame idea and you end up with some substantial meatless feasts.
Best of those has to be the lentil-centric salad (lentil-centric being like London centric, but different in that one is concerned with a lot of rather greyish vegetables all looking alike with no space between them, the other has lentils. Boom-tish, I'm here all week).
In the trusty Le Creuset cast iron pan a chopped onion is fried gently, with a chopped red pepper for colour, some garlic sliced, then a posh sachet of lentils. Had some been available I'd have added a few cubes of bacon or slices of chorizo (people who pronounce that cho-ritz-o now quite high up my list of those due to die horribly when I rise to supreme power). So long as the onion and garlic are cooked it's just a case of warming the rest through, not even getting them hot (how very continental), as you eat this warm.
Lettuce or rocket or lamb's lettuce on the plate the lentil mix is added, some Parmesan shavings and walnuts put on top (with enough time then for the oil in the nuts to warm through a bit - I am not a fan of toasting them), and the lot dressed with a vinaigrette. It's the basis for further experimentation (adulteration?) - goats cheese or blue cheese are good, tomatoes go nicely, black olives and hard-boiled eggs fit in too. So long as there are not too many ingredients (in which case it evolves into another nice Americanism, the garbage salad) it remains a good solid filler-upper, and one that can be on the table in 15 minutes.
Does this count as austerity cooking? As Merchant Gourmet lentils (for 'tis he) only cost about £1.50, and the rest if no bacon or chorizo used would add another £1.50 tops, that's dinner for two or three for £3.
Monday, 2 March 2015
Classics for a Reason
Sometimes there's little space between classic and cliche. Though in the complete OED I bet it amounts to at least 100 pages. The food world seems far more interested in novelty than the established, so what are classics now too often find themselves labelled cliches. How arrogant and short-sighted.
That thoughtlet came to mind last night as we ate what were the best crab cakes I've ever cooked, and it's something I've had a go at often. The outside crispy, the inside quenelle light and (important this) with the crab flavour central, they were simple, quickly done and delicious.
But they were not ground-breaking, so had they been served to a restaurant reviewer I'm sure the phrase 'gastro-pub cliche' would have appeared. That in itself suggests the reviewers in themselves have become cliches.
To quote Montaigne (has anyone else noted the great man quoted far more often of late than for many years?) 'The art of dining well is no slight art.' Chasing the new tends to make it so, however.
For anyone who wishes to know, the cakes were just three slices of stale ciabatta whizzed to crumbs, two tins (yes, tins) of white crab meat, 1/2 tsp of sweet smoked paprika, salt, pepper, and two beaten eggs. Formed into crab patties (when was the last time Montaigne and Spongebob made it into the same piece?) and fried over a moderate heat in a little olive oil they puffed up a treat, were toothsome, and tasty. But no guava, fermented Peruvian bogie-juice, or crushed dung beetles, so what was the point?
That thoughtlet came to mind last night as we ate what were the best crab cakes I've ever cooked, and it's something I've had a go at often. The outside crispy, the inside quenelle light and (important this) with the crab flavour central, they were simple, quickly done and delicious.
But they were not ground-breaking, so had they been served to a restaurant reviewer I'm sure the phrase 'gastro-pub cliche' would have appeared. That in itself suggests the reviewers in themselves have become cliches.
To quote Montaigne (has anyone else noted the great man quoted far more often of late than for many years?) 'The art of dining well is no slight art.' Chasing the new tends to make it so, however.
For anyone who wishes to know, the cakes were just three slices of stale ciabatta whizzed to crumbs, two tins (yes, tins) of white crab meat, 1/2 tsp of sweet smoked paprika, salt, pepper, and two beaten eggs. Formed into crab patties (when was the last time Montaigne and Spongebob made it into the same piece?) and fried over a moderate heat in a little olive oil they puffed up a treat, were toothsome, and tasty. But no guava, fermented Peruvian bogie-juice, or crushed dung beetles, so what was the point?
Monday, 23 February 2015
Thirty of your Eighty-seven a Day
We learned some time back that the five-a-day tag was the health Stasi wimping out. Seven was the original thought, and when it comes down to it, as much variety as you can get in fruit and veg in terms of types and colour has to be good. That simple principle if adhered to would put several thousand nutrition writers out of work btw.
