This year's great glut - greatest glut, we have had several including globe artichokes (not something to decry) and courgettes (as ever) - is French beans, so called because they come from South America. Coping with that involves freezing some, as they are ok for a few months like that, but also a bit of creativity and some delving into cookbooks.
French beans, btw, as opposed to the 'fine beans' ubiquitous in supermarkets now, which it seems are actually a type of runner bean. To my palate 'fine beans' have more than a hint of stewed tea, or had the last time I bothered to buy some, several years ago.
Salade Nicoise is a good starting point, especially earlier in the season when our new potatoes were at their best. There are (a link to the last post) many variations on that theme possible with little effort. More toms no spuds. Substitute pancetta cubes for the anchovies. Fried or grilled courgette instead of the cucumber and/or tomatoes. Beyond that I came across an idea for a sort of sauce in the Moro cookbook that took my fancy, though it was intended there to go with asparagus and I think globe artichokes. It used a lot of chopped boiled egg, plenty of herbs (we've had gluts there too, happily, even of basil), some pine-nuts, along with garlic, olive oil and perhaps a few other odds and sods. It made a main course of the French beans, boiled to retain a bit of squeak, and had the virtue of requiring a lot of them but not feeling like it in the eating.
As we're giving up our allotment the need to be less cavalier about planting, one of the reasons for the gluts, is in our minds now, with plans for successional planting and reducing quantities (do we really need five sorts of summer squash?) to the fore. But as a cook it is actually quite fun finding ways to use such bounty, without the Dear Leader threatening to declare me an enemy of the state.
Showing posts with label allotment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allotment. Show all posts
Thursday, 16 August 2018
Tuesday, 17 July 2018
End of the Allotment
Now, where was I? The answer to that is in a rather more (but by no means strictly) vegetarian place than before.
For health reasons more than economy (though I love a bargain), and because we produce a lot of our own fruit and veg, I have over the last two or three years cooked far fewer meat-based dishes than used to be the case. I have a new hero too, the cookery writer Ursula Ferrigno, who appears to be of a similar mindset given I have two books of hers that are solely vegetarian, and a third on trattoria cooking that has plenty of meaty stuff in it.
As the Dear Leader (may her enemies perish in despair) and I near our second 30th birthdays anno domini looms far larger in the imagination, so we pick up more readily on the health-page articles than previously, and getting five-, seven-, ten-a-day is a fixation there, and thus now with us. We have also both made successful efforts to lose weight, part and parcel of the new view of our diet.
The big thing, however, as ever as far as I am concerned, is taste and pleasure. The two big things. Amongst our weaponry. It is now mid-July, our soon-to-be abandoned allotment (fed up with people nicking stuff, have lost strawbs, broad beans and blackcurrants this year already) is producing loads of wonderful and next-to-free produce, and our garden likewise. The broad beans (we have still had the majority of what we grew, but I hate being abused by thieves) are picked small and some eaten raw they are that good. Our fennel, likewise picked when tiny, is packed with more flavour and of a texture that is silk to supermarket worsted.
There are gastronomic possibilities too in growing your own that are pretty near impossible in this country otherwise. We have for example had lots of artichokes already, again taken small and sweet. And for the first time ever we have beaten those far more relentless produce-thieves, the squirrels, to our walnut crop, still only perhaps a dozen picked green, but now macerating in a Kilner jar with spices and a bottle of unwanted clear spirit, nocino for Christmas 2019.
The Dear Leader (may those who fail to bow before her suffer endless agonies) is expanding our kitchen garden, already quite a size, we spent a happy Sunday last week building a second small greenhouse (my how they laughed at the instruction book, apparently a surrealist statement of merely possible realities) and we have plans for more trees - this morning's smoothie contained three of our homegrown plums - to add yet more unbuyable varieties to our basket. We seem to be looking forward to the best ever quince harvest too.
I will miss the allotment, and wish the two users who will inherit our ground (and trees, and artichokes, and fruit bushes, and...) well of it. But I fear that as we head into uncertain political times, and very probably poorer economic conditions thanks to a generation of politicians of all stripes who couldn't organise a fart from a can of beans, we will see more and more desperate people reduced to raiding allotments to keep from hunger. I'd prefer it if they had an allotment of their own though.
In case anybody thinks I'm a heartless sod begrudging food to the desperate, I regularly donate a bag of tins and packets to the Sally Army. I do wonder if those stealing things are desperate, or just greedy idle bastards - a while back the plot next door lost a giant pumpkin just before Halloween; and another guy had an entire row of spuds dug up.
For health reasons more than economy (though I love a bargain), and because we produce a lot of our own fruit and veg, I have over the last two or three years cooked far fewer meat-based dishes than used to be the case. I have a new hero too, the cookery writer Ursula Ferrigno, who appears to be of a similar mindset given I have two books of hers that are solely vegetarian, and a third on trattoria cooking that has plenty of meaty stuff in it.
As the Dear Leader (may her enemies perish in despair) and I near our second 30th birthdays anno domini looms far larger in the imagination, so we pick up more readily on the health-page articles than previously, and getting five-, seven-, ten-a-day is a fixation there, and thus now with us. We have also both made successful efforts to lose weight, part and parcel of the new view of our diet.
The big thing, however, as ever as far as I am concerned, is taste and pleasure. The two big things. Amongst our weaponry. It is now mid-July, our soon-to-be abandoned allotment (fed up with people nicking stuff, have lost strawbs, broad beans and blackcurrants this year already) is producing loads of wonderful and next-to-free produce, and our garden likewise. The broad beans (we have still had the majority of what we grew, but I hate being abused by thieves) are picked small and some eaten raw they are that good. Our fennel, likewise picked when tiny, is packed with more flavour and of a texture that is silk to supermarket worsted.
There are gastronomic possibilities too in growing your own that are pretty near impossible in this country otherwise. We have for example had lots of artichokes already, again taken small and sweet. And for the first time ever we have beaten those far more relentless produce-thieves, the squirrels, to our walnut crop, still only perhaps a dozen picked green, but now macerating in a Kilner jar with spices and a bottle of unwanted clear spirit, nocino for Christmas 2019.
The Dear Leader (may those who fail to bow before her suffer endless agonies) is expanding our kitchen garden, already quite a size, we spent a happy Sunday last week building a second small greenhouse (my how they laughed at the instruction book, apparently a surrealist statement of merely possible realities) and we have plans for more trees - this morning's smoothie contained three of our homegrown plums - to add yet more unbuyable varieties to our basket. We seem to be looking forward to the best ever quince harvest too.
