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.

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!

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.”

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.

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.”

“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.

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.

What in the name of Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus am I going to cook tomorrow? Help! Am experiencing an unfamiliar case of kitchen block . . .

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.

For the record, I adore my girl friends to death, so don't take this the wrong way darlings . .

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.