I craved seafood. After the excesses of Christmas, the onslaught of fondue and turkey, roast potatoes, truffles and the horribly inevitable wodge of Christmas pudding, I was in dire need of lighter fare. And so for feast sixteen I decided on mussels to start, followed by salmon baked with mushrooms under a parmesan crust, accompanied by a simple salad and mashed potatoes. Dessert would be unnecessary, I concluded, as there still lurked in the freezer a box of Kurt Walser’s famed chocolate truffles.
It was an absurdly effortless meal to cook and might easily have been prepared in under an hour. Honestly. I realized this as I stood in the kitchen, a bottle of cider in hand—hard cider, bien sûr—and contemplated my pile of ingredients. Mussels open in a matter of minutes, the salmon bakes in a few more, and even a two year old could crank out a pot of excellently mashed tatties with little exertion. There was a lone onion to chop, some parmesan to grate, a bottle of wine to open and a couple cloves of garlic to peel.
With this puny workload, I lit the fire, hoisted Al Green onto the sound system, and dove headlong into a Nigella moment. For those who do not know, Nigella Lawson in an English celebrity chef. Each of these camera-loving cooks has his or her own signature style: Gordon Ramsey has his foul mouth, Jamie Oliver his blue-eyed enthusiasm, and Nigella her languorous breasts. She wafts about the kitchen, never flustered of rushed, idly slicing and stirring, occasionally tasting her creations with slow, conspicuous enjoyment. A friend of mine aptly described her show as culinary porn, complete with soft lighting and creative camera angles.
I’m not saying that on the occasion of cooking feast sixteen my bosom suddenly expanded, merely that I gave in to that most indulgent, serene approach to the kitchen. Nigella like, I meandered about, laying the table, peeling apples, and tasting my mushroom-wine sauce. It was a delicious experience. As much as I enjoy the hurly burly heat of the oven, crashing pans and the rush of attempting perfect timing, it is nice to relax sometimes.
Not long after, the five of us sat down to the first (and best) course: a pot of mussels steamed in cider. I cannot take full credit for this flavor combination, glorious as it was. In the midst of my Nigella moment I stood at the sink, vaguely casting about for a different way to prepare these shellfish. I had the old standby: wine, garlic and herbs. Or my mum’s favorite—adding saffron and crème fraiche to the mix. But I was bored of those. And they seemed to speak of summer rather than a chilly winter’s feast. Then I remembered a conversation with Boss Man. I was proudly relating to him the details of a feast that had centered around mussels. As usual, he had something annoyingly more appetizing to suggest. “At this time of year,” he remarked, “I like cooking mussels with cider and mustard.” I sighed, defeated, and made a mental note.
I don’t remember the intricacies of Boss Man’s recipe, but the apples and mustard stuck, and predictably, it was a winner. The sauce, mopped up with some warm, voluptuous bread, is particularly succulent.
serves 4-6 as a first course
2 lbs of mussels,
a little olive oil
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 apples, finely chopped
1 small bottle of hard apple cider
a few generous spoonfuls of dijon mustard
a loaf of good mopping bread
Heat the oil in a pan over a medium-hot stove. Add the shallots and fry for a minute or two. Add the garlic and stir. Add the apples and stir again for a minute or two. Add the cider and plonk in the mussels. Cover and steam until all mussels have opened. Strain the liquid into another pan, whisk in the mustard, then pour this liquid back over the mussels. Serve immediately in bowls with lots of bread.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
The Christmas Party
Feast 15 constituted a wild departure from all previous events. For one, I cooked for 90 mouths. For another, this was a professional engagement—a paid position as cook for a Christmas party. As such I attacked it with more seriousness and ferocity than other feasts. I was not just playing now; I was planning, scheming, and strategizing. I wrote ingredient lists for the hostess, penned a timetable for the order of food prep, and swept my schedule clean for the job at hand.
When cooking for a sizeable crowd, the task takes on the nature of a ballet production. The first step is choreography: the planning of a balanced, harmonious, and exciting menu. Then you proceed to auditions: shopping for ingredients, gathering together the makings of a great event. Next there are rehearsals, which for me consist of mentally reviewing the order of food preparation. What can be made ahead? How far ahead? What can be peeled, grated, chopped or minced?
I was thinking of this as I stood in my kitchen on the morning of the party. Around me lay the poised elements of a feast. The pates and terrines were chilling in the fridge. The pork was quietly brining in a pan; its stuffing ready to roll. My fridge was heavy with the makings of four quiches: jars of eggy-cream mixture alongside bowls of wine-cooked mushrooms, buttery leeks, grated gruyere, and blanched arugula. Four blind baked quiche shells lay on the counter awaiting their respective contents as I leaned over a batch of white sauce for the final quiche (arugula and toasted pine nut). Not to beat this metaphor to death, but it was kind of like the actors poised silently behind stage curtains before a show.
For once I seemed to have planned everything well and there were no last minute disasters. The nearest I came to panic was after an overly animated flourish of salt into my white sauce. I whined, tasted, and pouted at the offending mixture to no effect. And so grumblingly I made another one. A whole five minutes down the drain.
Despite the absence of catastrophe, the customary adrenaline rush took hold of me as the event approached. When this happens I become a fractious force in the kitchen. Mother was attempting to bake mince pies. Unfortunately for her I had monopolized the ovens for my four quiches and a massive loin of pork. “Couldn’t I just pop these in too?” she plaintively asked. Her hand was on the oven door. I let out an incomprehensible protest and dove in front of it to protect my rising creations.
What followed was not an idyllic picture of a familial domestic scene. I barricaded the oven, animatedly suggesting that she use mine over in the studio. She responded huffily, prickling at this state of affairs—banned from her own kitchen. She stomped through the house and out to the garden, grumbling about the shoddy nature of my oven and the raindrops that were marring her pies as they journeyed to my little cottage next door. “What is going on?” my dad boomed. “It’s like a bloody mad house in here.” Mother and I ignored him, dashing between the two kitchens with baking trays and tea towels, like two petulant beetles scuttling across the garden. And yet, notwithstanding this minor spat, all the dishes where completed and withdrawn from the oven with no further crisis and emotion.
Later, in the wee hour of the morning, I woke with a cantankerous, grumbling stomach. I lay in bed cradling a hot water bottle and wondering miserably if I had poisoned all ninety guests with my food. Perhaps it was the pate or the pork? And then I remembered the mulled wine, and how enthusiastically I had enjoyed glass after glass of the steaming brew. Relaxing after the heat of cooking, I had let the festivities get the better of my normally impeccable sense of moderation. Ah, well. It was a relief, I decided, snuggling back down into bed. I could be consoled by the fact that I would be the only sufferer, and had not inadvertently wreaked havoc with the innards of half our small town’s population. And so, tired and content, I declared victory and drifted back to sleep.
When cooking for a sizeable crowd, the task takes on the nature of a ballet production. The first step is choreography: the planning of a balanced, harmonious, and exciting menu. Then you proceed to auditions: shopping for ingredients, gathering together the makings of a great event. Next there are rehearsals, which for me consist of mentally reviewing the order of food preparation. What can be made ahead? How far ahead? What can be peeled, grated, chopped or minced?
I was thinking of this as I stood in my kitchen on the morning of the party. Around me lay the poised elements of a feast. The pates and terrines were chilling in the fridge. The pork was quietly brining in a pan; its stuffing ready to roll. My fridge was heavy with the makings of four quiches: jars of eggy-cream mixture alongside bowls of wine-cooked mushrooms, buttery leeks, grated gruyere, and blanched arugula. Four blind baked quiche shells lay on the counter awaiting their respective contents as I leaned over a batch of white sauce for the final quiche (arugula and toasted pine nut). Not to beat this metaphor to death, but it was kind of like the actors poised silently behind stage curtains before a show.
For once I seemed to have planned everything well and there were no last minute disasters. The nearest I came to panic was after an overly animated flourish of salt into my white sauce. I whined, tasted, and pouted at the offending mixture to no effect. And so grumblingly I made another one. A whole five minutes down the drain.
Despite the absence of catastrophe, the customary adrenaline rush took hold of me as the event approached. When this happens I become a fractious force in the kitchen. Mother was attempting to bake mince pies. Unfortunately for her I had monopolized the ovens for my four quiches and a massive loin of pork. “Couldn’t I just pop these in too?” she plaintively asked. Her hand was on the oven door. I let out an incomprehensible protest and dove in front of it to protect my rising creations.
What followed was not an idyllic picture of a familial domestic scene. I barricaded the oven, animatedly suggesting that she use mine over in the studio. She responded huffily, prickling at this state of affairs—banned from her own kitchen. She stomped through the house and out to the garden, grumbling about the shoddy nature of my oven and the raindrops that were marring her pies as they journeyed to my little cottage next door. “What is going on?” my dad boomed. “It’s like a bloody mad house in here.” Mother and I ignored him, dashing between the two kitchens with baking trays and tea towels, like two petulant beetles scuttling across the garden. And yet, notwithstanding this minor spat, all the dishes where completed and withdrawn from the oven with no further crisis and emotion.
Later, in the wee hour of the morning, I woke with a cantankerous, grumbling stomach. I lay in bed cradling a hot water bottle and wondering miserably if I had poisoned all ninety guests with my food. Perhaps it was the pate or the pork? And then I remembered the mulled wine, and how enthusiastically I had enjoyed glass after glass of the steaming brew. Relaxing after the heat of cooking, I had let the festivities get the better of my normally impeccable sense of moderation. Ah, well. It was a relief, I decided, snuggling back down into bed. I could be consoled by the fact that I would be the only sufferer, and had not inadvertently wreaked havoc with the innards of half our small town’s population. And so, tired and content, I declared victory and drifted back to sleep.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Mince Pies, Cradles, and Christmas Wayfarers
It is early December, and as I write this morning a hard frost is turning liquid on the leaves. I am waiting to taste the first mince pie of the year. It is an old English tradition, the preparation and consumption of these potent fruit pies, and my mother made them every year throughout my childhood. They consist of a medley of fruit such as dark and golden raisins, currants, dates and apples, along with almonds, suet (I use butter), and a lavish slosh of brandy. This mixture is then allowed to settle and mature for a while—ideally a whole year—before becoming the filling for these little pies.
According to the website of the Mince Pie Club (yes, there’s actually an entire organization dedicated to this festive edible), the tradition of mincemeat pies dates back to the medieval period. At that time these delicacies, true to name, contained large quantities of meat in addition to fruit. They were larger and shaped into an oblong to represent Jesus’ cradle, earning them the name of “crib pies.” When the Medieval crusaders returned from their brutal forays in foreign lands, they brought back spices which were subsequently added to the mincemeat. Gradually the fruit and spice element increased and the meat diminished as the pies became sweeter and smaller. Now referred to as “wayfarer pies,” they were destined primarily as sustenance for wandering guests during the Christmas season.
Out of the oven my pies are the color of golden sand, finely crusted with sugar, and bubbling exuberantly at the edges. I pry one delicately from the tray, lift the lid, and spoon on a knob of brandy butter. I eat mine with a glass of sherry, alone in my little studio with the unfamiliar winter sunshine dancing across the concrete floor and warming my cloud-paled skin. The rich jumble dissolves on my tongue into a toothsome interfusion of fruit and almonds, feather-soft pastry and heady brandied butter. As my fingers pick the last plump raisins off the plate, I think of this as an inaugural feast—December has begun, and with it the Christmas season and its epic amount of feasting.
This year, I decide, December is going to be an awesome odyssey cooking and eating. I am not particularly religious, but rather follow the philosophy that embraces almost any excuse to turn the daily trudge into celebration. Raising the tiny glass, I allow the last trickle of the nutty, amontillado sherry to warm my throat. Here’s to the baby Jesus, God love him!
If you too love the baby Jesus, make some mince pies! Here’s my way of constructing the mincemeat, but it is definitely an occasion for wild improvisation.