I will miss the allotment, and wish the two users who will inherit our ground (and trees, and artichokes, and fruit bushes, and...) well of it. But I fear that as we head into uncertain political times, and very probably poorer economic conditions thanks to a generation of politicians of all stripes who couldn't organise a fart from a can of beans, we will see more and more desperate people reduced to raiding allotments to keep from hunger. I'd prefer it if they had an allotment of their own though.
In case anybody thinks I'm a heartless sod begrudging food to the desperate, I regularly donate a bag of tins and packets to the Sally Army. I do wonder if those stealing things are desperate, or just greedy idle bastards - a while back the plot next door lost a giant pumpkin just before Halloween; and another guy had an entire row of spuds dug up.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
So Many Vegetables
The end of July and the allotment is in top gear, so keeping my log of costs/benefits is getting tricky. One of the big successes this year has been our artichoke bed. There is a lot of plant for not much nutrition, but they are so easy once established (just water in drought, and lob a bit of manure round the bases early in the year) and the flavour of artichokes so sublime that I'd not be without them.
After nine years with a plot (for the benefit of MI5 and the CIA, that refers to my allotment not some scheme to bring Western Civilisation to its knees - Bush and Blair managed that quite well between them) it still amazes me how much can be grown on such a relatively small space. You live and learn - having suffered (?) gluts with various crops we now grow a range where possible within each, or plant in dribs and drabs so that harvests are spread out, but even with three different types of artichoke we seem to be getting all of them at once.
Is there a more beautiful vegetable than the artichoke? It is the flower of a thistle in essence, so no wonder it is a looker. It cannot hurt its glamour quotient that so many others are plug ugly: we also grow Chinese artichokes, that look like larvae, and Jerusalem artichokes, bigger larvae. Top weirdo may well be the Kohl Rabi with its alien protuberances.
Our Sunday harvest was courgettes, artichokes, broad beans, French beans, new spuds (nearing the end), fennel, a load of blackcurrants, last of the strawbs, beetroot, a massively long (grown in drainpipes) parsnip (about 75cm), a few sticks of par-cel and some lettuces. At this time of year we could survive on the produce from that small patch of land - no claret yet of course, but an experimental grape vine is showing the first signs ever of fruiting, which says something about this year's weather.
All those veg are helping our already unexpectedly successful Alternative Eating Programme. I have lost 22lb and have a quite different sideways silhouette. SC has benefitted even more, now a shadow of his still-eating-like-a-prop-but-too-shoulder-damaged-to-play self. The Capo di Tutti Capi had less to lose, but she too shifted that (with some grumbling and the occasional death threat).
The Maldives jaunt thus saw us unafraid to be seen in sexy beach gear. Healthy eating would seem to be a habit, as even with the potentially pig-out buffet breakfast and dinner we only gained a pound or two each. Not so I think the Russians and Chinese in the same facility. I swear one Russian chap attempted to eat his own weight in Danish pastries one day, and our Chinese neighbours in the restaurant seemed unaware that they need not grab everything in reach before it ran out - it never would run out. Twice I saw a full plate of bread rolls arrive at their table, for not one bite to be taken - guess they didn't like bread but wanted their idiotic money's worth. I became more convinced than ever that we need to improve food security in the UK after that trip: the Russians and Chinese are very peasant at heart still, and with hundreds of millions more coming into mindlessly greedy reach of available excess our overseas sources are going to be under pressure.
After nine years with a plot (for the benefit of MI5 and the CIA, that refers to my allotment not some scheme to bring Western Civilisation to its knees - Bush and Blair managed that quite well between them) it still amazes me how much can be grown on such a relatively small space. You live and learn - having suffered (?) gluts with various crops we now grow a range where possible within each, or plant in dribs and drabs so that harvests are spread out, but even with three different types of artichoke we seem to be getting all of them at once.
Is there a more beautiful vegetable than the artichoke? It is the flower of a thistle in essence, so no wonder it is a looker. It cannot hurt its glamour quotient that so many others are plug ugly: we also grow Chinese artichokes, that look like larvae, and Jerusalem artichokes, bigger larvae. Top weirdo may well be the Kohl Rabi with its alien protuberances.
Our Sunday harvest was courgettes, artichokes, broad beans, French beans, new spuds (nearing the end), fennel, a load of blackcurrants, last of the strawbs, beetroot, a massively long (grown in drainpipes) parsnip (about 75cm), a few sticks of par-cel and some lettuces. At this time of year we could survive on the produce from that small patch of land - no claret yet of course, but an experimental grape vine is showing the first signs ever of fruiting, which says something about this year's weather.
All those veg are helping our already unexpectedly successful Alternative Eating Programme. I have lost 22lb and have a quite different sideways silhouette. SC has benefitted even more, now a shadow of his still-eating-like-a-prop-but-too-shoulder-damaged-to-play self. The Capo di Tutti Capi had less to lose, but she too shifted that (with some grumbling and the occasional death threat).
The Maldives jaunt thus saw us unafraid to be seen in sexy beach gear. Healthy eating would seem to be a habit, as even with the potentially pig-out buffet breakfast and dinner we only gained a pound or two each. Not so I think the Russians and Chinese in the same facility. I swear one Russian chap attempted to eat his own weight in Danish pastries one day, and our Chinese neighbours in the restaurant seemed unaware that they need not grab everything in reach before it ran out - it never would run out. Twice I saw a full plate of bread rolls arrive at their table, for not one bite to be taken - guess they didn't like bread but wanted their idiotic money's worth. I became more convinced than ever that we need to improve food security in the UK after that trip: the Russians and Chinese are very peasant at heart still, and with hundreds of millions more coming into mindlessly greedy reach of available excess our overseas sources are going to be under pressure.
Thursday, 19 June 2014
It Takes Gluts
Growing a reasonable amount of our own food with less than perfect planning of same means we enjoy, the right word, the occasional glut. I've written here before about trying to make good use of courgettes, the allotmenteer's most frequent flood crop. Currently it is artichokes.
On a general level life can't be bad when one of your few worries is dealing with a load of artichokes. They have been both early and numerous this year thanks to the mild winter and spring and the already decent summer. The first as is usual were boiled to be eaten leaf base by leaf base dipped in mustardy vinaigrette as a starter, the meaty heart gradually revealed by the strip tease. There are few things as simple and delicious.
