In the Manner of a Miller's Wife

Elizabeth David begins fiercely on the subject: “I am always rather surprised” she remarks, “when I read in books and articles that to cook a fish à la meunière is one of the simplest achievements. Simple in conception certainly; but in execution, no.”

I was in the supermarket perusing the glass-fronted fish counter with Lara, my sister in law, as these words sailed into memory. We were both in the mood for something aquatic that evening, and as we gazed at slabs of salmon, jumbles of shrimp and barnacle stained mussels, my eye was caught by a pile of shimmering rainbow trout. I had never cooked trout. However, in my quest to conquer the world of fish cookery, I’d read of a certain French method with fish called à la meunière, a phrase that translates as something cooked “in the manner of a miller’s wife.” I assume that this derives logically from the coating of flour that is applied to the fish before frying. This miller, so fortunate in his betrothed, would naturally possess mounds of flour, which his shrewd and resourceful wife would then use to create a crisp encasement for delicate, butter-fried fish. Et voilà! And yet the redoubtable Mrs. David continues on an accusatory note when writing of this technique:

“Do they think to tell you, the instructors of the nothing-is-simpler school, that the butter in which you fry your sole must be clarified butter, that you must watch your fish like a hawk to see that it does not stick and burn, that to turn it without breaking is a tricky business, that you should discard the remains of the butter in which your fish was cooked, and that you must start again with a clean pan and a quantity of fresh butter, not clarified, and that this butter must be brought exactly to the right point when it turns a pale, hazel-nut colour, no more and no less, and that it must be poured instantly over the waiting fish which must with equal immediacy be set in front of those who are to eat it? Do they even tell you, these optimists . . .?”

Her rhetorical questioning continues with vigor. Yet despite these cautions I decided that trout meunière might just be worth a try. Turning to Lara I suggested the idea. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed, “that’s how my mom used to cook them!”

To go with the trout we decided on spinach sautéed in butter and garlic, and some sort of potatoes, but which? Boiled fingerlings? I mused. My brother Will looked disheartened and stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated grimace of distress. “Boiled,” he muttered distastefully. So we settled on roast spuds. Also, that he might retain an edge to his canine teeth, Will procured a rib-eye steak, eschewing with another grimace the suggestion of joining us in the fish.

It was another of those deliciously simple meals to prepare: the potatoes quartered, swathed in olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary went into a hot oven and left us with little else to do but sip wine and argue amiably (mainly about the dubious aesthetic value of my brother’s new sun glasses). As the potatoes neared completion, I set about cleaning and drying the fish. Recollecting Elizabeth David’s stern words I heated a large knob of butter in a saucepan until it dissolved, bubbled and frothed. Then I carefully skimmed off this foam leaving only the honey-colored liquid below so that when cooked our floured fish would not scorch.

As I was about to fry the two fish, my brother came up and peered doubtfully over my shoulder, asking silly questions and generally displaying a lack of faith in my mastery of the kitchen. “Well?” I asked, “Aren’t you going to cook your steak?” we’re almost ready to eat.

“Huh? Me? But I thought you were going to cook it?” I shook my head. “No, I’m too busy. And besides, I rarely cook steak . . . it just doesn’t occur to me.”

Will stared at me incredulously: “You don’t know how to cook a steak? How is that possible?”

“Of course I know how to cook it.” I replied defensively, “it’s just that I don’t actually make it very often . . . and everyone is so picky about their steaks I find. . . .”

The bottom lip began protruding again as Will grumbled around the kitchen at a loss. “Don’t know how to cook a steak? Rachie, that’s something you must learn. You’ve just got to know how to make steak. . . . Well fine, now I have to do it.” He sighed heavily, “but I’m not in the right frame of mind. . . ” Another disgruntled sigh . . . “Well fine.”

Eventually, after more grumbling and inflammatory suggestions that my culinary skills were somewhat lacking in the arena of cow flesh, we sat down to eat. The potatoes, golden brown and infused with rosemary, nestled next to a heap of deep green garlicky spinach slick with butter. Will was content with his steak, but for Lara and I, the plate was completed by a whole trout each, nothing but its head and glassy eye gazing out from the fine nut-colored crust. The clarified butter had done its work and not a fleck of burn marred the outer layer of the trout. I squeezed a generous quantity of lemon over mine ate it slowly, savoring the crisped skin and simple, delicate flesh.