½ pound beef suet or butter, finely diced
2 ½ pounds mixed dried fruits such as raisins, golden raisins, currants, and dates (for a Northwest twist I like adding some dried huckleberries or blueberries)
¼ pound almonds or hazelnuts
¾ pound chopped apple
Zest and juice from 2 lemons
1 teaspoon freshly ground mixed spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice
2 glasses of brandy
Combine all ingredients, pack into jars, and leave to mature. Ideally you use last year’s mince for this year’s pies, making a new batch now to keep until next season, and so forth. I find this adds a comforting sense of continuity and rhythm to this ritual.
To prepare a batch of pies, I use a basic butter-flour-water pastry. Roll this out thinly and cut into rounds big enough to line a tray of muffin molds. Spoon in enough mince to fill each hollow and press a pastry lid on top. Brush with milk and sprinkle with granulated sugar. Bake for about 20 minutes at 375F or until golden and bubbling.
To make the brandy butter, whip up 3 ounces butter until light and fluffy. Slowly add 3 ounces powdered sugar, and beat well. Very gradually, dribble several tablespoons of brandy, tasting as you go. There needs to be enough brandy to cut the fatty taste of the butter, but no more otherwise it will go runny and possibly curdle.
Eat the mince pies hot, with a spoonful of brandy butter slathered under the pastry lid. According to mince pie superstition, you should eat these morsels in silence, and with the first pie of the season, you should make a wish.
According to the website of the Mince Pie Club (yes, there’s actually an entire organization dedicated to this festive edible), the tradition of mincemeat pies dates back to the medieval period. At that time these delicacies, true to name, contained large quantities of meat in addition to fruit. They were larger and shaped into an oblong to represent Jesus’ cradle, earning them the name of “crib pies.” When the Medieval crusaders returned from their brutal forays in foreign lands, they brought back spices which were subsequently added to the mincemeat. Gradually the fruit and spice element increased and the meat diminished as the pies became sweeter and smaller. Now referred to as “wayfarer pies,” they were destined primarily as sustenance for wandering guests during the Christmas season.
Out of the oven my pies are the color of golden sand, finely crusted with sugar, and bubbling exuberantly at the edges. I pry one delicately from the tray, lift the lid, and spoon on a knob of brandy butter. I eat mine with a glass of sherry, alone in my little studio with the unfamiliar winter sunshine dancing across the concrete floor and warming my cloud-paled skin. The rich jumble dissolves on my tongue into a toothsome interfusion of fruit and almonds, feather-soft pastry and heady brandied butter. As my fingers pick the last plump raisins off the plate, I think of this as an inaugural feast—December has begun, and with it the Christmas season and its epic amount of feasting.
This year, I decide, December is going to be an awesome odyssey cooking and eating. I am not particularly religious, but rather follow the philosophy that embraces almost any excuse to turn the daily trudge into celebration. Raising the tiny glass, I allow the last trickle of the nutty, amontillado sherry to warm my throat. Here’s to the baby Jesus, God love him!
If you too love the baby Jesus, make some mince pies! Here’s my way of constructing the mincemeat, but it is definitely an occasion for wild improvisation.
½ pound beef suet or butter, finely diced
2 ½ pounds mixed dried fruits such as raisins, golden raisins, currants, and dates (for a Northwest twist I like adding some dried huckleberries or blueberries)
¼ pound almonds or hazelnuts
¾ pound chopped apple
Zest and juice from 2 lemons
1 teaspoon freshly ground mixed spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice
2 glasses of brandy
Combine all ingredients, pack into jars, and leave to mature. Ideally you use last year’s mince for this year’s pies, making a new batch now to keep until next season, and so forth. I find this adds a comforting sense of continuity and rhythm to this ritual.
To prepare a batch of pies, I use a basic butter-flour-water pastry. Roll this out thinly and cut into rounds big enough to line a tray of muffin molds. Spoon in enough mince to fill each hollow and press a pastry lid on top. Brush with milk and sprinkle with granulated sugar. Bake for about 20 minutes at 375F or until golden and bubbling.
To make the brandy butter, whip up 3 ounces butter until light and fluffy. Slowly add 3 ounces powdered sugar, and beat well. Very gradually, dribble several tablespoons of brandy, tasting as you go. There needs to be enough brandy to cut the fatty taste of the butter, but no more otherwise it will go runny and possibly curdle.
Eat the mince pies hot, with a spoonful of brandy butter slathered under the pastry lid. According to mince pie superstition, you should eat these morsels in silence, and with the first pie of the season, you should make a wish.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanksgiving
May the beauty of your life become more visible to you that you may glimpse your wild divinity.
May the wonders of the earth call you forth from all your small secret prisons and set your feet free in the pastures of possibility . . .
Mum read a blessing by the Irish philosopher, poet, and priest John O’ Donohue. The words filled the room, heavy with the wisdom and humanity of their author, abundant and generous as our table. This was full, creaking under the weight of a day’s worth of cooking. There was a whole ham, warm from the oven and sweet with a glaze of mustard, brown sugar, and whiskey. To escort the ham we had black figs poached in a spicy syrup, creamy parsley sauce, roast and mashed potatoes, peas perfumed with mint, and two whole pumpkins, hollowed and baked with gruyere, cream, and gratings of nutmeg. And these were merely my own contributions to the meal. Danielle arrived around midday and traipsed into the kitchen laden with shopping bags. She roasted a whole turkey, tossed together an aromatic mushroom-sage stuffing, and whizzed up a fresh, garlicky artichoke dip.
All this was done with the non-committal assistance of Danielle’s boyfriend Jacob and Cousin Brad. Brad would peer over our shoulders enthusiastically, and in manner of cooking show assistant he would repeat ingredient measurements and ask a volley of questions. Then quite suddenly he’d take a swig of wine, mumble that his estrogen level was getting dangerously high, and disappear to the gentlemen’s club that was rapidly forming in the sitting room (presumably to replenish his testosterone with televised football and more booze). Jacob’s approach was different. He’d wander into the kitchen having fetched something for Danielle, say something complimentary or encouraging, and then sidle out again. To be fair, however, Brad beautifully sliced the apples for my pie, and Jacob concocted a luscious pumpkin filling for a second pie.
By four o’clock the first guests arrived; Roosje and her husband Dan, an ex chef who came rolling with a gorgeous pate. It looked humble enough from the outside. Nevertheless, having heard talk of this pate for weeks, I knew it was going to be something special. “Dan has ordered a truffle from Italy,” Roosje had revealed to me one day, bubbling with excitement. I was anticipating a masterpiece.
At the party, Dan nodded in confirmation. “Yes, it’s made of chicken liver, goose liver, and truffle.” My knees wobbled a bit. The Champagne was uncorked by my father, with the usual fanfare. The bubbles were poured, clinked, and sipped, and then we descended upon the pate. Here the words for an accurate description fail me. All I can truthfully say is that it was one of those mouthfuls that make your tongue, teeth and taste buds feel as though they are helplessly melting into divine oblivion. It was insane.
By four o’clock the first guests arrived; Roosje and her husband Dan, an ex chef who came rolling with a gorgeous pate. It looked humble enough from the outside. Nevertheless, having heard talk of this pate for weeks, I knew it was going to be something special. “Dan has ordered a truffle from Italy,” Roosje had revealed to me one day, bubbling with excitement. I was anticipating a masterpiece.
At the party, Dan nodded in confirmation. “Yes, it’s made of chicken liver, goose liver, and truffle.” My knees wobbled a bit. The Champagne was uncorked by my father, with the usual fanfare. The bubbles were poured, clinked, and sipped, and then we descended upon the pate. Here the words for an accurate description fail me. All I can truthfully say is that it was one of those mouthfuls that make your tongue, teeth and taste buds feel as though they are helplessly melting into divine oblivion. It was insane.
Later we sat down to the meal: not insane, but just as a Thanksgiving feast ought to be—the archetype of good home cooking. My favorite dish by far was also the simplest, and is prepared as follows: Cut the lid off a pumpkin and scrape out all the seeds and stringy pulp from the inside. Fill 1/3 full with grated gruyere cheese and pour in heavy cream until 2/3 full. Toss in a knob of butter, a little salt, pepper, and a few gratings from a whole nutmeg. Replace the lid and bake in a 375F oven until the flesh of the pumpkin is cooked through.
For me, it was a novel way of preparing pumpkin, inspired—get again—by the British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, on whom I have a culinary crush. Okay, he’s middle aged and looks a bit like a cave man (in a good way) but he raises his own meat, grows his own veg, and has a wonderfully expansive, unfussy approach to the kitchen. But I digress.
Like the meal, the evening was just as it should be: hours of eating, drinking, and good laughs followed by plenty of lounging, coffee, and dessert—the luxurious business of being pleasantly unproductive. During the waning of the year, Thanksgiving always seems to me the moment of huddling down, of lighting our metaphorical fires for the winter. John O’ Donohue’s blessing echoed in my mind as I went to sleep that night, perfectly in sync with the tone of our evening and this turning of seasons:
May the liturgy of twilight shelter all your fears and darkness within the circle of ease.
May the angel of memory surprise you in bleak times with new gifts from the harvest of your vanished days.
May you allow no dark hand to quench the candle of hope in your heart.
May you discover a new generosity towards yourself and encourage yourself to engage your life as a great adventure.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Feast before the Fight
Yesterday afternoon, I was in the middle of a peaceful lunch (whole grain bread topped with thinly sliced apple and crumbly goat cheese, shoved under the broiler for a minute or two and accompanied by a simple salad) when I innocently began thumbing through the latest edition of the Economist. I turned a page: “Monsanto, corporate sinner or saint?” the title asked. I read on, hopefully. Gradually my blood pressure began to rise, lunch turned to ashes in my mouth, and I found myself physically shaking with fury. Far from being a balanced and insightful report on the doings of this agri-giant, the author passes softly by the hoard of howling skeletons in Monsanto’s closet and paints a picture of a benevolent beacon of innovation and advancement. Not an infallible creature, but on balance a solid force for good.
Now I will not go into the details of why this portrait of the world’s dominant seed company caused me to erupt into anger and frustration—its reputation is well known. To delve into that closet of dishonesty, corruption, political arm twisting, and fundamental bad manners that Monsanto has displayed over the past decade or so would take too long. Do the research. After my exploration, the verdict appears self-evident: Monsanto is a serious sinner. More importantly Monsanto represents the pinnacle of all that I find despicable about corporate agriculture: the co-opting of power from individual farmers and a spectacular disregard for the importance of biodiversity being just two examples.
By the time I’d reached the end of the article my mind was consumed in anger and frustration. I couldn’t even think about a menu for the evening’s feast. Food, in its pleasurable sense, was farthest from my mind. I stared glumly at my shelves of recipe books unable to pull my brain away from dispiriting thoughts of genetic homogenization, topsoil depletion, and tomatoes bulging with fish genes. Count me out of a world such as that.
And so, in an unusually constructive channeling of anger I went out for a run and tore up the roads. But I didn’t stop thinking about corporate agribusiness. On the contrary I had one of those moments out running, the wind tossing the trees, the sea and my hair. I stopped abruptly at the bottom of a dip, just by an old scraggy apple tree. The road ahead rose steeply. What can I do? I begged my mind. What can I do? And then the words of one social activist—I don’t remember who she was—but when I read her words they took root. I vaguely recollect that she was going to campaign for the rights of Australian aborigines, but before actively storming the fortress, she spent two years living with these people. When questioned about her extensive time in their community, her response ran something like this: “In order win, you have to know what you’re fighting for.” And that is what my feasting is about: the feast is not the real work, it is not my aim. But strangely, as my love of food and feasting deepens, so too has my commitment to cultivating the sort of world in which these simple pleasures are possible for all. Feasting is simply a constant reminder of what I want to spend my career doing: fostering sustainable food systems. And I am inching towards that goal.
It is time for fifty-two feasts to grow up. From now on it’s not just about feasting but fighting. In the best sense of the word: I’m going to fight the way I sometimes fight to drag myself out on a drizzly fall morning for a run; the kind of fighting that reaps plentiful rewards. And yet my aim is never to lose that center, that hearth around which the battlers nourish themselves. It’s like that social activist was saying: you need food before you fight; you need to feast before diving into the fray.
