My Nigella Moment

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.