Birth by Blood

Before embarking on the daunting task of teaching my very first cooking class, I stopped by the café for a heartening Americano. While waiting by the bar, I informed Boss man of the impending class. “I’m a bit nervous,” I admitted, “but it’ll be fine once I get in the kitchen and have a knife in my hand.” I continued airily and grinning: “I always feel in control of things with a knife.”

Once at the local food bank, where the class was to be held, I busied myself preparing the kitchen, searching out necessary equipment, and then waited apprehensively for the participants to arrive. Damian, the man in charge of the kitchen (and former chef himself), plunked a heavy black case onto the counter: “Here you go. These are the sharp knives.” Happy not to have to wrestle with the assortment of dull specimens I’d found, I opened the case and admired the selection. Choosing a sizable chef’s knife I felt that predictable welling up of confidence and courage. What’s a little cooking class to a girl with a razor sharp blade in her hand!

And this sense of assurance only grew as, to my immense relief, a mere trickle of people showed up for the class. They all gathered round, relaxed and expectant, and as I began a marked feeling of ease—even a hint of a swagger—settled upon my being. The first item on the menu was kale salad with raisins, pears, and a honey-lemon dressing. I reminded the students to tear away the rough central stem from the leaves, and then gathered the shreds of green into a bundle and began to casually chop them into slices. I remarked on the virtue of a sharp knife and demonstrated how to make a claw shape with the hand holding the item to be chopped, thus neatly avoiding dicing your finger tips into ½ inch cubes.

Perhaps all of my previous nervousness had fled my brain and settled subconsciously in my hands, or perhaps I was just not accustomed to chopping and chatting simultaneously, but within moment I was contemplating an expanding slash of blood across my right forefinger. I cursed inwardly and slapped a band-aid on the offending extremity, commenting brightly that here was a perfect example of what not to do. I shoved a glove on my hand and went back to work.

Alas, the fates were clearly determined to make me repent for the flippant words I’d used at the café—In control with a knife in her hand? Hah! Some control to be bleeding all over the place—because barely had I returned to the demonstration when I managed to slice into the tip of my left forefinger. (I have to give it to those three old Fates; there was a stylish symmetry to this act of divine justice.) I shuffled back to the band-aids, slipped on another glove, and again girded my loins for battle.

Thankfully there were no further incidences with the knife and I managed to finish the salad and move on to the next item on the agenda: nettle pesto. It was as I was softening cloves of unpeeled garlic on the stove that I glanced down at my hands. To my disgust there was a distinctive red tinge lurking beneath the pale, surgical green of the gloves. The band-aids were clearly not up to their task of damming the flow. So with studied casualness I wondered back over to the boxes of gloves and slipped another pair on top. This seemed to do the trick because I succeeded in finishing the class without actually peppering the pesto, risotto, or chicken with blood. Occasionally I would glance furtively down at my hands, and although a pale pink sheen might just be discerned beneath the double layer of latex, no real blood appeared. Although it was tense towards the end, by which time the vague pink tickles had descended almost to the cuffs of the gloves, teetering on the brink of escape. And all this was made the more annoying given that the cuts I’d been silly enough to get were very minor indeed.

At work the next day I recounted the whole drama to Boss Man. He pounced with alacrity on this easy target, grinning about when we should start the knife skills course and benevolently offering to lend me a book on the subject. But no teasing could get to me now: the nerve-wracking class was over, I had hopefully imparted at least a dash of useful knowledge to the participants, and above all the blood had not escaped my gloves. Considered as I whole, I was content in the reflection that it had avoided becoming a comprehensive catastrophe.

Luxe to Lentils

There is an unspoken prerogative amongst cooks which permits blatant nosiness when it comes to shopping baskets. I was in the local grocery store this morning, quaintly called the “Star Store,” and just paying at the cash register when Marty ambled up and wordlessly peered over the counter at my purchases. He must have been disappointed as these consisted of only two items, and not very exciting at that: a packet of lentils and bag of poppy seeds.