What does fighting mean in the context of these feasts? Well, to start I am going to use more local, seasonal, and sustainably produced ingredients; more plants and less meat. I’m going to spend more energy on sourcing and learning the stories behind the foods I love. The great thing about a fork is that in the same moment you can use it to nourish your body, to make your taste buds squeal in delight, and to change the world ever so slightly for the better.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
A Thanksgiving for Nomads
This morning I recieved a message from my dear friend Aleah. She was in London. “I love this city,” she wrote. “Maybe it’s all the memories from our travels. Do you remember our Thanksgiving chicken?”
Of course I remembered. Fresh out of high school Aleah and I went backpacking together across Europe. Beginning in Spain we ambled all over the continent, from Italy and Croatia, to France and the Czech Republic. We met up with friends, took epic train journeys, saw the sights, and spent an inordinate amount of time in the cafes of Europe—reading, talking, writing, drawing, and simply absorbing our surroundings.
During the final weeks of this odyssey we found ourselves in London, staying in my cousin’s apartment. It was late November and we were cold, sodden and thoroughly ready for home. Gone were the sun-drenched days spent wallowing in Spanish plazas and basking beside Italian fountains. Our backpacks, clothes, and shoes—smart and new months before—had become increasingly gray, tattered, and odiferous. And along with them our spirit of adventure was rapidly wearing thin.
“Do you realize it’s Thanksgiving today?” Aleah was indignant as she stared at her calendar. “Oh,” I replied mournfully, glaring down at my breakfast toast with renewed disgust.
We were both silent for a moment, wallowing in the pathos of our situation. Then Aleah went back to sketching, giving a momentary sniff and flare of the nostrils—demonstrative, I knew by now, of a fit of the grumps.
I brooded for a moment and then stood up. “Well, let’s make dinner then. We have Patrick’s kitchen, I’m sure he won’t mind . . . especially once he sees the leftovers.”
“You mean, buy and cook a whole turkey for the two of us?”
“Well, maybe a chicken,” I admitted, “but still, it’s better than nothing.”
So we made our way to the nearest shop with renewed enthusiasm, and bought the ingredients for a makeshift Thanksgiving meal: a fat chicken, potatoes to mash, carrots to glaze, wine to mull, apples for pie, and even a couple cheeses to start.
That afternoon was spent ensconced in my cousin’s kitchen, listening to music, reminiscing about Thanksgivings past, and preparing our feast. It was perfect day for the meal: a dull gray sky, fine drizzle of rain, and heavy chill to the air.
I don’t remember much about the meal itself (my activities in the kitchen at the time were more enthusiastic than skillful) but it was the idea—the mental image of a feast—that counted. We ate hungrily, drank liberally, and thoroughly revived our sagging spirits. It served as a reminder of where we were: at the culmination of an epic adventure. It was a journey we would remember and talk about for years, as much for the smelly, uncomfortable hostels and nights spent camping out on train stations as for the appropriately raucous nights and magnificent architecture.
This year I’ll be at home for Thanksgiving, but Aleah and her boyfriend will be abroad, installed in their little rental cottage in the Netherlands. I hope they will have a feast, perhaps another Thanksgiving chicken, a pile of creamy mashed potatoes, and a gravy rich enough to wash away even the most remote traces of homesickness.
Of course I remembered. Fresh out of high school Aleah and I went backpacking together across Europe. Beginning in Spain we ambled all over the continent, from Italy and Croatia, to France and the Czech Republic. We met up with friends, took epic train journeys, saw the sights, and spent an inordinate amount of time in the cafes of Europe—reading, talking, writing, drawing, and simply absorbing our surroundings.
During the final weeks of this odyssey we found ourselves in London, staying in my cousin’s apartment. It was late November and we were cold, sodden and thoroughly ready for home. Gone were the sun-drenched days spent wallowing in Spanish plazas and basking beside Italian fountains. Our backpacks, clothes, and shoes—smart and new months before—had become increasingly gray, tattered, and odiferous. And along with them our spirit of adventure was rapidly wearing thin.
“Do you realize it’s Thanksgiving today?” Aleah was indignant as she stared at her calendar. “Oh,” I replied mournfully, glaring down at my breakfast toast with renewed disgust.
We were both silent for a moment, wallowing in the pathos of our situation. Then Aleah went back to sketching, giving a momentary sniff and flare of the nostrils—demonstrative, I knew by now, of a fit of the grumps.
I brooded for a moment and then stood up. “Well, let’s make dinner then. We have Patrick’s kitchen, I’m sure he won’t mind . . . especially once he sees the leftovers.”
“You mean, buy and cook a whole turkey for the two of us?”
“Well, maybe a chicken,” I admitted, “but still, it’s better than nothing.”
So we made our way to the nearest shop with renewed enthusiasm, and bought the ingredients for a makeshift Thanksgiving meal: a fat chicken, potatoes to mash, carrots to glaze, wine to mull, apples for pie, and even a couple cheeses to start.
That afternoon was spent ensconced in my cousin’s kitchen, listening to music, reminiscing about Thanksgivings past, and preparing our feast. It was perfect day for the meal: a dull gray sky, fine drizzle of rain, and heavy chill to the air.
I don’t remember much about the meal itself (my activities in the kitchen at the time were more enthusiastic than skillful) but it was the idea—the mental image of a feast—that counted. We ate hungrily, drank liberally, and thoroughly revived our sagging spirits. It served as a reminder of where we were: at the culmination of an epic adventure. It was a journey we would remember and talk about for years, as much for the smelly, uncomfortable hostels and nights spent camping out on train stations as for the appropriately raucous nights and magnificent architecture.
This year I’ll be at home for Thanksgiving, but Aleah and her boyfriend will be abroad, installed in their little rental cottage in the Netherlands. I hope they will have a feast, perhaps another Thanksgiving chicken, a pile of creamy mashed potatoes, and a gravy rich enough to wash away even the most remote traces of homesickness.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tradition and the Table
Some feasts are humble affairs, others momentous occasions, but the epitome of feasting in our culture arrives each year on the last Thursday in November. I have always found Thanksgiving to be the most satisfying and least stressful annual holiday. While Christmas is smothered under a surfeit of commercialism, New Year’s Eve lies gasping under the weight of forced jollity, and Valentine’s Day inevitably arrives smugly to rub salt into the wounds of your latest breakup, Thanksgiving is a blissful relief. A gourmet’s paradise, it is uncomplicated, unburdened with material expectation, and devoted solely to the table.
“How about something different this year,” I suggested to Mum, while sitting on the sofa, a pile of cookbooks on my lap. “You mean something other than turkey,” she responded, visibly dubious.
“Yes, like a goose or a ham. I mean turkey for Thanksgiving and again for Christmas. . . Gets a bit boring, don’t you think?”
“But its tradition,” Mother protested, “and I love turkey.”
I sighed; even Thanksgiving was apparently not without tribulation—the dull old face of tradition glumly staring down each one of my festive ideas. Why are people like this? Why do they persist in defending endless repetition for its own sake? Now I am a great fan of many culinary traditions: they have given us an excuse to guzzle champagne at the merest hint of celebration, break out the barbeque each summer, and consume endless mince pies with brandy butter throughout the month of December. However, it is often necessary to give these rituals a makeover: a new hair cut, some flashy new earrings. Otherwise they are in danger of becoming utterly insipid and dull.
The annual Christmas pudding saga perfectly illustrates my argument. My family has clung vehemently to our English tradition of serving Christmas pudding as the culmination to the long and abundant holiday lunch. It is a massive, upside down bowl shaped wodge of dried fruit, flour, and booze. And in accordance with custom, it is doused with brandy, lit on fire, and paraded to the table. It is a wonderful moment, the flaming dessert topped with a sprig of holly, making its entrance to enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.
Sadly, this piece of culinary tradition is more style than substance. Or rather it is far too substantial. Everyone dutifully takes a slice, although we’re all far too bloated and tipsy to enjoy it. My strategy is to pile on the brandy butter (butter whipped up with a considerable amount of sugar and brandy), and thus drown out the actual taste of the pudding. It is stodgy, leaden, and alarmingly durable. Few souls have the requisite tenacity to finish their slice, so a lot goes straight to the bin. Alas this is not the end. Mum generally makes two Christmas puddings—so enthusiastic about this tradition that she manages to forget how unpopular they are—and so the family is left not only with the remainder of the first, but a massive second pudding to conquer. As a child, I remember surveying that foul, black-brown slice mutinously at breakfast, in pack lunches, and fried up in yet more brandy after dinner for weeks on end. It sat stolidly in the fridge, in both shape and effect like a glowering, impenetrable Mount Rainier. Sometimes I swear we were still attempting to dispose of it throughout the waning days of January.
This Christmas, I shall probably fail in my campaign to ban the pudding and replace it with a sexier dessert, but I did win a small victory over Thanksgiving meal. It is a rule of thumb that by the judicious mention of certain ingredients, I can convince Mother of the virtue of almost any dish. She simply cannot resist the mention of ginger, figs, anise, goat cheese, gruyere, or hazelnuts. When I suggested a shoulder of ham she remained skeptical, but after my cunning elaboration—a glazed baked ham with spiced figs and parsley sauce—she grudgingly agreed. Now all that remains is to source a magnificent ham and dream up delectable trimmings: perhaps sme gruyere baked squash? Roasted onions? Cranberry sauce? A deep dish apple pie? All this dreaming and scheming is almost as enjoyable as feasting itself.
“How about something different this year,” I suggested to Mum, while sitting on the sofa, a pile of cookbooks on my lap. “You mean something other than turkey,” she responded, visibly dubious.
“Yes, like a goose or a ham. I mean turkey for Thanksgiving and again for Christmas. . . Gets a bit boring, don’t you think?”
“But its tradition,” Mother protested, “and I love turkey.”
I sighed; even Thanksgiving was apparently not without tribulation—the dull old face of tradition glumly staring down each one of my festive ideas. Why are people like this? Why do they persist in defending endless repetition for its own sake? Now I am a great fan of many culinary traditions: they have given us an excuse to guzzle champagne at the merest hint of celebration, break out the barbeque each summer, and consume endless mince pies with brandy butter throughout the month of December. However, it is often necessary to give these rituals a makeover: a new hair cut, some flashy new earrings. Otherwise they are in danger of becoming utterly insipid and dull.
The annual Christmas pudding saga perfectly illustrates my argument. My family has clung vehemently to our English tradition of serving Christmas pudding as the culmination to the long and abundant holiday lunch. It is a massive, upside down bowl shaped wodge of dried fruit, flour, and booze. And in accordance with custom, it is doused with brandy, lit on fire, and paraded to the table. It is a wonderful moment, the flaming dessert topped with a sprig of holly, making its entrance to enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.
Sadly, this piece of culinary tradition is more style than substance. Or rather it is far too substantial. Everyone dutifully takes a slice, although we’re all far too bloated and tipsy to enjoy it. My strategy is to pile on the brandy butter (butter whipped up with a considerable amount of sugar and brandy), and thus drown out the actual taste of the pudding. It is stodgy, leaden, and alarmingly durable. Few souls have the requisite tenacity to finish their slice, so a lot goes straight to the bin. Alas this is not the end. Mum generally makes two Christmas puddings—so enthusiastic about this tradition that she manages to forget how unpopular they are—and so the family is left not only with the remainder of the first, but a massive second pudding to conquer. As a child, I remember surveying that foul, black-brown slice mutinously at breakfast, in pack lunches, and fried up in yet more brandy after dinner for weeks on end. It sat stolidly in the fridge, in both shape and effect like a glowering, impenetrable Mount Rainier. Sometimes I swear we were still attempting to dispose of it throughout the waning days of January.