Last night having picked and cooked a bagful of smaller ones (to keep the flush of thistly flowers going) the too fiddly leaves were discarded and just the hearts used, cut into little chunks and mixed with boiled egg, very thinly sliced onion and prawns. How much would that have cost had a 'celebrity' chef's name been attached to it in a recently re-designed eaterie?
It takes gluts like that to give me the freedom to do a bit of experimenting. Had I shopped for the artichokes a) I would have just bought three; b) the cost would have pushed me to play it safe.
Sadly we don't grow our own asparagus - we tried and lacking sandy ground failed - so I will not be doing much other than steaming it, but then something so good doesn't need mucking about. Same goes for the bucketfuls of new spuds currently hitting the kitchen, though some cold leftovers made it into a pickled herring salad yesterday. You can tell how many we have currently by the fact that there actually are leftovers.
Freshness is one of the benefits of GYO - our eggs are rarely more than a day or two old for example, a world of difference to shop bought; lettuces are crisper and tastier eaten within minutes of cutting; stawberries can't be beaten snaffled straight from plant to mouth (checking for slug-basts on the way). But the king of the fresh-is-best world is the new spud. Jersey Royals in the supermarket - they beat us by weeks - are bought in expectation and eaten in resignation. Our own dug, wiped, boiled and scoffed in short order are softer, the texture almost gelatinous for some varieties. And they have so much flavour that the merest wipe of butter and a few grains of salt are called for. Still, having had our fill several times over by now I'm looking to do some other dishes for variation. I have in mind to do something spicy to enhance the flavour without masking it. All ideas gratefully received.
On a general level life can't be bad when one of your few worries is dealing with a load of artichokes. They have been both early and numerous this year thanks to the mild winter and spring and the already decent summer. The first as is usual were boiled to be eaten leaf base by leaf base dipped in mustardy vinaigrette as a starter, the meaty heart gradually revealed by the strip tease. There are few things as simple and delicious.
Last night having picked and cooked a bagful of smaller ones (to keep the flush of thistly flowers going) the too fiddly leaves were discarded and just the hearts used, cut into little chunks and mixed with boiled egg, very thinly sliced onion and prawns. How much would that have cost had a 'celebrity' chef's name been attached to it in a recently re-designed eaterie?
It takes gluts like that to give me the freedom to do a bit of experimenting. Had I shopped for the artichokes a) I would have just bought three; b) the cost would have pushed me to play it safe.
Sadly we don't grow our own asparagus - we tried and lacking sandy ground failed - so I will not be doing much other than steaming it, but then something so good doesn't need mucking about. Same goes for the bucketfuls of new spuds currently hitting the kitchen, though some cold leftovers made it into a pickled herring salad yesterday. You can tell how many we have currently by the fact that there actually are leftovers.
Freshness is one of the benefits of GYO - our eggs are rarely more than a day or two old for example, a world of difference to shop bought; lettuces are crisper and tastier eaten within minutes of cutting; stawberries can't be beaten snaffled straight from plant to mouth (checking for slug-basts on the way). But the king of the fresh-is-best world is the new spud. Jersey Royals in the supermarket - they beat us by weeks - are bought in expectation and eaten in resignation. Our own dug, wiped, boiled and scoffed in short order are softer, the texture almost gelatinous for some varieties. And they have so much flavour that the merest wipe of butter and a few grains of salt are called for. Still, having had our fill several times over by now I'm looking to do some other dishes for variation. I have in mind to do something spicy to enhance the flavour without masking it. All ideas gratefully received.
Sunday, 8 June 2014
Worth and Cost Aren't the Same
Our new potatoes have started, and they are by my reckoning a good fortnight earlier than last year thanks to the mild winter and spring. The flavour is like nothing you will ever find in a supermarket.
In the journal I'm keeping of the costs and benefits of our allotment and kitchen garden I assign monetary values to the produce. But good food goes way beyond pounds and pennies. New spuds eaten within a couple of hours of digging are pretty much priceless, such is the ephemeral nature of their perfection - leave them a day and the difference is considerable, leave them two and there is a feeling of guilt for wasting such a boon.
Spuds are not the only such item for the kitchen gardener: the best of sweetcorn is perhaps even more fleeting, something to be picked and rushed back to the pot within minutes if possible. Peas likewise - which is why I'll never buy 'fresh' peas in the supermarket, not a patch on the best frozen ones (thanks Clarence).
We had artichoke bottoms in our salad yesterday (they are likewise well ahead of last year's schedule), something else where picked small and cooked fresh from the plot the flavour and textures are a million miles from the mealy monsters available from Mr Sainsbury (if and when he actually offers them - not seen any recently). Even the humble radish, ridiculously easy and quick to grow, is crunchier and fierier by far than the plastic bagged red jobbies (which is another thing - we grow red, yellow, white, purple, red and white etc etc).
In that profit and loss calculation I'm attempting in the journal should I assign a value to the health benefits of digging, watering and weeding (about my only serious physical labour/exercise)? And the health benefits too of the variety of our diet and its superiority in terms of vitamins and maybe even minerals to what we can get from the shops? How to calculate the financial value of great flavour?
The value goes further. When Nepalese politicians (I think it was in Nepal anyway) tried to monitor Gross National Happiness as an alternative to Gross Domestic Product etc the newspapers and other media outlets here generally took a condescending standpoint. I'm far more interested in GNH than GDP. If more of us grew our own spuds Britain's GNH would rise significantly.
In the journal I'm keeping of the costs and benefits of our allotment and kitchen garden I assign monetary values to the produce. But good food goes way beyond pounds and pennies. New spuds eaten within a couple of hours of digging are pretty much priceless, such is the ephemeral nature of their perfection - leave them a day and the difference is considerable, leave them two and there is a feeling of guilt for wasting such a boon.
Spuds are not the only such item for the kitchen gardener: the best of sweetcorn is perhaps even more fleeting, something to be picked and rushed back to the pot within minutes if possible. Peas likewise - which is why I'll never buy 'fresh' peas in the supermarket, not a patch on the best frozen ones (thanks Clarence).
We had artichoke bottoms in our salad yesterday (they are likewise well ahead of last year's schedule), something else where picked small and cooked fresh from the plot the flavour and textures are a million miles from the mealy monsters available from Mr Sainsbury (if and when he actually offers them - not seen any recently). Even the humble radish, ridiculously easy and quick to grow, is crunchier and fierier by far than the plastic bagged red jobbies (which is another thing - we grow red, yellow, white, purple, red and white etc etc).