I explained as he scrutinized the lentils: “I’m teaching a cooking class at the food bank next week. I need to figure out some dishes using their limited stock and I thought about doing something with lentils.” He nodded and prodded the poppy seeds inquisitively. “I’ve got eggs that are about to go off, so its poppy seed pound cake. It’s all necessity cooking today if you know what I mean.” Marty nodded knowingly and trundled off into depths of the store.

When I first began to cook in high school, my approach was one of flamboyant disregard for all remotely practical or economical considerations. Whenever my poor mother made the tactical error of agreeing to let me cook for a dinner party, I would immediately settle down with my cookbooks, pouring over the most elaborate recipes I could find and making lengthy lists of the ingredients required.

“Darling,” Mum would ask, when confronted in one fell swoop by a demand for Spanish saffron, Thai vanilla beans, fresh porcinis, grass-fed filet mignons, Basque Manchego, red wine (and no 2 buck chuck, mind), grand mariner, and 70% Sharffen Burger chocolate. “Darling, is this all necessary?” Eyes moving down the list, her expression changed from concern to indignation: “1/2 pound of pata negra, bottle of balsamic, aged at least 5 years . . . do you realize what this is going to cost?”

I fixed mother with a hard glare. “The balsamic is for dipping. I’m making focaccia remember. You can’t just dip it in some crappy harsh vinegar.”

The conversation would proceed in the same vein, Mother indignant but only occasionally drawing the line. (Black truffles were out. No, not even the littlest, tiniest truffle.) Finally, Mum would part reluctantly with the cash, grumbling about budgets as I headed enthusiastically for the shops.

Naturally it came as a bit of a shock when, as a college student in my first shared apartment, I had to cater for myself on a vastly diminished budget. I remember going out blithely one day, early on in my new life, to the nearby Whole Foods store. It was glorious to wonder about, choosing my own fare, not having to persuade Mum of the merits of cave-aged Gruyere or pink Himalayan salt. The novelty lasted until I got to the register and began staring at the screen as my total mounted higher and higher. I parted with most of my month’s allowance that day, and staggered out of the store, heart palpitating, and mind dimly aware of one thought: Good food is not cheap.

After the initial shock wore off however, I began to embrace the challenge of cooking with less, and slowly, sometimes painfully, I have learned how to be a practical home cook: to use what’s in the fridge, modify recipes to my means, and generally make do. As I reflected after passing Marty in the supermarket this morning, a lot of my cooking is now dictated by these more pragmatic considerations. I still slip up on an irresistible slice of fragrant Stilton or a bottle of seductively silken olive oil, but these purchases are made furtively and savored with all the more relish and reverence.

Sablefish

It was Saturday; bright and breezy with a new flush of cherry blossoms so pink they made me want to giggle. This spring air imbued my palate with a desire for lighter fare and an adventurous spirit. This season, I announced to no one in particular (including the dogs and my morning coffee), I am going to tackle my fear of fish. Perhaps I’d caught a whiff of sea air on the wind this morning—who knows—but I was feeling confident.

To clarify I am not actually afraid of fish as living creatures (unless they’re the type equipped with fangs and a thirst for human blood) but I do shy away from confrontation in the kitchen. My cautious attempts to date have yielded less than satisfactory results: generally dry, bland, or swamped in a too-heavy sauce. And I haven’t taken the time to learn my way around this aquatic world: the myriad species bewilder and the appropriate seasons confound.

So with this fresh resolution in mind I went to the supermarket. The fish case was a rather deflating sight, but among the sad specimens of previously frozen salmon and graying sole I beheld a pile of gleaming fillets, pale flesh and glistening, silver-black skin.

Back at home with my purchase, I rummaged through a heap of books to find a mention of black cod. I learnt a lot: black cod, also known as sablefish or Alaskan cod, bears no relation to its namesake. Instead it is a rich, oily fish native to the Pacific Northwest. Joy of joys, I was also informed that it is very forgiving in the hands of an amateur fish cook. Perfection.