This Christmas, I shall probably fail in my campaign to ban the pudding and replace it with a sexier dessert, but I did win a small victory over Thanksgiving meal. It is a rule of thumb that by the judicious mention of certain ingredients, I can convince Mother of the virtue of almost any dish. She simply cannot resist the mention of ginger, figs, anise, goat cheese, gruyere, or hazelnuts. When I suggested a shoulder of ham she remained skeptical, but after my cunning elaboration—a glazed baked ham with spiced figs and parsley sauce—she grudgingly agreed. Now all that remains is to source a magnificent ham and dream up delectable trimmings: perhaps sme gruyere baked squash? Roasted onions? Cranberry sauce? A deep dish apple pie? All this dreaming and scheming is almost as enjoyable as feasting itself.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Compostion of a Feast
“So, does this count as a feast?” Alex asked, carefully stripping the fragrant thyme leaves from their stems. “I mean, what makes it a feast?”
I thought about this for a moment, surprised that I didn’t have a clear answer. “I guess it’s a feast when I want it to be one. Yea, this could be a feast . . . I mean, why not?”
Yet I continued mulling over this question; what does make a feast? In these last few months I have consciously created many feasts. Some have been larger, such as the epic meal last weekend or the birthday party for my dad. Others have been composed of simpler food eaten among only a few friends. And then there have been plenty of meals that I have chosen not to rank among my official feasts. Why have these been excluded? They were variously too boring, rushed, small, or insignificant. What they all have in common, however, is that they were not premeditated in the same way as a true feast.
For an answer to Alex’s question I turned first to various official definitions of a feast. Wandering around the gargantuan virtual library of description and delineation, I found several themes crystallize: the word feast collects around it the garments of cuisine and culture, religion and ritual, ceremony and celebration, abundance and enjoyment.
My favorite definition, one among several from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, describes a feast as “something that gives unusual or abundant enjoyment.” I also liked the Cambridge dictionary’s explanation of “a very enjoyable experience for the senses.” The word itself comes from the Latin festus, meaning “joyous.” Pleasure is at the heart of feasting, firmly rooted in its very etymological heritage.
In having to explicitly define feast for myself and this project, I have realized that it is this celebratory intention that characterizes my feasts. On the one hand it is clearly a hedonistic pleasure—people coming together for the sole purpose of gastronomic enjoyment—and I wholeheartedly accept that. On the other hand it is also a defiant statement, a quiet rejection of the forces that would have us speed up our lives, scuttling faster and faster around the hamster wheels of frenetic daily activity with such puritanical zeal that we have no time for friends, feasting, or any of those other proverbial simple pleasures. So really, any meal has the potential to be a feast. And that is my ultimate goal: I don’t just want to cook, host, and enjoy feasts; I want to embody a feasting mentality, an attitude of abundance, and a propensity to celebrate whenever given half a chance and a cork screw.
I lifted the pot of mussels off the heat and stirred in a large spoonful of crème fraiche. We sat down to eat: the seafood aromatic with herbs, garlic, and wine. The wedges of roasted potato fat and well browned, a light fluffy center encased in a fine crisp shell. They were ideal for sopping up the sauce. We sat around the table eating, drinking and talking. “Awww, I wish I hadn’t eaten,” Justin lamented, his hand edging towards the tray of oven fries. “Oh, go on,” Alex prompted, “there’s plenty.” The dollop of mustard I’d added to my plate slid downwards and dissolved into the sauce, accidentally improving it I noticed, plucking another mussel from its shell and popping it into my mouth. I took a sip of cold white wine. Alex returned to the plate of smoked salmon. Justin caved in to the temptation of pommes frites. Yes, I concluded to myself, this is definitely a feast.
I thought about this for a moment, surprised that I didn’t have a clear answer. “I guess it’s a feast when I want it to be one. Yea, this could be a feast . . . I mean, why not?”
Yet I continued mulling over this question; what does make a feast? In these last few months I have consciously created many feasts. Some have been larger, such as the epic meal last weekend or the birthday party for my dad. Others have been composed of simpler food eaten among only a few friends. And then there have been plenty of meals that I have chosen not to rank among my official feasts. Why have these been excluded? They were variously too boring, rushed, small, or insignificant. What they all have in common, however, is that they were not premeditated in the same way as a true feast.
For an answer to Alex’s question I turned first to various official definitions of a feast. Wandering around the gargantuan virtual library of description and delineation, I found several themes crystallize: the word feast collects around it the garments of cuisine and culture, religion and ritual, ceremony and celebration, abundance and enjoyment.
My favorite definition, one among several from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, describes a feast as “something that gives unusual or abundant enjoyment.” I also liked the Cambridge dictionary’s explanation of “a very enjoyable experience for the senses.” The word itself comes from the Latin festus, meaning “joyous.” Pleasure is at the heart of feasting, firmly rooted in its very etymological heritage.
In having to explicitly define feast for myself and this project, I have realized that it is this celebratory intention that characterizes my feasts. On the one hand it is clearly a hedonistic pleasure—people coming together for the sole purpose of gastronomic enjoyment—and I wholeheartedly accept that. On the other hand it is also a defiant statement, a quiet rejection of the forces that would have us speed up our lives, scuttling faster and faster around the hamster wheels of frenetic daily activity with such puritanical zeal that we have no time for friends, feasting, or any of those other proverbial simple pleasures. So really, any meal has the potential to be a feast. And that is my ultimate goal: I don’t just want to cook, host, and enjoy feasts; I want to embody a feasting mentality, an attitude of abundance, and a propensity to celebrate whenever given half a chance and a cork screw.
I lifted the pot of mussels off the heat and stirred in a large spoonful of crème fraiche. We sat down to eat: the seafood aromatic with herbs, garlic, and wine. The wedges of roasted potato fat and well browned, a light fluffy center encased in a fine crisp shell. They were ideal for sopping up the sauce. We sat around the table eating, drinking and talking. “Awww, I wish I hadn’t eaten,” Justin lamented, his hand edging towards the tray of oven fries. “Oh, go on,” Alex prompted, “there’s plenty.” The dollop of mustard I’d added to my plate slid downwards and dissolved into the sauce, accidentally improving it I noticed, plucking another mussel from its shell and popping it into my mouth. I took a sip of cold white wine. Alex returned to the plate of smoked salmon. Justin caved in to the temptation of pommes frites. Yes, I concluded to myself, this is definitely a feast.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Cook by Feel
Amateurs cook from recipes. Real cooks do not. They have techniques, yes, and an ever expanding repertoire of dishes, but they do not break off from their graceful culinary dance each evening for long periods spent peering over a bespattered cookbook. At most, a real cook will admit to being “inspired” by someone else.
Or so the thought goes. Unfortunately, there are many who fancy themselves above recipes yet lack the skill to carry this off, as my mother firmly noted, citing a certain family member who shall remain nameless. For myself, I have never suffered from this hubris, and although I fancy myself a decent cook, I make no claims as a kitchen choreographer. Rather, I turn expectant eyes towards my favorite cooks and chefs, devout in my study of their books. I will make minor changes, playing with flavors and tuning the recipes in to the season at hand, but only very recently have I begun taking a basic technique and creating my own dish from scratch (my slow-cooked lamb with tomatoes, saffron and cream, which I posted the other week, is one of only a handful of examples). Especially when I’m entertaining, recipes are something to cling to—a framework for the dish, supplying hopefully well-tested proportions, techniques, times, and flavor combinations.
And yet, for the Oktoberfest feast I found myself adrift—only a scribbled paragraph of instructions on what do with the pounds of Bavarian sausage, mountain of potatoes, odiferous mass of sauerkraut, and bottle of Riesling that before me. Boss man had given me directions, but only half of these had transferred to my scrap of paper, and none made any mention of quantities or proportions. How much wine? I wondered. How much chicken stock? How many juniper berries? I’d never cooked with this hardened blue-black berry . . . are they as powerful as cloves?
But there was no use in fussing; I had 14 friends milling about, getting progressively tipsier and demanding dinner. And so I jumped in, dumped the entire bottle of Riesling over the sweating onions, became a real cook for a change. I used common sense and kitchen experience, and felt terribly proud as I stirred and judged and adjusted. By the time dinner was ready I felt euphoric—this was real cooking; an art vaguely on par with musical improvisation or a spontaneous letra of flamenco dance. I loved it.
According to the Bavarian ladies this dish has a name, but I can’t remember what it is. My version was basically a vat of sausages, potatoes, and sauerkraut, infused throughout with wine, chicken stock, and a wafting whisper of juniper and thyme. I will modestly limit any further description to the response from one of my dinner guests, Will (in manner of book praise):
“. . . off the fucking chain. . . ”
To finish, I served up two laboriously constructed cakes: one black forest gateau laden with cream, chocolate, cherries, and kirsch, and one caramel-cinnamon ganache cake. These were taken verbatim from recipes. You don’t mess with baking, it’s different. Like science lab improvisation can be disastrous.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Bavarian Bliss
“Cooking anything interesting this weekend,” boss man asked one morning at work.
“Well,” I answered vaguely, “I was thinking of doing some sort of Oktoberfest themed feast. Not sure what to cook though . . .”
Boss man was silent, staring down at his old German coffee roaster, as if conversing with it for inspiration. Then he looked up, a gleeful gastronomic gleam in his eye: “You wanna know what to cook. I’ll tell you. This’ll really impress them, ok. You’d better write this down.” The man clearly had a plan so I didn’t argue.
“Go to the Bavarian meats shop in Pike Place Market. Go and buy a big piece of smoked pork ribs. Ok? And a good selection of sausages. You’re also going to need sauerkraut, potatoes and a big pot. . . .”
And so, obedient to these instructions, I found myself trundling down to Pikes yesterday morning, bleary eyed from a late night yet still bouncing with enthusiasm for my impending visit to Bavarian Meats. I entered the little doorway, tucked inside the market amongst the candy stores, bakeries and delis, and felt that familiar sense of child-like delight as I stepped inside. This place is heaven, walls lined with mustards and pickles, breads and jams.
“Well,” I answered vaguely, “I was thinking of doing some sort of Oktoberfest themed feast. Not sure what to cook though . . .”
Boss man was silent, staring down at his old German coffee roaster, as if conversing with it for inspiration. Then he looked up, a gleeful gastronomic gleam in his eye: “You wanna know what to cook. I’ll tell you. This’ll really impress them, ok. You’d better write this down.” The man clearly had a plan so I didn’t argue.
“Go to the Bavarian meats shop in Pike Place Market. Go and buy a big piece of smoked pork ribs. Ok? And a good selection of sausages. You’re also going to need sauerkraut, potatoes and a big pot. . . .”
And so, obedient to these instructions, I found myself trundling down to Pikes yesterday morning, bleary eyed from a late night yet still bouncing with enthusiasm for my impending visit to Bavarian Meats. I entered the little doorway, tucked inside the market amongst the candy stores, bakeries and delis, and felt that familiar sense of child-like delight as I stepped inside. This place is heaven, walls lined with mustards and pickles, breads and jams.
I read the familiar labels: the lavender wrapped bars of Milka chocolate sporting its signature contented cow; golden foil trimmed bottles of apfelsaft, and packages of rye bread boasting a plethora of benefits to mind and body. Behind the meat case brimming with bratwurst and bockwurst, knockwurst and landjaeger, bacon, ham hocks and a million other configurations of the flesh, the Bavarian ladies bustled about. I waited patiently whilst they attended to the other customers. This was not something to rush. I wanted their full attention.
When the shop was finally empty I stepped up to the counter. “Now,” said one of the aproned ladies in heavily accented English, peering at me cheerfully with a knife in one hand and a piece of sausage in the other, “how can I help you?”
I was so bubbling with enthusiasm for this cozy shop and its contents that I found I didn’t have the ability to think properly. Boss man had told me what to buy, but I decided that the occasion called for assistance. I explained to the woman vaguely what I intended to make and asked her to pick out the requisite meats. Her eyes lit up as she nodded effusively. She understood, then fired a volley of questions: “How many people? Men or women? Do zay have big appetites? You like spicy sausage? Ok. I find a bacon end to give you. Yes, you throw it in for flavor. I go get my chef.” Within moments another aproned woman emerged from behind a curtain, this one smudged with flour and clearly in the middle of cooking. She listened seriously while I tried to relay boss man’s recipe, and agreed, reminding me to glaze the onion before folding in the sauerkraut, and tossing a final chunk of pig into my bag.
