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.
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