Later that evening I prepared a light meal for my mum and I: sablefish glazed and broiled with balsamic, orange, and ginger (courtesy of the blog Beyond Salmon). This shared the plate with boiled purple potatoes simply dressed in olive oil, and a mixture of garlicky wilted nettles and spinach. Not having the inclination to open a bottle of wine, we contented ourselves with a large Jameson and ginger each a combination that was surprisingly well suited.

The sablefish flaked like a sort of marine croissant—just as luscious and deceptively ethereal on the tongue. It was a pleasing launch into the world fish cookery and good omen for future adventures.

The following does not strictly pertain to a feast. But I simply couldn't resist the urge to recount this tale of adventure, drama, and resuscitation. . . . and to marvel at the medicinal powers of chocolate and whiskey.

Mountaintop CPR

The Imperial Express carried us upwards into the snow clouds and wind of the Rockies. At 12,998 feet above sea level we were ejected from the chairlift and deposited onto a white platform of snow teetering over the rest of the resort, misted in frost crystals and gusting coils of air. From here the mountain sank beneath us revealing an array of angles from which one might attack the slope. Smooth undulations of piste and swashes of powder, treed meadows and stomach churning chutes; the options beckoned below.

Yet my father, ever in search of a more interesting way down the mountain, eschewed these proffered declines and marched instead towards to the base of a steep rise into the clouds. Beside the path a rickety sign swung ominously in the breeze; “Extreme Terrain,” it read in bold letters, and continued on to definitely wash its hands of responsibility for all those crazy enough to enter.

With various degrees of enthusiasm, the rest of us hauled skis onto shoulders and joined the line of people trudging snail-like up into the whiteness. “Now remember,” Dad boomed into the wind, “you’re at 13,000 feet. Take it easy.” And then he turned towards the hill and began to climb.

Shivering slightly and muttering to myself, I began to stump slowly and rhythmically into the thin air. All too familiar—climbing at high altitudes, weighed down by skis, boots, and mounds of clothing—this was something I had learnt how to do.

As a child these seemingly pointless climbs into the whiteout wilderness had formed the deepest level of hell through which I passed each ski holiday. I hated climbing: My legs ached, my feet dragged, and my lungs pinched under the lack of oxygen. At first I’d protest, throwing a massive tantrum at the beginning of any hike. Then, defeated in my efforts and depleted of energy I’d follow on, bawling continuously and tripping on chucks of ice. Gradually I learnt how to handle these climbs; conserving my energy for the exertion and settling into a steady rhythm of stepping and breathing. And I also developed a taste the rewards of climbing: the feel of untouched powder beneath my skis and the giddy sense of being on top of the world.

So this year as we shuffled upwards I didn’t waste energy on arguments but instead attacked the path. It was tough work; the thin air adept at eluding my lungs, leaving my head light and my heart thumping. Dad, however, was finding the climb even tougher, swaying with the effort and stopping frequently to catch his breath. He seemed to be crumpling under the strain of it and motioned for the rest of us to pass him. I stumped up the remaining slope, relieved to reach the summit but worried about my dad.

Eventually he lurched into view, stumbled over and sank exhausted onto the ground. For a moment I was seriously concerned; Dad is no Spring chicken and neither is he the most athletic of Adamses. However, once I realized that he was not on the point of death the whole situation took on an extremely comical air with Dad sprawled pathetically on the snow, groaning vociferously and frowning wrathfully at rest of us. For some reason known only to himself, he then began slathering sun screen lavishly over his face so that great streaks of the stuff glistened like leftover cake frosting on his nose, eyebrows, and ears.

We looked down at him, stifling giggles. “It’s not funny,” Dad bellowed. “I’ m older than all of you!” But the combined comic effect of his glowering countenance, besmirched face, and collapsed position on the snow was too much for me. I practically crumpled into helpless guffaws.

Then, feeling apologetic and lacking other resources, I offered him some chocolate for energy. He ate it with relish, frowning around at us all the while. My cousin Tom helpfully handed him a flask of whiskey which he then gratefully swigged. So while the rest of us stood by snickering, Dad took advantage of his temporary status as invalid and shouted demands for ever more portions of chocolate and nips from the flask. Like some fallen overindulgent Roman, he partook prodigiously of this potent sustenance before mustering enough energy to rise, regain his composure, and conquer the downhill slope.