In that profit and loss calculation I'm attempting in the journal should I assign a value to the health benefits of digging, watering and weeding (about my only serious physical labour/exercise)? And the health benefits too of the variety of our diet and its superiority in terms of vitamins and maybe even minerals to what we can get from the shops? How to calculate the financial value of great flavour?
The value goes further. When Nepalese politicians (I think it was in Nepal anyway) tried to monitor Gross National Happiness as an alternative to Gross Domestic Product etc the newspapers and other media outlets here generally took a condescending standpoint. I'm far more interested in GNH than GDP. If more of us grew our own spuds Britain's GNH would rise significantly.
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Intravenous Pies
Two months ago we started on what was euphemistically dubbed our Alternative Eating Programme, having determined en famille that we all needed to lose a few kilos.
There were in my case numerous reasons to think it necessary to do so - in no particular order:
- Some Type 2 Diabetes in the family history;
- My father, whom I resemble in many ways, is nowadays significantly overweight, and I have started to think about such long-term health issues;
- I was developing a belly that same father told me once begun could never be lost;
- A friend, a year younger than I, died suddenly last year;
- We are heading for the Indian Ocean this summer: surfer shorts with beer-gut - not a good look.
I read around the subject, and it made sense to follow GI dietary guidelines, i.e. reduce fats and oils in cooking, go big on fresh fruits and veg (with exceptions - no dates, no big loss, beetroot and broad beans, more of a blow); all starches to be wholemeal; no frying unless unavoidable; grill meats. Add to that the use of plenty of chilli (it supposedly speeds the metabolism); plus zero-fat yogurts (calcium helps bind fats and rushes them through the system).
We have eaten really well since this began: no missed meals, Friday still brings plebean (alternative spelling to irritate Ms B) steak night, puddings aplenty (but fruit-based). In austerity terms it has cost more (though had we been doing this between June and September it would have been far cheaper, our allotment and garden providing masses of F&V then). I felt a bit hungry on two occasions at the day's end, but otherwise no lethargy (important given SC is entering exam period) in fact quite the opposite, no stomach complaints, nothing much to report. We feel reasonably full, our diet is balanced and varied, calorific intake probably a couple of hundred below the norm (if there is such a thing). But the weight has dropped off.
Actually I have overshot my target and am considering using pies intravenously to rebalance things.
Apparently women do reduce more slowly than men, but The Dear Leader - less in need than her subjects - has likewise clearly slimmed down (for reasons of state security her weight is kept secret from us). Which all makes me wonder: how come slimming is such a massive industry? Is it a similar thing to processed foods - there because so many are incapable of doing the work themselves?
Thursday, 1 May 2014
Allotments and Pickles
Our allotment association just sent a mail around warning us that Eric Pickles is considering removing the obligation for councils to provide allotments. Were that to come about cash-strapped local authorities would leap at the chance to grab back urban land to sell for development. End of a wonderful British tradition. Start of a few more superstores. The relevant department has since denied that any such plans exist. I wonder still, though the idea of governments not telling the truth is clearly ridiculous.
Mr Pickles of course looks like he deep fries lettuce and serves it with a cream sauce, so perhaps his personal agenda pays little heed to healthy eating. But government agencies are continually sending us warnings that unless we eat vegetables constantly we will all die horrible and imminent deaths. For hundreds of thousands of [cliche alert] hard working families allotments provide fantastic fruit and vegetables for a small rental, a few pounds for seeds, and (as per the group label) some hard work.
I wrote a piece for Hortus a while back on George Orwell and his belief in the practical values of allotments: he once suggested they would help the dispossessed of his day feed themselves. That has not changed. I've written here previously about how spending a small percentage of the billions that went into the Olympics on providing more allotments would have done a great deal more for our national health than watching fat blokes throw lumps of lead. And the benefits would have lasted generations not weeks.
Mr Pickles of course looks like he deep fries lettuce and serves it with a cream sauce, so perhaps his personal agenda pays little heed to healthy eating. But government agencies are continually sending us warnings that unless we eat vegetables constantly we will all die horrible and imminent deaths. For hundreds of thousands of [cliche alert] hard working families allotments provide fantastic fruit and vegetables for a small rental, a few pounds for seeds, and (as per the group label) some hard work.
I wrote a piece for Hortus a while back on George Orwell and his belief in the practical values of allotments: he once suggested they would help the dispossessed of his day feed themselves. That has not changed. I've written here previously about how spending a small percentage of the billions that went into the Olympics on providing more allotments would have done a great deal more for our national health than watching fat blokes throw lumps of lead. And the benefits would have lasted generations not weeks.
Monday, 2 December 2013
Simplicity, Simplicity, Simplicity
I am re-reading Walden. Not a Scandinavian bloodfest (though like many my age I always suspected something deeply wrong about the Muppet Swedish chef) but Thoreau's account of and musings on his time spent in a cabin a mile or so away from his home-town.
Something in that struck a particular chord with me - his calculations about the food he grew and ate. As mentioned some time back in this blog, I am keeping a record of expenditure on and estimated value of food grown in our garden and allotment. Thoreau's was calculated to the nearest half cent, somewhat improbably. But what hit home from that information was how simply he lived - growing rye, potatoes, a little beet and so on, plus catching the occasional 'mess' of fish in Walden Pond, and a dish of purslane picked from the land on which he was squatting.
His calculations were as much concerned with how little time it took to earn or through his own labour to grow enough to live on, happy as he was to survive on a basic diet. The time left allowed him to think.
The title of this post is perhaps the most famous quotation from his book, a line I read last night that immediately made me think of the exact opposite that so many will be living through this Christmas.
We won't be having an austere Christmas in any sense, but I do intend to keep things simple. The traditional British turkey assault course on Christmas Day naturally, but otherwise keeping to the sufficient and unadulterated: an air dried ham that can be picked at for weeks (Aldi advertising a Serrano ham for £49.99 I think) kept in the cold of our conservatory; a cliche but still wonderful, Stilton and Port of an evening to stretch the time and conversation at the dinner table; my own bread; plenty of fruit; simple salads quickly made.
Thoreau was most contented when alone, feeling solitude facilitated his thinking. I love the company of my family and our friends (real friends, not FaceBook ones or similarly vague acquaintances). Talk - notoriously cheap I'm glad to say - with them over the table is a real luxury, and unlike Thoreau I feel such company engenders thought, which just as it was for him is another luxury for me.