In addition to the meats I bought several jars of sauerkraut. Finally, unable to resist the pull of nostalgia, I tossed in a bar of Milka. Milk chocolate with hazelnuts. The crinkle of the wrapper; the rich, creamy sweetened chocolate and contrasting crunch of toasted nut . . . I floated back to the clean cold alpine air. Snow laden fields, glades, heisse schokolade, fondue, exercise induced exhaustion, muddy boots, chap stick, terrifying drop offs, layers of woolen sweaters . . . ski holidays in Switzerland.
Reluctantly I gathered my bags and prepared to leave the shop. “Do you need mustard,” the lady asked as an afterthought.
“Oh, no thank you,” I replied, “I’m making my own flavored mustards.” She beamed even more broadly and patted my shoulder. “Ah! You are a good girl.”
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Butchers, Nerves, and Golden Apples
I picked up the phone cautiously, knowing that it must be bad news. It was. “Darling,” mother said, “I couldn't’t find any stewing lamb so I got another cut.” I paused, took a couple deep breaths, and attempted to remain rational. “Ok, did you ask the butcher if it’s a good cut for slow cooking.”
“Oh, there wasn’t anyone there; no one at the meat counter.”
This bloody island, I thought. This bloody country! What we need is a return of the butcher shop; a good old fashioned little shop where the man knows his meat; a place where you can go each week, build up a relationship with the owner . . . chat about different cuts and the best techniques to cook each one. You become a regular; he—or quite possibly she (I’m thinking of making this my own mission)—finds special cuts you want, or bits of offal that no one else uses . . . .
I brought myself back from the pleasant fantasy of a world where every town has such a glorious establishment, back to the harsh reality of the moment. The supermarket and its infantile meat counter. Bah! “Right,” I replied to mother, having stoically suppressed my rant, “it will have to do, whatever it is.”
My annoyance at this inconvenience was magnified by the fact that I was considerable jumpy about this week’s feast. I was cooking for a chef. Well, to be precise, the man is an ex-chef, but still knows his stuff after having spent decades in the food industry. And now he was going to taste my cooking. Help!
I had decided on an old standby, a recipe I developed when a student budget forced me to become friends with the cheaper cuts of meat. The key to these bits of the animal is usually an infinitesimally slow simmer coupled with a good sauce. So my recipe called for some scraggy bits of stewing lamb, slowly cooked in stock, and then plunked into a rich reduction of tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It was a delicious and relatively foolproof production—ideal for this nerve wracking occasion. We would eat it on a bed of couscous and beside a leafy green salad. It would be simple, unpretentious, and stress-free. Or so I’d hoped.
The thing about cooking, you see, is that there are so many factors, so many interlocking pieces. Pull one of these away and the whole structure can come topping down. There are ingredients, timing, kitchen equipment, a neurotic cook—all manner of pieces that can throw the whole meal out of whack. One thing that I’m learning, throughout this project, is the dynamism and creativity needed to become a good cook. I took a few more deep breaths and decided not to worry. Kitchen vanity is not a virtue, I told myself. Neither is neurosis.
My saintliness was rewarded when mother returned with the meat, which I instantly grabbed and scrutinized. It wasn’t quite the cut I’d expected but near enough. Scraggy and worked enough to suit a slow simmer. And after that hiccup the afternoon passed in exactly the meandering, stress-free way I had imagined. I put on some flamenco music, cut the meat into chunks, browned it in some oil over a high heat, covered it in stock and then left it alone for a good four hours. And in the meantime there was little else for me to do besides make the tart tartin.
This too I chose for its dual qualities of reliability and scrumptiousness. It is a rich, caramelized apple tart, cooked on the stove in a skillet, then covered in pastry and finished in a medium hot oven. It has always struck me as a typically French way of cooking—clever and practical with excessively elegant results. You are cooking the tart upside down. So if done well, this method keeps the pastry from getting soggy while allowing you to conjure up a gloriously juicy and succulent dessert. Plus, cooking the apples in a skillet on the stove does a fantastic job of caramelizing the sugars. And finally when you flip the tart for the table, you are invariably faced with a glossy golden disc of fruit. It never fails. Trust me; you have this promise from someone who is spectacularly clumsy in the kitchen.
The food was good. Despite finding my taste buds in hypercritical mode: Are the tomatoes overwhelming? Does the saffron is have enough presence? Should I have added that final slosh of vermouth?
Splashing alcohol into a dish is always my distressed response when the flavors don't seem quite right. Surely a slosh of booze will harmonize it all, the thinking goes. Not very graceful, I’ll admit, but it sooths my worries all the same.
So here’s my recipe for slowly simmered lamb in tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It is provided in the hopes that it may be a soothing solution for kitchen nerves. And if you find yourself fussing about flavors, you can always add splash of vermouth near the end. I’m not sure if t really helps but hey, there’s a lot to be said for the placebo effect.
1 pound of lamb stew meat, cut into chunks
A little olive oil
1 bay leaf
About 1 quart chicken stock
Splash of cream
1 large can or jar of crushed tomatoes
A pinch of saffron stems
Some cream
Cholula or other hot sauce (Shhh . . . don’t tell)
Vermouth (optional)
Place a large, heavy-based pot over a fierce heat until very hot. Add a little oil to coat the pan and then quickly brown the stew meat on all sides (about 30 seconds total). Lower the flame to the lowest heat possible—really, the absolute lowest possible on your stove—and add enough chicken stock to cover well. Add the bay leaf and cover. The meat should be barely simmering, quivering ever so gently. It is vitally important, after the brief browning, not to cook the meat too quickly and it is virtually impossible to cook it too slowly. Allow the meat to quiver for about 3 and ½ hours until all delicate, melty, and tender.
Remove the lamb and cover to keep warm. Drain off most of the liquid, leaving about an inch in the pan. Remove the bay leaf, add the crushed tomatoes, and raise the heat to a boil. Add the saffron and allow the mixture to reduce and thicken to a rich sauce. (For a spicy version add a few shakes of a good quality hot sauce, such as Cholula. That’s totally cheating I know, but Cholula is what I used in a pinch and it worked rather well). Finally turn the heat down a bit and mix in a little cream to thicken and silken the sauce. Season to taste as necessary. Just before serving, return the meat to the pot. This dish is equally superb when served with either a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes, rice, or some herby couscous.
“Oh, there wasn’t anyone there; no one at the meat counter.”
This bloody island, I thought. This bloody country! What we need is a return of the butcher shop; a good old fashioned little shop where the man knows his meat; a place where you can go each week, build up a relationship with the owner . . . chat about different cuts and the best techniques to cook each one. You become a regular; he—or quite possibly she (I’m thinking of making this my own mission)—finds special cuts you want, or bits of offal that no one else uses . . . .
I brought myself back from the pleasant fantasy of a world where every town has such a glorious establishment, back to the harsh reality of the moment. The supermarket and its infantile meat counter. Bah! “Right,” I replied to mother, having stoically suppressed my rant, “it will have to do, whatever it is.”
My annoyance at this inconvenience was magnified by the fact that I was considerable jumpy about this week’s feast. I was cooking for a chef. Well, to be precise, the man is an ex-chef, but still knows his stuff after having spent decades in the food industry. And now he was going to taste my cooking. Help!
I had decided on an old standby, a recipe I developed when a student budget forced me to become friends with the cheaper cuts of meat. The key to these bits of the animal is usually an infinitesimally slow simmer coupled with a good sauce. So my recipe called for some scraggy bits of stewing lamb, slowly cooked in stock, and then plunked into a rich reduction of tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It was a delicious and relatively foolproof production—ideal for this nerve wracking occasion. We would eat it on a bed of couscous and beside a leafy green salad. It would be simple, unpretentious, and stress-free. Or so I’d hoped.
The thing about cooking, you see, is that there are so many factors, so many interlocking pieces. Pull one of these away and the whole structure can come topping down. There are ingredients, timing, kitchen equipment, a neurotic cook—all manner of pieces that can throw the whole meal out of whack. One thing that I’m learning, throughout this project, is the dynamism and creativity needed to become a good cook. I took a few more deep breaths and decided not to worry. Kitchen vanity is not a virtue, I told myself. Neither is neurosis.
My saintliness was rewarded when mother returned with the meat, which I instantly grabbed and scrutinized. It wasn’t quite the cut I’d expected but near enough. Scraggy and worked enough to suit a slow simmer. And after that hiccup the afternoon passed in exactly the meandering, stress-free way I had imagined. I put on some flamenco music, cut the meat into chunks, browned it in some oil over a high heat, covered it in stock and then left it alone for a good four hours. And in the meantime there was little else for me to do besides make the tart tartin.
This too I chose for its dual qualities of reliability and scrumptiousness. It is a rich, caramelized apple tart, cooked on the stove in a skillet, then covered in pastry and finished in a medium hot oven. It has always struck me as a typically French way of cooking—clever and practical with excessively elegant results. You are cooking the tart upside down. So if done well, this method keeps the pastry from getting soggy while allowing you to conjure up a gloriously juicy and succulent dessert. Plus, cooking the apples in a skillet on the stove does a fantastic job of caramelizing the sugars. And finally when you flip the tart for the table, you are invariably faced with a glossy golden disc of fruit. It never fails. Trust me; you have this promise from someone who is spectacularly clumsy in the kitchen.
The food was good. Despite finding my taste buds in hypercritical mode: Are the tomatoes overwhelming? Does the saffron is have enough presence? Should I have added that final slosh of vermouth?
Splashing alcohol into a dish is always my distressed response when the flavors don't seem quite right. Surely a slosh of booze will harmonize it all, the thinking goes. Not very graceful, I’ll admit, but it sooths my worries all the same.
So here’s my recipe for slowly simmered lamb in tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It is provided in the hopes that it may be a soothing solution for kitchen nerves. And if you find yourself fussing about flavors, you can always add splash of vermouth near the end. I’m not sure if t really helps but hey, there’s a lot to be said for the placebo effect.
1 pound of lamb stew meat, cut into chunks
A little olive oil
1 bay leaf
About 1 quart chicken stock
Splash of cream
1 large can or jar of crushed tomatoes
A pinch of saffron stems
Some cream
Cholula or other hot sauce (Shhh . . . don’t tell)
Vermouth (optional)
Place a large, heavy-based pot over a fierce heat until very hot. Add a little oil to coat the pan and then quickly brown the stew meat on all sides (about 30 seconds total). Lower the flame to the lowest heat possible—really, the absolute lowest possible on your stove—and add enough chicken stock to cover well. Add the bay leaf and cover. The meat should be barely simmering, quivering ever so gently. It is vitally important, after the brief browning, not to cook the meat too quickly and it is virtually impossible to cook it too slowly. Allow the meat to quiver for about 3 and ½ hours until all delicate, melty, and tender.
Remove the lamb and cover to keep warm. Drain off most of the liquid, leaving about an inch in the pan. Remove the bay leaf, add the crushed tomatoes, and raise the heat to a boil. Add the saffron and allow the mixture to reduce and thicken to a rich sauce. (For a spicy version add a few shakes of a good quality hot sauce, such as Cholula. That’s totally cheating I know, but Cholula is what I used in a pinch and it worked rather well). Finally turn the heat down a bit and mix in a little cream to thicken and silken the sauce. Season to taste as necessary. Just before serving, return the meat to the pot. This dish is equally superb when served with either a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes, rice, or some herby couscous.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The BBC food program and I are obviously on the same wavelength. Last Sunday's edition was all about feasting! http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qnx3
Monday, October 12, 2009
Passion and Pumpkins
I am still licking my wounds from a fight I had the other day—a big bloody battle with the beast of doubt. Another weekend was upon me and I was riddled with a fit of feasting blues. Why am I doing these stupid feasts? I thought. No one cares. No reads my blog . . . . and what’s more, most of the time I suck at cooking. I’m one giant, loud-mouthed fake of a cook.
