broad beans

from "Living Within", April 2015

Poised as we are on the brink of spring and fresh green, and finding some broad beans in a local market (local to South West France at time of writing - ever so slightly ahead of South East England, season-wise), and with Moroccan produce located at a stall not too far down the line, I was tempted by the idea of sunshine, lemons, greenery and couscous, and a yearning for some Moroccan zest and Eastern promise.

‘Broad’, ‘Windsor’ or ‘Horse’; ‘Fèves’, ‘Ful’ or ‘Fava’, these beans have many guises in many parts of the world, and much history that sits alongside the names and places. Eaten since ancient times and imbued with almost equal parts of myth and wisdom, they are a staple in Middle-Eastern and North-African dishes, often in their matured, dried and dull-coloured form. But at this time of year when they start to appear at their youngest and brightest, it might be that they cook and taste best, having not yet developed either too much starch or too many additional complications.

The couscous-based broad bean salad featured here can be as complicated or as simple as you choose to make it; you can spend time aerating the couscous and steaming it subtly, or you can pour over boiling water and follow simple instructions on a packet; likewise you can peel the beans or leave them with soft leather wrinkled jackets, but whatever time you save on these potentially time-consuming aspects, you will need to pod these most indulged beans, and pop them out of their padded velvety cases as a necessary first step.

Buy more than you think that you need; allow more time than you think it will take to shell them - co-opt family or friends wherever possible or put on the radio and settle down to enjoy the task. Once you have a pile of podded beans, put them in a shallow saucepan (big enough that they are not too crammed together) with two or three unpeeled garlic cloves (new season will give the best flavour), some grated spring onion (or other gentle onion), a generous splash of olive oil, salt, a pinch of paprika, a few saffron strands, and a scant quarter of a pint of cold water (5 fl oz/150ml approx.) - bring up to a lively simmer, and then allow to cook gently for between about 5-10 minutes (until the largest of the beans is tender). Stir in a small handful of finely chopped fresh coriander leaves and some ground black pepper, take off the heat, and leave for a few minutes until the contents are cool enough to handle.

Take out the garlic cloves and remove the skin and put to one side. If, like me, you have perfectionist tendencies, pop the bright green inner beans out of the slightly grey and wrinkled jackets (and throw the jackets away) - or just leave them be if you don’t mind eating all.

Finely chop the poached inners of the garlic cloves, add them back to the beans in their liquid and, finally, add a generous squeeze of lemon juice and allow all to “steep” while you prepare the couscous. If you are Moroccan (or a perfectionist), you will probably “mind” about how well your couscous is aerated and steamed and seasoned, and it will take you (at least!) the best part of an hour to wash and dry and manually manipulate, and leave to absorb residual moisture, and finally to steam in a “couscoussier”, or in a sieve suspended over a pan of infused and aromatic boiling water; and if we are honest, as with all things, it will make a difference to the end result if you take this extra time and trouble. But it will be perfectly acceptable to buy couscous in a box that is easy, and designed to be cooked almost instantly, and to follow the instructions on the packet, if you would prefer not to make too big a deal of the process.

Whichever way you choose, once your couscous is cooked, sprinkle it with a little olive oil, check it for seasoning (and adjust if it is too bland), put it in a serving dish, move it around with a couple of forks to distribute the oil and the seasoning and to remove any lumps, and then add in your broad beans and their liquor (check this for seasoning too, just before you do), and mix all together gently. Leave for a few minutes for the two parts to get to know each other, and then serve as a salad.

Erica x

“Shwiya b shwiya, l’jamal imshi f’sooksoo”

— Moroccan proverb, rough translation: “little by little, the camel goes into the couscous”!

mother’s day memories

As we look for comfort while waiting for spring, I am finding mine this month in remembering my mother, who was, amongst many other things, a baker, as was her mother before her - capable of a home made sugared doughnut or the puzzle of a Battenburg alongside her less flamboyant repertoire. She had long since ceased to do any baking in her twilight years, but she never lost her taste for a slice of cake - one of her great pleasures in life right to its end, and happily one that many of us share.

So, in her memory, a cake; a simple one with a bit of luxury in its ingredients to give it some small sophistication, from one of the cookbooks in which she laid great store - an early Penguin - laying out in pounds and ounces and ºF the makings of a simple work of art and science, in time honoured fashion and without the aid of pictures. The smell of the pages alone evokes memories of learning at my mother’s apron, how to cream butter and sugar, and fold flour, and why every step has its own importance, and of a certain calm and patience in the passing on of expertise. I will translate that old money of llbs and oz into the new of metric, and give you both together, just this once, and for old times sake - imperial measurement and an old fashioned scale an important part of this trip down memory lane.

“French Almond Cake”. I imagine such continental exoticism in the nationhood of this cake is a result of those luxurious almonds, and maybe also on account of the Kirsch (although that’s strictly a little bit German) but in any case here is the recipe, in its own words, and circa 1963:

“4oz (115g) butter; 5¼ oz (150g) castor sugar; 3oz (85g) ground almonds; 3 eggs; 1½oz (40g) flour; vanilla or Kirsch.

