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. . . ”

Along with the main dish we ate a fairly simple green salad, two types of homemade mustard (beer-caraway, and dried cranberry), apple ketchup, and a massive round of freshly baked Pugliese bread, for mopping purposes.

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.

It may be obvious by now, but I have not been sticking to my initial plan of Sabbath feasts. Rather they are happening willy nilly (I love that expression!) all through the week. What can I say? I am spiritually lax and undisciplined. Cheers dears.

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.

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.”

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.