Okay, you get the point that I was in full pouty sulky self-pitying mode. I got home from work and sat in the kitchen. I was supposed to be making pumpkin ravioli, as promised, for my mother’s poetry party. Instead I sat there in front of a big pumpkin, bawling my eyes out. And then, just as I was working myself into a full blown meltdown, something happened. I had one of those moments when, from out of nowhere, I was given a massive emotional kick in the butt. I remembered that man on the radio.
Okay, you get the point that I was in full pouty sulky self-pitying mode. I got home from work and sat in the kitchen. I was supposed to be making pumpkin ravioli, as promised, for my mother’s poetry party. Instead I sat there in front of a big pumpkin, bawling my eyes out. And then, just as I was working myself into a full blown meltdown, something happened. I had one of those moments when, from out of nowhere, I was given a massive emotional kick in the butt. I remembered that man on the radio.
It had happened that morning, as I fumbled through the pre-dawn ritual—kettle on, shower, make tea, get dressed—I turned on the radio just in time to hear the tail end of a most inspiring interview. A man was talking about people doing what they are passionate about. He commented on how we are often quick to make excuses and remain chained to the insipid daily grind. We are content to complain about work and merely couch dream of following our hearts. But now, when the channels of communication provided by the internet have made it effectively free to get your voice out, it is cowardly to play the victim and not pursue your dream. You think you don’t have time? Get up earlier, he growls.
At six in the morning, I shuddered. Get up earlier? Are you shitting me? But then, as the tea made its soothing way into my body, rousing my brain, I began mulling over his words. Within minutes I had to admit he has a point. It is so easy to complain and lack the guts to go after your passion, or to idolize it as an unattainable fantasy. Just like many of the things we want, the fanstasy is far simpler than the fissured reality.
I walked to work with the darkness wrapped around me, layered with dew, apples, and the wet fallen leaves of autumn. I thought about vocation and passion—these ideas with which I have been wrestling for years. Although I don’t claim any expertise in the matter, I have read volumes on vocation, listened to eloquent speeches on the art of pursuing your passion, and debated with friends, family, and teachers on these topics.
Through all this searching certain principles have surfaced. One of these, which strikes a chord within my own experience, and of which I was reminded by the radio interview, is that one’s passion takes work. We often have a Hollywood vision of vocation in which the artist or writer, scientist or teacher wakes up every morning brimming with enthusiasm and conviction. The truth is much closer to what one of my flamenco teachers said when asked about becoming a professional dancer: “It’s about 90% sweat and 10% inspiration.” For me that figure would change to about 95% sweat, doubt, and over analysis, with a measly 5% inspiration.
And yet, despite the odds, I had one of those rousing moments there, sitting in the kitchen in front of that big old pumpkin with my cheeks all wet. It was as if in that gloriously deranged moment the pumpkin was my life: “Are you gonna take me and turn me into something wonderful?” it said, “Or just let me rot?”
In response I glowered at the vegetable, got up and grabbed my biggest knife. Just watch it, pumpkin! Just you watch my dust!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Ancient Kitchen Gadgets
For a long time now I have been fantasizing about owning my own mortar and pestle. Not just any old specimen, but one of those pale, weighty stone bowls with carved, knobbed handles and a wooden pestle to go with it. For a while I resisted the allure of this ancient kitchen gadget, telling myself it was simply romantic and pointless. After all, I already possess a battalion of tools that can be used to for the purpose of bashing a combination of ingredients together. And I have been muddling along perfectly well with a rolling pin and a bowl for ages.
However, I finally gave myself permission to indulge in this purchase after hearing an excerpt from The Splendid Table. (You know, that public radio program hosted by the woman with an incredibly comforting voice—you can just imagine her bustling about with warming Italian soups.) Anyway, they were discussing the mortar and pestle, pointing out that it has a significantly different effect on ingredients than a blender for instance. Instead of cutting with a blade, it squashes with the blunt pressure of the pestle on the stone mortar, releasing more oils in the process. The techniques are really quite different and each is useful in specific circumstances. For instance when you’re making a mojito, a mortar and pestle would be the perfect choice for muddling the mint, lemon, and sugar together, dissolving the sweet crystals in the acid and releasing the mint’s oil into the mix.
And so, after having my romantic gadget confirmed as a truly useful tool, I gleefully headed for the kitchen shop and bought the biggest one I could find. I am happy to report that it looks exactly like the medieval image I had in mind, adding an air of the apothecary and alchemist to my kitchen. Now, I’ll just have to find a way to use it for my next feast.
However, I finally gave myself permission to indulge in this purchase after hearing an excerpt from The Splendid Table. (You know, that public radio program hosted by the woman with an incredibly comforting voice—you can just imagine her bustling about with warming Italian soups.) Anyway, they were discussing the mortar and pestle, pointing out that it has a significantly different effect on ingredients than a blender for instance. Instead of cutting with a blade, it squashes with the blunt pressure of the pestle on the stone mortar, releasing more oils in the process. The techniques are really quite different and each is useful in specific circumstances. For instance when you’re making a mojito, a mortar and pestle would be the perfect choice for muddling the mint, lemon, and sugar together, dissolving the sweet crystals in the acid and releasing the mint’s oil into the mix.
And so, after having my romantic gadget confirmed as a truly useful tool, I gleefully headed for the kitchen shop and bought the biggest one I could find. I am happy to report that it looks exactly like the medieval image I had in mind, adding an air of the apothecary and alchemist to my kitchen. Now, I’ll just have to find a way to use it for my next feast.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Slow Feasting
Ok, so this slacking is becoming a bit of a habit. I confess that another weekend slipped past with no genuine feasting. However, I’ve been thinking, and have made a decision to be more flexible with my feasting. The goal of preparing and enjoying fifty-two feasts remains, but I am going to take them at a more comfortable pace. After all, the whole point about this project is to enjoy cooking and eating; it runs against the spirit of the thing to stress about deadlines and goals. So what if it takes me two years to arrive at the final feast (which I am already planning—spit roasted pig anyone?) And another thing: I have, in the handful of feasts cataloged so far, realized that the ones I put more energy and anticipation into are simply more luscious and satisfying than those hurried culinary quickies.
Basically this is a long way of excusing myself from feasting this week. No panic, however, as I have several plans bubbling away on the back burner: elegant hors d’ oeuvres for a poetry party, a massive gastronomic homage to Oktoberfest, and a tableful of delicacies for a tea party are all on the menu this month.
Basically this is a long way of excusing myself from feasting this week. No panic, however, as I have several plans bubbling away on the back burner: elegant hors d’ oeuvres for a poetry party, a massive gastronomic homage to Oktoberfest, and a tableful of delicacies for a tea party are all on the menu this month.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Timing
The more I cook, the more I realize that roasting a perfect joint or making a divine sauce is far less challenging that the wild logistics of timing. That is what I most admire in restaurants—the chef’s ability to multitask in the midst of mayhem and knives, to pass through unscathed and produce something spectacular. And our eminent chef repeats the process ad infinitum.
The magnitude of this achievement was brought home to me on the night of the party. I had spent all afternoon prepping veg and making sauces, organizing pans and strategizing over delivery. By 6:30 I was feeling positively cavalier, a glass of wine in hand, the beef merrily sizzling in the oven and all the trimmings ready to roll. But then something cracked—as it often does. I put the potatoes on to parboil and the water took far longer than I’d expected. We didn’t have a skillet big enough for the spinach. One of the Yorkshire pudding pans vanished into that gapping void of infuriating, untimely kitchen implement disappearances. With the joint up to its prime temperature and resting, things got really hectic. The carrots seemed to cook instantaneously while the Yorkshire puds threatened not to puff to satisfactory size. And the bloody potatoes hadn’t even gone into the oven yet.
As I stood over the potatoes fuming silently, Mother joined me and peered into the pot. “Oh no,” she commented. And then with unusual efficacy: “why don’t we mash them instead?”
And that, my friends, is why I love home cooking and enviously admire the abilities of the professional chef. Your friends are just gonna suck it up and smile if they were craving roast potatoes, but your customers—they will make that painfully aggrieved face (I’ve seen it many times and made it a few) and demand their money back.
So, with the help of Mother and her friend Steph, we made a beautiful, butter-rich mash. And it all turned out pretty much perfectly, even if the kitchen looked as though it were the front lines of a horrific battle. (“How did you manage to get leek on the ceiling?” Jenna marveled). But the food was good: a perfect joint, cooked to a rosy, rare hue, accompanied by the creamy heat of horseradish. The carrots, glazed in a slightly sweet reduction of chicken stock, butter, and sugar rubbed shoulders with leeks in a light white sauce which I had laced with vermouth, mustard, and lemon. Even the Yorkshire puddings rose admirably to the occasion despite my fears.
Ok, I admit that mashed potatoes felt slightly sacrilegious, and I found myself lamenting the loss of crispy roast spuds amongst the soft leeks and tender carrots, but they did the job alright. And across all of this we drizzled the dark and glossy gravy I had made from wine, stout, beef stock and the pan juices from the roast. It was rich and intoxicating with a minute bitter edge which acted only to accentuate the natural sweetness of the meat.
To finish we had a simple apple crumble and basked in a fog of wine and repletion. The key to a good crumble, I’ve decided, is to ban all attempts to make it a healthy dessert. No whole wheat flour or sugar substitutes as these result in a leaden, unpalatable crust (obviously I’m willing to be proven wrong, dear readers, if you have a stellar recipe). No, it’s all about piling on a mixture of white flour butter and sugar. This time I mixed a cup of slivered almonds into the crumble; they gave a nice, crunchy contrast to the melty fruit beneath.
The magnitude of this achievement was brought home to me on the night of the party. I had spent all afternoon prepping veg and making sauces, organizing pans and strategizing over delivery. By 6:30 I was feeling positively cavalier, a glass of wine in hand, the beef merrily sizzling in the oven and all the trimmings ready to roll. But then something cracked—as it often does. I put the potatoes on to parboil and the water took far longer than I’d expected. We didn’t have a skillet big enough for the spinach. One of the Yorkshire pudding pans vanished into that gapping void of infuriating, untimely kitchen implement disappearances. With the joint up to its prime temperature and resting, things got really hectic. The carrots seemed to cook instantaneously while the Yorkshire puds threatened not to puff to satisfactory size. And the bloody potatoes hadn’t even gone into the oven yet.
As I stood over the potatoes fuming silently, Mother joined me and peered into the pot. “Oh no,” she commented. And then with unusual efficacy: “why don’t we mash them instead?”
And that, my friends, is why I love home cooking and enviously admire the abilities of the professional chef. Your friends are just gonna suck it up and smile if they were craving roast potatoes, but your customers—they will make that painfully aggrieved face (I’ve seen it many times and made it a few) and demand their money back.
So, with the help of Mother and her friend Steph, we made a beautiful, butter-rich mash. And it all turned out pretty much perfectly, even if the kitchen looked as though it were the front lines of a horrific battle. (“How did you manage to get leek on the ceiling?” Jenna marveled). But the food was good: a perfect joint, cooked to a rosy, rare hue, accompanied by the creamy heat of horseradish. The carrots, glazed in a slightly sweet reduction of chicken stock, butter, and sugar rubbed shoulders with leeks in a light white sauce which I had laced with vermouth, mustard, and lemon. Even the Yorkshire puddings rose admirably to the occasion despite my fears.
Ok, I admit that mashed potatoes felt slightly sacrilegious, and I found myself lamenting the loss of crispy roast spuds amongst the soft leeks and tender carrots, but they did the job alright. And across all of this we drizzled the dark and glossy gravy I had made from wine, stout, beef stock and the pan juices from the roast. It was rich and intoxicating with a minute bitter edge which acted only to accentuate the natural sweetness of the meat.