I've not given up meat (nor will I), but have gradually cut back as we're filling up on loads of other stuff. Breakfast chez nous nowadays nearly always includes a homemade smoothie (the bought-in ones tend to be horribly sugary), blitzing fruit (but not too smoothly) with freshly squeezed juice (I have a lime addiction) and some milk/yog. That starts us off with about three servings (what is a serving? Depending on the way the wind blows, 3oz, two tablespoons, a good handful, a decent-sized fruit - not too much science there), but generally seven or eight fruits.
As ever the great HF-W has been a godsend. His RC Veg Everyday tome is brilliant (the Fruit one is I think his worst, but still a good read). He has the knack of providing enough info to let you prepare something, but also to spark ones curiosity about what if I do this, add that...?
One of his ideas I adapted to make a particularly fine and simple pasta sauce: a chili chopped finely after deseeding, three garlic cloves bashed to bits, and a tin of artichokes (yes, tinned) drained, the lot processed with a trickle of olive oil, plenty of paprika and some seasoning until it makes a puree that can be warmed and stirred into spag or pretty much any pasta. A few fresh tomatoes roughly chopped and added at the end brightens it and gives a bit of sharpness. His uses white beans in addition to the artichokes and is primarily a dip that I've also tried. Either way, it is simple and delicious. And a quick way to add another vegetable to the rotating list.
Behind the switch to more veg less flesh lie several factors. It's greener. It's cheaper. We've lost weight. And it promises to be healthier. In 2012 a friend whose lifestyle was not perhaps the healthiest, but who was apparently fit and well, had a fatal heart attack, no warning given. Another very good friend was diagnosed with cancer last year. Along with humour and energy (and medical science), as it fits her beliefs she's fighting it with the power of prayer. Old sceptic that I am while energy and humour and doctors make sense, nutritional changes appeal to me more than the god stuff. Each to their own.
There are of course no silver bullets, and there's no such thing really as a superfood. But as my insides nowadays regularly enjoy the fibrous equivalent of a steam clean, and we surely cannot be deficient in any micro-nutrients, we're hoping it does some good. And even if it doesn't we will have felt far better before meeting our maker. Were he to exist.
I've not given up meat (nor will I), but have gradually cut back as we're filling up on loads of other stuff. Breakfast chez nous nowadays nearly always includes a homemade smoothie (the bought-in ones tend to be horribly sugary), blitzing fruit (but not too smoothly) with freshly squeezed juice (I have a lime addiction) and some milk/yog. That starts us off with about three servings (what is a serving? Depending on the way the wind blows, 3oz, two tablespoons, a good handful, a decent-sized fruit - not too much science there), but generally seven or eight fruits.
As ever the great HF-W has been a godsend. His RC Veg Everyday tome is brilliant (the Fruit one is I think his worst, but still a good read). He has the knack of providing enough info to let you prepare something, but also to spark ones curiosity about what if I do this, add that...?
One of his ideas I adapted to make a particularly fine and simple pasta sauce: a chili chopped finely after deseeding, three garlic cloves bashed to bits, and a tin of artichokes (yes, tinned) drained, the lot processed with a trickle of olive oil, plenty of paprika and some seasoning until it makes a puree that can be warmed and stirred into spag or pretty much any pasta. A few fresh tomatoes roughly chopped and added at the end brightens it and gives a bit of sharpness. His uses white beans in addition to the artichokes and is primarily a dip that I've also tried. Either way, it is simple and delicious. And a quick way to add another vegetable to the rotating list.
Behind the switch to more veg less flesh lie several factors. It's greener. It's cheaper. We've lost weight. And it promises to be healthier. In 2012 a friend whose lifestyle was not perhaps the healthiest, but who was apparently fit and well, had a fatal heart attack, no warning given. Another very good friend was diagnosed with cancer last year. Along with humour and energy (and medical science), as it fits her beliefs she's fighting it with the power of prayer. Old sceptic that I am while energy and humour and doctors make sense, nutritional changes appeal to me more than the god stuff. Each to their own.
There are of course no silver bullets, and there's no such thing really as a superfood. But as my insides nowadays regularly enjoy the fibrous equivalent of a steam clean, and we surely cannot be deficient in any micro-nutrients, we're hoping it does some good. And even if it doesn't we will have felt far better before meeting our maker. Were he to exist.
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