Something in that struck a particular chord with me - his calculations about the food he grew and ate. As mentioned some time back in this blog, I am keeping a record of expenditure on and estimated value of food grown in our garden and allotment. Thoreau's was calculated to the nearest half cent, somewhat improbably. But what hit home from that information was how simply he lived - growing rye, potatoes, a little beet and so on, plus catching the occasional 'mess' of fish in Walden Pond, and a dish of purslane picked from the land on which he was squatting.
His calculations were as much concerned with how little time it took to earn or through his own labour to grow enough to live on, happy as he was to survive on a basic diet. The time left allowed him to think.
The title of this post is perhaps the most famous quotation from his book, a line I read last night that immediately made me think of the exact opposite that so many will be living through this Christmas.
We won't be having an austere Christmas in any sense, but I do intend to keep things simple. The traditional British turkey assault course on Christmas Day naturally, but otherwise keeping to the sufficient and unadulterated: an air dried ham that can be picked at for weeks (Aldi advertising a Serrano ham for £49.99 I think) kept in the cold of our conservatory; a cliche but still wonderful, Stilton and Port of an evening to stretch the time and conversation at the dinner table; my own bread; plenty of fruit; simple salads quickly made.
Thoreau was most contented when alone, feeling solitude facilitated his thinking. I love the company of my family and our friends (real friends, not FaceBook ones or similarly vague acquaintances). Talk - notoriously cheap I'm glad to say - with them over the table is a real luxury, and unlike Thoreau I feel such company engenders thought, which just as it was for him is another luxury for me.
Monday, 14 October 2013
Adult Toffee Apple
My thanks to Hattie Ellis, a food writer I'd never come across previously but whose recipe in The Apple Source Book (my how we laughed) was a winner this weekend. It it rare to come across something new and different that is both easy, quick (relatively) and utterly delicious. Her apple toffee pudding is all of those.
I was looking for ways to use our bumper cooking apple crop, and this one fitted the bill perfectly, needing three large specimens. They are peeled, cored and chopped, then cooked with a little water until starting to soften nicely. I did this in the microwave in the dish destined for the oven later, with clingfilm over so they steamed. In a pan heat about 8oz of golden syrup, just warming it, then stir in 150g of white breadcrumbs and the zest of a lemon (carefully washed and abraded with kitchen paper to remove wax). Spread the sticky crumbs over the softened apple - I didn't get an even layer, and there were gaps, but never mind, next time I'd use a narrower dish. Into the oven already on (this is pretty forgiving as the oven started on very high as I'd been crisping crackling, then turned down to 180 degrees for this) and cook until the top was showing signs of crisping, about 20 minutes. The lemon (you could doubtless do without the zest but it would be a less noble dish) somehow made it seem slightly gingery, but the whole thing was excellent with Cornish vanilla ice cream. The sharp soft apple contrasted with the crisping sweet topping, the hot pud with the cold ice cream.
That Apple Source Book was bought to satisfy my curiosity about using different varieties for specific dishes, a load of writers contributing their suggestions. It helps if you can identify what apples you have.
We have two cooker trees, one the ubiquitous Bramley, the other an unidentified type inherited on our allotment yielding smaller but richer-tasting apples. Two mature trees produce a lot of apples in autumn, so finding ways to use them without repetition (hesitation and deviation?) is at the front of the culinary bit of my brain at present. Apple sauce, apple pie, apple crumble, apple tart, salads various, apples in porky stews, apples in instant relish... It's the courgette thing all over again.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Specialist Subject - Courgettes
If I ever get to go on Mastermind (too scared to ever try sadly) I have a choice of specialist subjects: Maigret; Wodehouse especially the Blandings novels - I have on my LinkedIn profile that I am the founder and Life President of the Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe Society, something that is nearly true - John Buchan, and bloody courgettes.
The courgettes one is a bit narrow, as it concerns ways to cook them. I love their fecundity, a good healthy plant producing maybe 30 fruits in a season. Look away and a twee little tube the size of a pencil is suddenly a marrow, flavourless and to my mind almost useless in culinary terms, but keep an eye on them and you have lots of healthy and tasty material to work with in the kitchen.
This year I have done plenty of sweet and sour versions, both Sicilian and Chinese. Last night we had courgette and cheese quiche (actually cheese and courgette the way it worked out, went a bit bonkers with the grater). I get requests for 'courgette muck', the sliced fruits cooked down in olive oil till they are a mush, then loads of garlic added for a minute or so before the lot is served on thick toast. They go on pasta either as the aforementioned muck, or cooked with chopped toms from a tin. Courgette soup is easy. Little ones straight from the plant slice well raw for salads. I've made courgette and apple cake. Courgette omelette. Ratatouille. Steamed whole they make a good vegetable course with soy sauce and sesame oil as part of a Chinese meal. Cooked with chopped apple in apple jelly and cider vinegar with a tsp of sugar to make a rapidly prepared relish to go with sausages. If all else fails they can be simply fried in slices and served as a vegetable accompaniment to a lamb chop.
The point of this post, if there is one, is that with such plenty you need to use imagination (and some good cook books) to get the most from your glut without driving yourself and those eating with you mad. It has been such a good year for courgettes, however, that I'm now reasonably convinced I am Napoleon.
The courgettes one is a bit narrow, as it concerns ways to cook them. I love their fecundity, a good healthy plant producing maybe 30 fruits in a season. Look away and a twee little tube the size of a pencil is suddenly a marrow, flavourless and to my mind almost useless in culinary terms, but keep an eye on them and you have lots of healthy and tasty material to work with in the kitchen.
This year I have done plenty of sweet and sour versions, both Sicilian and Chinese. Last night we had courgette and cheese quiche (actually cheese and courgette the way it worked out, went a bit bonkers with the grater). I get requests for 'courgette muck', the sliced fruits cooked down in olive oil till they are a mush, then loads of garlic added for a minute or so before the lot is served on thick toast. They go on pasta either as the aforementioned muck, or cooked with chopped toms from a tin. Courgette soup is easy. Little ones straight from the plant slice well raw for salads. I've made courgette and apple cake. Courgette omelette. Ratatouille. Steamed whole they make a good vegetable course with soy sauce and sesame oil as part of a Chinese meal. Cooked with chopped apple in apple jelly and cider vinegar with a tsp of sugar to make a rapidly prepared relish to go with sausages. If all else fails they can be simply fried in slices and served as a vegetable accompaniment to a lamb chop.
The point of this post, if there is one, is that with such plenty you need to use imagination (and some good cook books) to get the most from your glut without driving yourself and those eating with you mad. It has been such a good year for courgettes, however, that I'm now reasonably convinced I am Napoleon.