To finish we had a simple apple crumble and basked in a fog of wine and repletion. The key to a good crumble, I’ve decided, is to ban all attempts to make it a healthy dessert. No whole wheat flour or sugar substitutes as these result in a leaden, unpalatable crust (obviously I’m willing to be proven wrong, dear readers, if you have a stellar recipe). No, it’s all about piling on a mixture of white flour butter and sugar. This time I mixed a cup of slivered almonds into the crumble; they gave a nice, crunchy contrast to the melty fruit beneath.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Epic Beef
Well, I shall never say an uncharitable word against Mother again. She came up trumps, returning from town with a massive 6-rib roast. I spent a good five minutes ou- ing and ah-ing over its lustrous sheen and healthy marbling of fat. Am not sure I have ever before had the luxury of roasting a joint this epic. Better not bugger it up, that’s for sure.In addition to the beef, Mother also produced a knurly length of horseradish root so that I can make my own freshly creamed condiment and avoid those junky jarred specimens. This is more unchartered territory as I have never seen a whole horseradish, let alone prepared it before. Luckily I am in good hands, clutching steadfastly to the River Cottage Meat Book, by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, one of my favorite cookbook authors. He calls his version of a traditional English Sunday lunch, “the Full Monty of roast beef.” How could you not like this guy!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
As for the next feast, it will more than make up for last week's failure to launch. The plan is to cook for my dad's birthday dinner; we’ll be 14 people all together. I asked Dad to pick out the menu and he promptly puffed up his chest and boomed in sonorous voice: “Roast beef of old England. With all the trimmings.” So roast beef it is.
Mum is picking up a joint in Seattle today. I got rather stressed about this last night when she asked me to write her a shopping list. You see I like to be the one who picks out the meat. Breathing hotly, I painfully explained to her the importance of getting a good quality joint. It must have the bone in, I stressed. And lots of white marbling throughout. “Do they call it a joint in America,” she questioned. “Won’t they think I’m looking for weed?”
I glared at her coldly. “Not in Whole Foods, mother.”
Mum is picking up a joint in Seattle today. I got rather stressed about this last night when she asked me to write her a shopping list. You see I like to be the one who picks out the meat. Breathing hotly, I painfully explained to her the importance of getting a good quality joint. It must have the bone in, I stressed. And lots of white marbling throughout. “Do they call it a joint in America,” she questioned. “Won’t they think I’m looking for weed?”
I glared at her coldly. “Not in Whole Foods, mother.”
Fuel for Future Feasting
Last weekend slipped by and I awoke on Monday morning, dazed and annoyed—I had failed to feast. The cause of this abysmal situation was a combination of too much work and too little planning. I am finding that the most challenging aspect of this project is not the cooking itself, but the logistical arrangements it takes to bring people together for a meal in these frenetic times.Furthermore, for the first time in my life I have something approaching a full time job; a fact that is imprinting on my mind a deep and abiding sympathy for anyone who tries to do anything in addition to this marvelous feat. As for people who somehow manage to work and, I don’t know, raise a family or something—without going completely mad—I am simply awestruck by the epic magnitude of such an accomplishment. Count me out of ever pursuing the fashionable superwoman track (you know the one: high-powered job and healthy children, a good marriage and the figure of a goddess). I have enough trouble simply balancing on my own, let alone walking a tightrope with dozens of quivering juggling balls. Hah!
So when I finally found some free time, not having invited anyone over to eat, I decided to ban further procrastination and get down to some serious preserving. One could even say, from a very creative angle, that I was cooking—stocking away food for future feasts.
I had a bowl of plums in urgent need to being turned into jam, an apple tree positively groaning with fruit, and I had somehow wandered far from my rhythm of weekly bread baking. Furthermore, I am becoming very slightly bored of the delicious paninis from the café where I work. And, after a good three months of gulping them down on a regular basis, I have decided that my lunches are in need of a little inspiration.
Tuesday afternoon, therefore, was spent fogging up the windows of my little studio: While a ball of whole wheat bread rose on the counter, I peeled, chopped, simmered, and whizzed a massive batch of lemon-laced carrot soup. As this was bubbling I sliced up a mountain of plums and mixed them with sugar and cardamom pods for jam. Next a couple dozen apples from our tree were picked, peeled, cored, quartered and strewed. I wanted to try an intriguing recipe from The Encyclopedia of Country Living, a delightful book chock full of do-it-yourself living, from growing veggies to slaughtering chickens, making soap, and preserving fruit. This recipe was for “apple ketchup,” and called for stewed apples, vinegar, onions, sugar, and a bundle of different spices.
The only problem is that I got over zealous and prepared way too many apples. Now I have jars and jars of this odd yet delicious condiment; certainly enough to last for a good two or three years. Oh well, I think it will be ideal as an accompaniment to pork loin or sausages, as part of a chicken sandwich or to glaze a shoulder of ham.
Anyway, here’s the recipe which I have adapted from The Encyclopedia of Country Living.
Peel, core, and quarter about a dozen apples. Stew these in a tiny bit of water (just enough so that they don’t stick to the pan). When soft, remove from the heat and mash roughly. Measure out the mixture and dump it into a blender or food processor. For every quart of apples, add 1 teaspoon each of ground pepper, cloves, mustard, cinnamon, a cautious pinch of cayenne and 2 chopped onions. Finish with 2/3 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon salt, and about 1 – 1 ½ cups apple cider vinegar. Whiz all this together until silky smooth, then taste and adjust seasoning as necessary.
Now fully engaged in earth maiden mode (bread baking in the oven, jam bubbling away on the stove) I even saved the apple peelings from my ketchup and am now attempting a batch of vinegar. It is a long process and apparently a rather tricky one so I don’t have soaring expectations. However, I promise to report the results—suave success or acidic failure—within the next six months or so.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Devolved Parties
Apologies for the silence. And no, in case you´re wondering, I have not been nursing an epic hangover for the last few days (I was fully recovered and sparkling crystal clear within just one blessed revolution of the sun, or earth rather). It is merely that life got in my way, in her usual crafty manner. But enough excuses, back to the feast . . .
“Ouu, yay, mashed potatoes, my favorite,” said Jacob as I plunked down a steaming dish onto the table. “No,” I corrected him, bristling. “Its fennel puree. Well, to be exact its fennel puree made with the addition of some mashed potatoes.”
“Ouu, yay, mashed potatoes, my favorite,” said Jacob as I plunked down a steaming dish onto the table. “No,” I corrected him, bristling. “Its fennel puree. Well, to be exact its fennel puree made with the addition of some mashed potatoes.”
“Like I said, he continued grinning, “I love a good mash.”
I sighed. Any cook—from mom with her mama’s potatoes to the most lauded chef with his signature dish of truffle-infused, sage-rubbed, flash-seared god knows what—knows the importance of wording in the presentation of a meal. So it is rather exasperating to have one’s guests reduce one’s fennel puree to mere mashed potatoes. Bah!
Nonetheless, this slandered puree was a highlight of the meal; a soft aromatic swirl of fennel root and seeds, cream and potatoes. Its herbal-tinged aroma coupled particularly well with the fruity sweetness of the blackberries—a very good combo indeed.
I must, however, admit that the dinner conversation was not as elevated as the food—although just as juicy. Somehow we got onto the subject of high school parties, many of which are treasure troves packed with unrepeatable details of shameless shenanigans. As Danielle pointed out, most of them devolved into nudity. And barely any provocation was needed for the clothing to come flying off. Booze was the most common cause, with that comforting qualification it invariably provides. But even the slightest tipple seemed to be the only proviso we required. And on one memorable occasion we even found ourselves in the paradisaical state after an unusually indulgent dinner at my place. Later, the others claimed I’d put something in the food. Honestly!
The fifth feast continued its downward spiral—despite a saintly dessert of homemade, agave-sweetened raspberry frozen yogurt. By 11 pm we were crowded around my computer watching juvenile yet hopelessly funny videos on You Tube. Don’t ask. Just think Justin Timberlake, unusual Christmas presents, and mother lovers. Still, at least we didn’t end up in the nuddy. It’s good to know we’ve evolved slightly.
I sighed. Any cook—from mom with her mama’s potatoes to the most lauded chef with his signature dish of truffle-infused, sage-rubbed, flash-seared god knows what—knows the importance of wording in the presentation of a meal. So it is rather exasperating to have one’s guests reduce one’s fennel puree to mere mashed potatoes. Bah!
Nonetheless, this slandered puree was a highlight of the meal; a soft aromatic swirl of fennel root and seeds, cream and potatoes. Its herbal-tinged aroma coupled particularly well with the fruity sweetness of the blackberries—a very good combo indeed.
I must, however, admit that the dinner conversation was not as elevated as the food—although just as juicy. Somehow we got onto the subject of high school parties, many of which are treasure troves packed with unrepeatable details of shameless shenanigans. As Danielle pointed out, most of them devolved into nudity. And barely any provocation was needed for the clothing to come flying off. Booze was the most common cause, with that comforting qualification it invariably provides. But even the slightest tipple seemed to be the only proviso we required. And on one memorable occasion we even found ourselves in the paradisaical state after an unusually indulgent dinner at my place. Later, the others claimed I’d put something in the food. Honestly!
The fifth feast continued its downward spiral—despite a saintly dessert of homemade, agave-sweetened raspberry frozen yogurt. By 11 pm we were crowded around my computer watching juvenile yet hopelessly funny videos on You Tube. Don’t ask. Just think Justin Timberlake, unusual Christmas presents, and mother lovers. Still, at least we didn’t end up in the nuddy. It’s good to know we’ve evolved slightly.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Advice on Wine and Flesh
Flipping through a tomb called Wildwood: Cooking from the source in the Pacific Northwest, I happened upon a recipe which seemed to fit the bill perfectly for my fifth feast. The criteria were threefold: I needed a meal that a) had no wheat, owing to the wheat allergies of several of my friends, b) would not make my wallet shiver (as I am attempting to break a lifetime habit and actually save a spot of money), and c) would be in radiant, self-satisfied harmony with this late summer season. Wildwood provided me with an answer in the form of a recipe for “chicken legs, braised in pinot noir and blackberries, with fennel purée.” Perfect.
Alas, nothing in life is that simple, it seems. I turned up to work on the morning of my feast and my boss, on seeing the cookbook, promptly picked it up and scrutinized the recipe with a suspicious eye (this man has a cooking library of over 3,000 books and a culinary arts degree , so I kinda listen to what he says). “Yeah, I’ve got this book, and I’ve eaten at the restaurant . . . wasn’t that impressed really.”
“Oh,” I replied, slightly deflated. I had been so excited about this meal. “So you don’t think it’ll be any good then?”
Boss man smiled apologetically, and explained. “Well, you see this recipe is basically a twist on coq au vin, which is made using an old bird. The tannins in the wine work on breaking down the tougher muscle, you see. But we don’t really get old birds here, so the wine might be kinda hard. Know what I mean?”
“Yea, of course. That makes sense.” I felt fully deflated by now.
But a minute or two later boss man was back. “What you could do,” he began and then paused, qualifying with a sideways smile, “not that I want to interfere. Am I interfering? Good. So, what you could do is cook the wine down a while. Cook it with some good chicken stock and maybe a little mirepois. That’ll soften it up a bit. Then use that liquid to braise the meat. It’s just a thought,” he finished, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders and another half grin.
And so, obedient to the advice of my new culinary mentor, I pushed the offending cookbook aside and followed his instructions. The result? Luscious, fork tender flakes of flesh, all stained purple with blackberries and softened wine sauce. The meal? Well I’m tired and hung over so that story is for tomorrow.
Alas, nothing in life is that simple, it seems. I turned up to work on the morning of my feast and my boss, on seeing the cookbook, promptly picked it up and scrutinized the recipe with a suspicious eye (this man has a cooking library of over 3,000 books and a culinary arts degree , so I kinda listen to what he says). “Yeah, I’ve got this book, and I’ve eaten at the restaurant . . . wasn’t that impressed really.”
“Oh,” I replied, slightly deflated. I had been so excited about this meal. “So you don’t think it’ll be any good then?”
Boss man smiled apologetically, and explained. “Well, you see this recipe is basically a twist on coq au vin, which is made using an old bird. The tannins in the wine work on breaking down the tougher muscle, you see. But we don’t really get old birds here, so the wine might be kinda hard. Know what I mean?”
“Yea, of course. That makes sense.” I felt fully deflated by now.
