Beets

“I don’t know,” I whined pathetically. “I’m feeling terribly uninspired. Got any ideas?” Boss Man had just inquired into my culinary well being. “Cooked anything lately?” he’d asked conversationally.

I had set a date, invited guests, and all that remained for feast 18 was to decide on the meal itself. An insignificant detail one might think, given my cavalier attitude. But the day was approaching and I hadn’t given due thought to the menu. “Something wintry, warm . . .” I mumbled broadly. Fortunately, Boss Man came to the rescue. All it took was a speculative moment frowning at his coffee roaster and he had a plan: oxtail slowly braised in a rich liquid of stock, red wine, and Guinness. Couple this with a root vegetable puree, and you had an entree. I was beginning to work up some enthusiasm for this feast.

At regular intervals throughout the days that followed, Boss Man came up with additions to the menu: a guild-the-lily mustard cream garnish, suggestions for a variety of different finishes to the dish, more vegetable suggestions. “What have you got as a starter?” He queried one morning. “I, err, hadn’t got that far yet,” I admitted sheepishly. A momentary reproving grin crossed his face, and was followed, predictably, by an answer: Beets.

I decided on a recipe for roasted beets marinated in orange, olive oil, and red wine vinegar, tossed in toasted fennel seeds and topped with goat cheese—a simple, fresh contrast to the rich oxtail to follow. Also, they could be prepared ahead and refrigerated; a host’s dream. So the evening before, I set about the task: roasting the ruby globes whole, wading in their bath of orange juice and covered with foil to capture every ounce of moisture. Once they’d cooled a little from the oven, I took each one and scraped the peel off, their bright magenta dye splashing across my palms and fingers, seeping into the skin. Next the beets were sliced into generous wedges and the marinade poured on top.

I was about to pitch them into the fridge for the night, but couldn’t resist one quick taste. Standing by the kitchen sink, I picked one wedge from the bowl with my still crimson fingers.

Eating beets is like imbibing everything that is sweet and rich in the soil. They taste to me like earth encapsulated in a potent, misshapen orb. The layers of beet slipped apart on my tongue, the texture perfect—firm at first, giving way to a lush juicy sweetness. As usual with taste, an image came welling up into my consciousness: this time I was lying on my stomach, burying my face in the green grass, inhaling my favorite smell on earth: the inebriating aroma of loosened, Spring clay, just after a late frost has released its grip on the land, just after the sun has won it annual victory.

Odiferous Hands

Feast 18 is going to require masses of stock. The oxtail is simmered in it, the potatoes fondantes are braised in it, and any self-respecting cook knows the importance of good stock. It is akin to rich earth for the gardener or a well primed canvas for the painter; it is vital as foundation to a successful dish.

So after returning from work today, and before slipping out for an afternoon run, I grabbed the remains of a roast chicken and hurriedly prepared it for the pot, tearing off the useful flesh for sandwiches and breaking the carcass into chunks. Peering into the fridge I realized I had nothing in the way of stock veggies. Swearing unceremoniously, I grabbed my keys and headed to the grocery store. As I stood at the cash register, veggies in hand, I began smelling a distinctly chicken-like aroma wafting upwards to my nostrils. It was then I realized, sheepishly, that my hands smelt potently of chicken. I handed over the money apologetically, hoping that the poor girl at the checkout wasn’t suffocating from this powerful perfume. I was sure I’d washed my hands. Apparently, however, I’d been a bit too wholehearted in my ministrations towards the roasted bird.

Home again; I washed my hands furiously before chopping the vegetables and setting the pot on to simmer. The scraggly chicken bones were in, along with a couple carrots and celery stalks, an onion, leek, peppercorns, and bay leaf. Thyme, I thought, dashing out to the garden to see if anything was alive. I wasn’t expecting much, as we’d had a few hard frosts in early winter. Yet scrounging under a tangle of dead grasses and twigs, I glimpsed a couple delicate green sprigs still holding out against the cold under their makeshift blanket of withered foliage. I yanked them out and returned to the kitchen. With this addition to the pot I was satisfied, and left the flame to work its magic with the stock mixture.