Monday, 7 October 2013
Autumn Plenty
Keeping my journal of costs of growing stuff against value of what is grown has opened my eyes a little to the plenty we enjoy at this time of year - early October that is. On Sunday we had a harvesting session at the allotment that yielded a load of cooking apples picked with our stick of ultimate power (a telescopic thing with grabby fingers and a bag beneath them for picking fruit from tall trees), beet, kohl rabi, parsley, beans various including a second flush of broad beans, destined for pretend hummus; loads of courgettes, two massive and as it turned out sweet parsnips (typically we are not sure which of the three types planted they are), Swiss chard and a real bonus, a small punnet of very ripe raspberries.
Those berries joined some apples in a pie that was a real treat. The beans and parsnips went with roast chicken, and the courgettes filled a quiche rich with cheese that we'll eat tonight with a sharp salad made from some of the other produce. Veg soup beckons too when the chicken carcase becomes stock.
For the value I tentatively put down £10 the lot, a bit on the conservative side. And I left out of my calculations a massive pumpkin (about 30lb I'd guess) that is now drying in the garden greenhouse, safe from - we hope - robbers and vagabonds. The latter had visited our allotment shed, and those of many neighbours, but only a hunting-style knife had gone from one of them as far as we know. Per the police they are looking for petrol driven tools and booze. Happily we had decided against keeping our fine wines in the allotment shed this year.
As similar gits nicked a friend's prize pumpkin a few years back we picked ours for safety. It will have a fitting end too, both decorative and culinary for our Halloween/Bonfire Night party. How many pumpkins here are just for show? A sad waste as the flesh bulks out stews sweetly, and makes a particularly thick custardy filling for pies. The little ones are best for cooking, but we'll do justice to the giant one when we feed friends at the firework gathering. Having seen Sainsbury's selling pumpkins a tenth the size for £3 I don't think £10 would be far off, though feeding friends is pretty much priceless.
Those berries joined some apples in a pie that was a real treat. The beans and parsnips went with roast chicken, and the courgettes filled a quiche rich with cheese that we'll eat tonight with a sharp salad made from some of the other produce. Veg soup beckons too when the chicken carcase becomes stock.
For the value I tentatively put down £10 the lot, a bit on the conservative side. And I left out of my calculations a massive pumpkin (about 30lb I'd guess) that is now drying in the garden greenhouse, safe from - we hope - robbers and vagabonds. The latter had visited our allotment shed, and those of many neighbours, but only a hunting-style knife had gone from one of them as far as we know. Per the police they are looking for petrol driven tools and booze. Happily we had decided against keeping our fine wines in the allotment shed this year.
As similar gits nicked a friend's prize pumpkin a few years back we picked ours for safety. It will have a fitting end too, both decorative and culinary for our Halloween/Bonfire Night party. How many pumpkins here are just for show? A sad waste as the flesh bulks out stews sweetly, and makes a particularly thick custardy filling for pies. The little ones are best for cooking, but we'll do justice to the giant one when we feed friends at the firework gathering. Having seen Sainsbury's selling pumpkins a tenth the size for £3 I don't think £10 would be far off, though feeding friends is pretty much priceless.
Monday, 30 September 2013
Money for Nothing and Your Chick Peas for Free
Except we don't grow chick peas. No reason to spoil a good title for that though (it's a Dire Straits line).
This morning I started a project that will last a year, recording expenditure on growing food and the value of food grown. It seemed logical to start when I put in our annual seed order via our allotment association. We get 50 per cent discount from King's Seeds, but the food ones still cost just over £25.
Any editors out there wanting an article based on this, please get in touch!
That was done on Friday. On Sunday we spent two hours tidying up the plot, weeding and removing plants that are past it. But we still harvested a huge amount: 2 x giant parsnips; 2 turnips; 3 beetroot; a sugar-loaf chicory; about a dozen courgettes and patty pans; loads of runner and French beans; some apples; parsley; kale; a large kohl rabi. Enough for the veg for at least three days, though they'll be topped up with odd things from the garden - a few ripe tomatoes suddenly appeared this morning, and we have lots of small peppers left on one plant.
Also on Friday I did my regular run to the chicken man for a sack of layers' pellets and another of mixed seed to keep our two birds happy for five or six months, an outlay of £16.50. They provide on average 1.33 eggs per day through the year, which in Sainsbury's (medium sized organic eggs) are £1.90 for 6. So we get £150+ of eggs for £40 of feed and maybe £15 of bedding etc. A profit margin that I would have killed for in my industrial marketing days.
I was reminded of how good our eggs were when I bought a tray of 36 small ones for £1.50 from the chicken man (I wanted to do some baking and to go large on scrambled eggs at the weekend). His birds are kept in big sheds, free to run about but not as far as I can see to get out. The yolks are an insipid beigey-yellow. Our pair, frequently let out to eat grass, insect eggs, worms, dandelions, wood-lice, the occasional frog if we are not quick to intervene, and even once the decapitated body of a mouse left by the cat, give eggs with bright yellow to orange yolks. Even when we can't supervise them outside (we have foxes over the stream from us) they eat our leftover starches, veg peelings, and any fruit that has gone over. The chicken version of the good life/Good Life, as we on a small and partial scale enjoy the human equivalent.
This morning I started a project that will last a year, recording expenditure on growing food and the value of food grown. It seemed logical to start when I put in our annual seed order via our allotment association. We get 50 per cent discount from King's Seeds, but the food ones still cost just over £25.
Any editors out there wanting an article based on this, please get in touch!
That was done on Friday. On Sunday we spent two hours tidying up the plot, weeding and removing plants that are past it. But we still harvested a huge amount: 2 x giant parsnips; 2 turnips; 3 beetroot; a sugar-loaf chicory; about a dozen courgettes and patty pans; loads of runner and French beans; some apples; parsley; kale; a large kohl rabi. Enough for the veg for at least three days, though they'll be topped up with odd things from the garden - a few ripe tomatoes suddenly appeared this morning, and we have lots of small peppers left on one plant.
Also on Friday I did my regular run to the chicken man for a sack of layers' pellets and another of mixed seed to keep our two birds happy for five or six months, an outlay of £16.50. They provide on average 1.33 eggs per day through the year, which in Sainsbury's (medium sized organic eggs) are £1.90 for 6. So we get £150+ of eggs for £40 of feed and maybe £15 of bedding etc. A profit margin that I would have killed for in my industrial marketing days.