But a minute or two later boss man was back. “What you could do,” he began and then paused, qualifying with a sideways smile, “not that I want to interfere. Am I interfering? Good. So, what you could do is cook the wine down a while. Cook it with some good chicken stock and maybe a little mirepois. That’ll soften it up a bit. Then use that liquid to braise the meat. It’s just a thought,” he finished, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders and another half grin.
And so, obedient to the advice of my new culinary mentor, I pushed the offending cookbook aside and followed his instructions. The result? Luscious, fork tender flakes of flesh, all stained purple with blackberries and softened wine sauce. The meal? Well I’m tired and hung over so that story is for tomorrow.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Best Roasted Beets
This last week, I found myself whisking up the fourth feast for a table full of family friends. Tapas, I decided. (Strangely I am a paragon of decisiveness in the kitchen, despite my wavering, often fickle nature in the rest of life.) I chose a couple traditional Spanish dishes, including albondigas (juicy, herby meatballs with an accompanying mayonnaise) and champiñones al ajillo (a pungent plate of garlicky mushrooms). Then I picked out a beautiful Mediterranean potato salad drizzled with an olive oil, balsamic, anchovy, and caper dressing. Add to this a butter-simmered green bean and olive salad as well as a pan of flash-fried calamari, and I almost had a meal. But we needed just one more nibble . . .
Rooting around in the fridge to see what else lay in store, I found a couple beets. Perfect! Roasted beets topped with soft crumbled goat cheese. Taking a tip from the Culinary Institute of America’s text book, I discovered an easy solution to my long-time beet roasting struggle. Previously, I had simply treated beets in the same way I treat potatoes: peel and chop, place on a baking sheet with plenty of oil and seasoning and bung them into a decently hot oven until done. Only this method is sadly unsuited, I have repeatedly discovered, to the chemical composition of beets. Please don’t ask for a technical explanation, I was a liberal studies major for a reason. The result was always a pan full of shriveled leathery morsels that looked and tasted profoundly unsatisfactory.
The key, I discovered, is to first cook the beets in water. This way they cook through, becoming tender while maintaining their cheery plumpness. Finally you drain off the water, pump up the oven and finish them off with a hot, oily roasting.These specimens were a revelation: a soft, rich center cocooned in a thin, crispy coat. So, here’s a recipe that will raise the often beleaguered beet to its rightful place in the roasting family:
Ingredients:
A couple pounds of beets
A few good glugs of olive oil
Salt and pepper
A couple ounces of soft goat cheese
Peel, quarter, and dice beets. Place in a large pan and pour in enough water to just cover bottom of pan. Cover with foil and cook in the oven at 375° F for about 45 minutes or until just cooked through. Remove beets and raise roasting temperature to 450° F. Drain off water and return beets to the pan with enough olive oil to coat. Season the beets with salt and pepper before returning them to the oven until nice and crisp. Sprinkle with crumbled goat cheese before serving.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Women, Men, and Dionysus
Cooking in another person’s kitchen, no matter how well equipped and enticing that space may be, is a momentous challenge. Somehow I don’t feel the same smooth confidence and panache, but am constantly searching for utensils and sparring with the unfamiliar stove. Furthermore, while at home I always cook with the contents of my pantry hovering at the back of my mind, this is not possible in a foreign kitchen. That dash of smoked Spanish paprika is not there when it would lend the final touch to a dish; and those good old standby jugs of chicken stock are conspicuous by their absence. It is as if the cook is a violinist and the kitchen an unfamiliar instrument.Yet despite this handicap, and with the help of the gracious Danielle (who calmly suffered me charging into her kitchen armed with a huge cast iron skillet and causing a decent amount of mess and chaos), we managed to whip together a passable meal. I say only passable because of my own silly mistakes. Instead of long-grained white rice (the proper base for a paella), I grabbed aborio from the supermarket self, so that we had no choice but to make a slightly clumsy Italian-Spanish mutt of a dish: a sort of bastardized paella-flavored risotto. (These sins are necessary to confess in the hopes that I shall be given absolution by the gods of gastronomy .) Yet the contents of my skillet were decently edible by the time the four of us gathered on Danielle’s patio for dinner. The stock and wine thickened grains of rice providing a bed for flash fried jumbo shrimp, paprika dusted squid, and steamed mussels. It’s hard to completely bugger it up when you’re working with fresh, high quality seafood. And although It wasn’t true paella, by any stretch of the imagination, neither was it a total disaster.
So we sat munching our meal on the rooftop deck, looking across as the sun set behind Green Lake and its industrious power walkers. Aleah was leaving. This fact, combined with the crisp tang of fall in the air, lent a slightly subdued tone to the evening. We ate, chatted a bit, drank a little wine, and parted: Aleah to finish her packing, the rest of us to get on with our daily lives. And I couldn’t help concluding reluctantly on the drive home, that this farewell girls night was a meal. It was a decent meal rather than an authentic feast.
Later, I mused on the secret ingredient in a feast. What is it that turns ordinary food into a sort of communion? I know it cannot be reduced to the quality of the meal, as I have eaten exquisite dinners in decidedly frigid, un-feast-like settings, and conversely I have dined on the most basic of food in an abundantly festive environment. No, food alone does not make a feast. Perhaps, I though jokingly to myself, men are the secret ingredient? After all, this girls night was the first of my fifty-two feasts that has not felt like a true feast. Yes, I continued thinking, more seriously now. It makes sense, in a deliciously politically incorrect sort of way. Men tend to have bigger appetites. They tend to worry less about calories and demolish food with more abandon. They also bring a sort of subtle balance to a gathering, a grounded solidity that I somehow feel is lacking in a purely female environment.
Of course, perhaps I have simply outgrown girl’s night, shocking as the thought may be. Last time, I wrote about the unique nature of this ritual, of how it sustained me through the trials of high school and beyond. Perhaps I have finally grown up; familiar enough now with the landscape of my own femininity, so that I no longer need the sisterhood of fellow explorers constantly by my side.
I am not sure what the secret is (so don’t get too cocky, you men out there). Yet there is an intangible difference between a meal and a feast. The latter has a sort of magnanimous flavor, don’t you think? It has an epic expansiveness about it. I guess it takes a while to seduce Dionysus, the god of wine and abundance--but that’s the quest I’m on, friends.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Brownies, Bridget Jones, and Boys
Today I woke up at 6:30 (for no good reason other than that my body is a puritanically early riser) and after battling against consciousness for a few militant minutes, surrendered to the day and went down stairs to make some tea. An early morning “cuppa,” while still enveloped in a dressing gown and sporting eccentric bed hair, is one of my favorite moments of the day. And this morning was particularly scrumptious as I had the pleasant work of figuring out what to make for my third feast, coming up tomorrow evening. It is going to be a farewell meal and Girls Night for one of my dearest friends, Aleah, as she is heading off next week with her boyfriend to spent the next six months or so in Amsterdam (lucky buggers.)
Girls Night has become an institution among my Seattle friends and I. It all began in the rollercoaster years of high school, when we would ban all testosterone for an evening each week, watch goofy romantic comedies, paint our nails, compare notes on boys, sex, and love, and eat copious quantities of brownies with whipped cream.
This ritual was a balm for me, a haven of secretive femininity in which we all dared to confess our gravest sins and giggle over our silliest escapades. There was a unique dynamic created, in that space of undiluted feminine, one that wove between the therapeutic and the gleefully silly, yet was always supremely nourishing.
Over the years our evenings have often gone into hibernation, as we have all been sprinkled across the globe at different times and variously absorbed in our own lives. Yet Girls Nights still happen, more of a marking of passages now, than a weekly ritual. We’ll have one when someone’s leaving or returning, when a lot of shit slaps one of us across the face, during brake ups to sooth wounds, or when someone’s got a new guy and we want all the juicy details. As for tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be the last Girls Night, but it’ll be bitter sweet nonetheless.
And so, as I leaf through recipe books this morning, I’m looking for something as warm and round and encircling as these evenings have always been for me. . . . Something communal and summery . . . I’m thinking a big skillet of seafood paella and a leafy green salad, some albariño wine and stewed peaches for dessert. We’ve come a long way from brownies and whipped cream, gastronomically at least.
Girls Night has become an institution among my Seattle friends and I. It all began in the rollercoaster years of high school, when we would ban all testosterone for an evening each week, watch goofy romantic comedies, paint our nails, compare notes on boys, sex, and love, and eat copious quantities of brownies with whipped cream.
This ritual was a balm for me, a haven of secretive femininity in which we all dared to confess our gravest sins and giggle over our silliest escapades. There was a unique dynamic created, in that space of undiluted feminine, one that wove between the therapeutic and the gleefully silly, yet was always supremely nourishing.
Over the years our evenings have often gone into hibernation, as we have all been sprinkled across the globe at different times and variously absorbed in our own lives. Yet Girls Nights still happen, more of a marking of passages now, than a weekly ritual. We’ll have one when someone’s leaving or returning, when a lot of shit slaps one of us across the face, during brake ups to sooth wounds, or when someone’s got a new guy and we want all the juicy details. As for tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be the last Girls Night, but it’ll be bitter sweet nonetheless.
And so, as I leaf through recipe books this morning, I’m looking for something as warm and round and encircling as these evenings have always been for me. . . . Something communal and summery . . . I’m thinking a big skillet of seafood paella and a leafy green salad, some albariño wine and stewed peaches for dessert. We’ve come a long way from brownies and whipped cream, gastronomically at least.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Playing with Pasta
The pork loin was in the oven and the guests had begun flocking to the back garden. In a sudden fit of turtle-like effacement I found myself not wanting to socialize but instead to hide in the kitchen, ensconced in a voluminous Swedish apron, rolling fresh pasta. However, several junior guests would not allow this, and soon I found myself the center of a small cluster of wide-eyed on-lookers. They were mesmerized by the process of rolling and cutting the pasta dough, watching intensely as I threaded, folded, and threaded again; gradually transforming the rough ball into a paper-thin sheet which I then shredded into strands of fettuccini.
Elijah, a little boy with a head of tight black curls, hurled a volley of questions at me: what was I doing? Why did it have to be rolled so many times? Was it not thin enough yet? And he appeared so entranced when I finally shredded a sheet of dough, that my heart and desire for hermitage melted and I offered to let him have a go.
Alas I should have remembered that children are sticklers for equal distribution of goods and services, and I soon found myself teaching the whole cluster of kids how to roll pasta. Now I don’t consider myself to be one of those women who is inherently good with kids, or particularly motherly, but as I helped the determined little Phoebe press a wad of pasta through the machine I suddenly found myself immensely gratified by the whole process. Perhaps the rather maternal Swedish apron I wore (which looks more like a frilly Mexican peasant dress than anything else) was subtly influencing my mind; or perhaps my raw wrangle of emotions was responsible. Either way, that evening socializing with children seemed a haven of comfort and sustenance.
Later I took off my apron, bolstered my courage with a glass of red, and went outside to socialize with the rest of the guests. But looking back on the evening, the thing that really etched itself into my memory is standing in the kitchen with those eager kids, playing gleefully with dough and rolling pasta together.
Elijah, a little boy with a head of tight black curls, hurled a volley of questions at me: what was I doing? Why did it have to be rolled so many times? Was it not thin enough yet? And he appeared so entranced when I finally shredded a sheet of dough, that my heart and desire for hermitage melted and I offered to let him have a go.
Alas I should have remembered that children are sticklers for equal distribution of goods and services, and I soon found myself teaching the whole cluster of kids how to roll pasta. Now I don’t consider myself to be one of those women who is inherently good with kids, or particularly motherly, but as I helped the determined little Phoebe press a wad of pasta through the machine I suddenly found myself immensely gratified by the whole process. Perhaps the rather maternal Swedish apron I wore (which looks more like a frilly Mexican peasant dress than anything else) was subtly influencing my mind; or perhaps my raw wrangle of emotions was responsible. Either way, that evening socializing with children seemed a haven of comfort and sustenance.
Later I took off my apron, bolstered my courage with a glass of red, and went outside to socialize with the rest of the guests. But looking back on the evening, the thing that really etched itself into my memory is standing in the kitchen with those eager kids, playing gleefully with dough and rolling pasta together.
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