Pausing before heading of for a run, I sniffed my hands, checking to make sure they no longer reeked of roast chicken. Thankfully they didn’t. Instead my palms smelt sweetly of thyme. The scent washed across my brain—flooding it with sun-baked fields and calloused bare feet. I sighed, speculating on the wonderful variety of olfactory surprises in the life of a cook. One thing is for sure: you never smell of soap for long.

The Great Patagonian Defeat

It looked so very simple and graceful in the picture, this Patagonian potato galette: a fine disc of thinly sliced Russets overlapping in concentric circles, golden and crisped to perfection. As I drove back from the farmers market, the provisions for my 17th feast snugly wedged into the back seat, I considered the menu. This was going to be one elegant feast: a boned leg of lamb stuffed with lemon confit and herbs, left to wallow for 7 ½ hours in barely simmering Malbec. Along with this I decided on delicately charred carrots flecked with knobs of melting goat cheese and the ever-so-chic potato galette. As a grand finale I proposed to prepare a recipe for “leche quemada,” a Spanish cousin of crème brûlée. My guests would be suitably awed, I reflected dreamily, by the panache with which I would conclude the meal; caramelizing the sugar-crusted dish at table, using the blazing hot base of a cast iron skillet.

To complete my inordinate glee at the prospect of this performance, I had successfully contrived to drag myself out of a hung-over haze at 8:30 am and shuffle to the farmers market in time to snag the necessary ingredients. This feast was to be the epitome of paradisiacal perfection: locally sourced, posh, flashy, and delicious. That was the dream.

It is the pugnacious tendency of reality to leer malevolently at the dream. But for the lamb itself, the meal was a spectacular series of failures. The carrots, forgotten until the last minute because of my preoccupation with Patagonian potatoes chaos, failed to char satisfactorily outside or soften inside. Furthermore, there wasn’t enough seared goat cheese to make a statement and I clean forgot to toss on the garnishes of dried arugula and garlic chips. But the worst defeat of all was the potato galette. Following the instructions blithely set down by the author of a certain cursed cookbook, I clarified the butter, sliced the potatoes to 1/16th of an inch, and then arranged them in overlapping circles in a sizzling skillet. Everything was coming along right as a trivet until I tried to flip the disc. At this point pandemonium took hold as slices of crackling potato launched themselves in all directions, most missing the aimed for frying pan by yards. The few that did make a successful journey lay in chaos in the butter, all semblance of a galette vanished.

My guest were already sitting drinking wine so I could not give in to the violent urge to wail, stamp my feet, and generally descend into a wholehearted meltdown. Instead, I gritted the old teeth and carried on, although throughout the meal I had to fight the self-pitying tantrum simmering in the pit of my stomach. Luckily the lamb itself was quite good. Had it been otherwise, I would most definitely have caved under the weight of disaster.

Still, one hope lingered in the form of dessert. Surely I could redeem the meal with a stunning tabletop caramelizing act! So I carefully sprinkled the set custard-like concoction with a layer of sugar, placed it on the table, and heated a cast iron skillet on high, as directed by the wretched recipe, until it was smoking vigorously. Then, seized with determination I hauled it off the stove, strode over to the table, and placed the base carefully on top of the circular pie dish containing the dessert. Alas victory was not to be. Despite careful preparation, I had misjudged the size of the dish relative to the size of the skillet’s base. Instead of a satisfying sizzle indicative of the caramelizing process, I heard nothing. Looking closely I realized that the skillet wasn’t even able to touch the sugar, let alone brown it to perfection. Broken spirited I returned to the kitchen and spent a few tedious minutes coaxing a semblance hardened sugar glaze under the broiler.

The moral of the story, I decided tucking my slightly mollified soul into bed, was that the quality of the feast tends to diminish as my desire to impress rises. This time—it is regrettable but must be confessed—I really did quite want to impress. Just a little bit.

Correction (a)

Fifty-two feasts wishes to note a regrettable omission from the recent post "Butternut Squash and Sage Risotto." Credit for the inspiration of this dish properly goes to Alex Laugharne, a.k.a the dashingly handsome, witty, and spectacularly talented culinarian, referred to by one reliable source as "Jamie Oliver for the next generation." It is our sincerest hope that Alex please accept our humble apologies.

Butternut Squash and Sage Risotto

Stirring risotto is lovely: the perfect excuse for 20 minutes or so with a relaxing ramble of thoughts.



Note: wine and olives for chef only, not for dish.

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.

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.