I was reminded of how good our eggs were when I bought a tray of 36 small ones for £1.50 from the chicken man (I wanted to do some baking and to go large on scrambled eggs at the weekend). His birds are kept in big sheds, free to run about but not as far as I can see to get out. The yolks are an insipid beigey-yellow. Our pair, frequently let out to eat grass, insect eggs, worms, dandelions, wood-lice, the occasional frog if we are not quick to intervene, and even once the decapitated body of a mouse left by the cat, give eggs with bright yellow to orange yolks. Even when we can't supervise them outside (we have foxes over the stream from us) they eat our leftover starches, veg peelings, and any fruit that has gone over. The chicken version of the good life/Good Life, as we on a small and partial scale enjoy the human equivalent.
Monday, 5 August 2013
Humous (Be Joking?)
As these two things are not made with chick peas can they really qualify as humous (hummus, hummous and probably several other acceptable spellings)? Hence the pathetic play on words of the title. It does sound better than vegetable spread, though, an unromantic if more accurate name.
As so often the inspiration for these comes from the most excellent HF-W, whose books I return to regularly.
With a glut of broad beans to deal with on our return from hols - you can only freeze so many - I made a batch of something like humous: about a pound of podded beans were cooked (boiled for maybe eight minutes) and then skinned - the grey skin has little to offer in the way of pleasure or taste - to leave the little jade jewels that are far more appealing. Four or five cloves of garlic were crushed and added to them, then the lot zapped in the processor with a glug of olive oil (one glug being nine standard dribbles) along with a big pinch of salt, several turns of the pepper mill, and the juice of half a lemon, plus a tsp of cumin seeds that had been reduced to powder in the grinder and a tsp of paprika. Zap again until it looks nice and slutchy and it's ready to serve on toast, with a wrap or on its own.
Another current glut is beet, that before our hols was tiny, after has grown just beyond the tennis ball dimensions that are generally ideal. The process is the same, except the beet (three makes a batch) is boiled unpeeled so it retains the juice and colour for 25 minutes or more, until a knife-point enters easily.
Two slices of stale bread (crusts removed) are wetted with cold water and squeezed, then the pap added to the processor with a handful of walnut pieces and worked to a paste. The peeled beets are zapped with that paste plus olive oil, the juice of half a lemon, sea salt, lots of smoked paprika and two tsp of ground cumin, one of ground fennel seeds, and half a tsp of ground pepper corns. Garlic would be good, but as my wife prefers for diplomatic reasons not to stink out her office (and indeed the entire floor if I had my way with the quantities) that last lot was free of my favourite flavouring. Serve with a lemon slice to add some extra sharpness if wanted. Texture can be according to taste, just process the paste until a fingerful is to your liking - for me it cries out to have some coarse graininess to it, but a more sophisticated smooth style (sounds like a brain-dead late night dinner jazz programme) would only mean running the motor for another couple of minutes.
A bonus with both of those humouses (humae? humice?) is their fantastic colour, especially in the case of the beetroot version, like looking into a deep glass of rich burgundy. For those not used to much beet, your wee the next day will be like a watery version of the same, so don't call 111 or 999 when you see it.
As so often the inspiration for these comes from the most excellent HF-W, whose books I return to regularly.
With a glut of broad beans to deal with on our return from hols - you can only freeze so many - I made a batch of something like humous: about a pound of podded beans were cooked (boiled for maybe eight minutes) and then skinned - the grey skin has little to offer in the way of pleasure or taste - to leave the little jade jewels that are far more appealing. Four or five cloves of garlic were crushed and added to them, then the lot zapped in the processor with a glug of olive oil (one glug being nine standard dribbles) along with a big pinch of salt, several turns of the pepper mill, and the juice of half a lemon, plus a tsp of cumin seeds that had been reduced to powder in the grinder and a tsp of paprika. Zap again until it looks nice and slutchy and it's ready to serve on toast, with a wrap or on its own.
Another current glut is beet, that before our hols was tiny, after has grown just beyond the tennis ball dimensions that are generally ideal. The process is the same, except the beet (three makes a batch) is boiled unpeeled so it retains the juice and colour for 25 minutes or more, until a knife-point enters easily.
Two slices of stale bread (crusts removed) are wetted with cold water and squeezed, then the pap added to the processor with a handful of walnut pieces and worked to a paste. The peeled beets are zapped with that paste plus olive oil, the juice of half a lemon, sea salt, lots of smoked paprika and two tsp of ground cumin, one of ground fennel seeds, and half a tsp of ground pepper corns. Garlic would be good, but as my wife prefers for diplomatic reasons not to stink out her office (and indeed the entire floor if I had my way with the quantities) that last lot was free of my favourite flavouring. Serve with a lemon slice to add some extra sharpness if wanted. Texture can be according to taste, just process the paste until a fingerful is to your liking - for me it cries out to have some coarse graininess to it, but a more sophisticated smooth style (sounds like a brain-dead late night dinner jazz programme) would only mean running the motor for another couple of minutes.
A bonus with both of those humouses (humae? humice?) is their fantastic colour, especially in the case of the beetroot version, like looking into a deep glass of rich burgundy. For those not used to much beet, your wee the next day will be like a watery version of the same, so don't call 111 or 999 when you see it.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
It's All Kicking Off
From despair at how slow everything was in the kitchen garden and allotment to a sudden abundance in just two weeks. With the summer weather (worth noting again, summer weather) we are having to water lots of the crops, but that's a small price to pay for within the last two or three days a glut of strawberries and redcurrants - now seven jars of jam; the first small courgettes, tender enough to eat raw; loads of tiny turnips, our most under-rated vegetable; more lettuce than we can handle, so the chickens are happy; a pick of little artichokes for a starter; handfuls of spring onions nothing like the hard ones you get from supermarkets; and reasonable pickings of broad beans, again picked when small and tender and sweet. And above all, lots of new spuds.
We are not vegetarians by any means, but when you have veg that good there is less call for big lumps of meat.
We pick things young and tender, whereas commercial growers and outlets want to maximise the weight. Take those turnips: we have four varieties, each with their own characteristics. The purple top Milan are my favourites. Great raw in crunchy salads; as half-starch half-flavouring in last night's chicken dish; as a soup (creme a la vierge, lovely with small sweet roots, horrid with overgrown woody things that smell like school cabbage when cooked), or glazed to accompany a little lamb chop.
It's nice to have your menu dictated by the season too. A Navarin of lamb is now called for, with the broad beans instead of peas, and those little turnips stewed gently with new potatoes. Salads various, but the plain green (for which read green, red, bronze and pink with the different lettuces we grow) at least every other day. There is no reason to limit yourself to one salad with a meal when the crops are so full of flavour.
We are not vegetarians by any means, but when you have veg that good there is less call for big lumps of meat.
We pick things young and tender, whereas commercial growers and outlets want to maximise the weight. Take those turnips: we have four varieties, each with their own characteristics. The purple top Milan are my favourites. Great raw in crunchy salads; as half-starch half-flavouring in last night's chicken dish; as a soup (creme a la vierge, lovely with small sweet roots, horrid with overgrown woody things that smell like school cabbage when cooked), or glazed to accompany a little lamb chop.
It's nice to have your menu dictated by the season too. A Navarin of lamb is now called for, with the broad beans instead of peas, and those little turnips stewed gently with new potatoes. Salads various, but the plain green (for which read green, red, bronze and pink with the different lettuces we grow) at least every other day. There is no reason to limit yourself to one salad with a meal when the crops are so full of flavour.
Monday, 1 July 2013
Table of Content
My previous post was a whinge about how late this year's crops (excepting lettuce) have been, but this will be about success at last.
On Saturday we decided to have our first spuds of the year, just before June ended. It took several plants to make a dish of littlies, but the sacrifice in quantity later in the year was balanced by the fantastic taste of these blemish-free specimens. Simply boiled, salted and buttered they were perfect. No need to chew, they crumble moistly on the tongue.
In the same spirit we picked a few gobstopper-sized turnips and beetroot and had them raw with spring onion thinings, and raw broad beans the size of undernourished peanuts.
All that weeding is worth it. We have had nothing that tastes so good since last year's first crops.
First ice-cream of the season too, made with a sudden surge of gooseberries. The recipe was adapted from HFW's River Cottage Cookbook, and worked really well. Not one you'd want three scoops of, tart and strongly flavoured, but with a meringue to balance the sharpness the first tasting was lovely.
As per a previous post, I intend next year trying to calculate the cost of materials and rent etc on the allotment against the value of what we get from it, but how do you put a value on something as difficult to find and as delicious as gooseberry ice-cream? And on the lift such things give to your spirits?
On Saturday we decided to have our first spuds of the year, just before June ended. It took several plants to make a dish of littlies, but the sacrifice in quantity later in the year was balanced by the fantastic taste of these blemish-free specimens. Simply boiled, salted and buttered they were perfect. No need to chew, they crumble moistly on the tongue.
In the same spirit we picked a few gobstopper-sized turnips and beetroot and had them raw with spring onion thinings, and raw broad beans the size of undernourished peanuts.
All that weeding is worth it. We have had nothing that tastes so good since last year's first crops.
First ice-cream of the season too, made with a sudden surge of gooseberries. The recipe was adapted from HFW's River Cottage Cookbook, and worked really well. Not one you'd want three scoops of, tart and strongly flavoured, but with a meringue to balance the sharpness the first tasting was lovely.
As per a previous post, I intend next year trying to calculate the cost of materials and rent etc on the allotment against the value of what we get from it, but how do you put a value on something as difficult to find and as delicious as gooseberry ice-cream? And on the lift such things give to your spirits?
Friday, 28 June 2013
Getting There
Normally by this time we are pretty much living off our allotment and kitchen garden. The foul spring has set everything back this year, so however much we look at the beet, turnips and potatoes we should be eating they are not yet ready.
Some produce has made it to the table. Lettuce as per previous posts has been plentiful, along with rocket, land cress, mizuna, mustards various and spinach. So no shortage of green leaves. I pulled a clump of shallots two days ago (still got it) to liven up a salad, and today made a gooseberry cake (brilliant recipe in Jane Grigson's Fruit Book) half of which went in making sure it was alright. We have had a couple of fennel bulbs.
The fact remains, though, that nature is struggling here this year. It brings home the danger that the change of climate (we now seem to have a wet season where once we had a summer) brings to this country and our ability to feed ourselves.
I hope that as regards our own food it is delay rather than disaster. And not just on economic grounds - fresh is so much better. In my opinion nothing in the world tastes as good as a plate of new spuds dug out of the ground less than an hour ago. Salt and butter and an appetite are all that's needed to enjoy them. A Michelin-starred chef would perhaps team them with aniseed, crumbled pumpernickel, banana ice-cream and orange-juice for his restaurant, but at his home would have them as we do.
Some produce has made it to the table. Lettuce as per previous posts has been plentiful, along with rocket, land cress, mizuna, mustards various and spinach. So no shortage of green leaves. I pulled a clump of shallots two days ago (still got it) to liven up a salad, and today made a gooseberry cake (brilliant recipe in Jane Grigson's Fruit Book) half of which went in making sure it was alright. We have had a couple of fennel bulbs.
The fact remains, though, that nature is struggling here this year. It brings home the danger that the change of climate (we now seem to have a wet season where once we had a summer) brings to this country and our ability to feed ourselves.
I hope that as regards our own food it is delay rather than disaster. And not just on economic grounds - fresh is so much better. In my opinion nothing in the world tastes as good as a plate of new spuds dug out of the ground less than an hour ago. Salt and butter and an appetite are all that's needed to enjoy them. A Michelin-starred chef would perhaps team them with aniseed, crumbled pumpernickel, banana ice-cream and orange-juice for his restaurant, but at his home would have them as we do.
Thursday, 6 June 2013
Thick Pickings
A week or two on from enjoying salads made with the thinnings from our salad beds and the results of a task well done are clear to see: luscious growth of mizuna, lettuce, pak choi (I think) and mustards various. So last night we had the polar opposite of that earlier offering, a load of mature greenery, so mature that I decided to cook it.
Actually Ruth steamed it, having followed the noise to find out where the kitchen is. Dressed with salt, olive oil and garlic (the greens, not Ruth, though...) and served as a course in itself warm rather than hot they were excellent, though next time the stems will need to be trimmed.
Yet again this is something that would be hard to duplicate if the supermarket was our only source of veg, or even the market. Yet again I wonder what the health benefits could have been of spending one tenth of the money used for London's Big School Sports Day on buying land for allotments.
Actually Ruth steamed it, having followed the noise to find out where the kitchen is. Dressed with salt, olive oil and garlic (the greens, not Ruth, though...) and served as a course in itself warm rather than hot they were excellent, though next time the stems will need to be trimmed.
Yet again this is something that would be hard to duplicate if the supermarket was our only source of veg, or even the market. Yet again I wonder what the health benefits could have been of spending one tenth of the money used for London's Big School Sports Day on buying land for allotments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)