Prepare a moule à manqué 7-inch tin or a deep sandwich tin of the same size. Cream the butter thoroughly; beat in the sugar by degrees. Add the eggs one at a time with the almonds, beating well. Fold in the flour with the flavouring. Turn into the prepared tin and bake in a moderately hot oven (350ºF, or Reg, 4) for 45 to 50 minutes*. Turn out and dust with castor sugar.” (*note: in a modern fan oven set to the equivalent of 180ºC it is likely to take more like 35 - 40 minutes)

Additional notes: to prepare the tin, grease with butter and dust with flour (or sugar if you are feeling a bit daring). To test the cake, it should look golden brown, spring back from your touch, and/or a skewer inserted in the centre should come out clean of any mixture.

I will leave you with a quote from the introduction of this Penguin book - eloquent about the mores of the day, and who was likely to be doing the cooking in these pre Jamie times!.

Erica x

“To memorise a few basic facts is a simple matter…these will establish confidence in the cook and arouse her enthusiasm”

— Rosemary Hume and Muriel Downes

united states of brining

Here’s another I made earlier - December 2014, Living Within:

Thanksgiving is all over the US as this goes to print, and, honestly, it looks exhausting! We may worry at a Christmas table with an unfeasibly large bird as centrepiece but we don’t have to mix, match, and weigh up the relative merits of culinary traditions and produce in a nation as diverse in climate and historical settlement as exists Stateside. I’m not knocking it, it’s a wonderful mix, and being different in America very much a part of what it is to be united and American.

The Thanksgiving table looks a little like a dress rehearsal for Christmas, one that contains oddities, marvels and seductions. The complexities and sheer volume of dishes: corn breads and puddings; whipped white and candied sweet potatoes; chutneys; sauces; dressings; stuffings; salads, and sweet and savoury mixes, may leave our feast a little in the shade, relatively speaking, but then we are not “behooved” (as one might say in the States) to demonstrate “plenty” either.

What I believe we can learn best from the Thanksgiving table, is how to power up the flavour. Nothing at the US feast is planning to be bland, even if sometimes it sounds like a challenge (sweet pecan pie with turkey gravy anyone?), and the bird is where I am going to follow their lead for Christmas. Poultry in general lacks the stuff that carries flavour; it lacks fat, and it is the fat in a joint of meat that, generally speaking, makes it taste good. The USians have kept a trick from the olden days, the salting of meat, to help change the way that the proteins behave and that enables not only the flavour from the salt to penetrate the meat but also locks in moisture as the meat cooks. Thanksgiving turkeys are often brined, and it makes all the difference to the cooking of the bird and the taste and texture of it afterward.

Brining is a science, there are reasons behind why it works, but I haven’t got the space to explain them all here so you are going to have to take my word for it that it does. It is not uncommon to submerge the bird in a brine containing salt, sugar, spice, herbs, aromatics of whatever kind take your fancy, and to leave it there for a day or two. All you will need is a capacious fridge, a container large enough to hold the bird and its brine, and the ability to strong-arm said (filled) container as and when you need to, without slopping brine all over yourself and your kitchen. Easier by far is the more user friendly “dry” brine (a misnomer of course, but it serves our purpose) and this couldn’t be simpler. Two or three teaspoons or tablespoons of salt, depending on whether we are talking chicken or turkey (I have used chicken in the pictures), and use sea salt for preference. You can mix it with ground pepper and, for a high day or holiday, some grated citrus peel too, but the fundamental thing is to rub salt all over the outside of the bird and wherever you can get it inside as well (in the cavity, on any exposed bits of flesh around the edges). Make sure your bird is untrussed.

Wrap the bird in cling film or waxed paper or place in a plastic bag, and leave it to “brine” in the fridge for as long as you’ve got - a day or two (max) for a chicken, a day or three (max) for a turkey, although an hour or two, if that is all you have, will still make a difference. About an hour before you are ready to put the bird in the oven, take it out of the fridge, unwrap it, pat the skin dry with some kitchen paper, put it in a roasting tin, and when it is at more or less at room temperature, oil up the bird, put a little moisture in the bottom of the tin (a glass of white wine, a ladelful or more of stock) and cook as normal, in a moderately hot oven (180ºC). It is better not to stuff the bird with anything other than a few aromatics (herbs, onions, garlic, a lemon or a clementine) for more than one reason, too much salt in the resulting stuffing only one of them. “Stuffing” can be cooked in a dish alongside.

The bird needs to reach an internal temperature of no more than 75ºC (about an hour for a 1.5kg chicken, nearer 3 hours for a 7kg turkey will get you there). With practice, you can normally tell from the look of the bird whether it is cooked, but the traditional un-thermometered method is to pierce the thickest part of the bird’s flesh (between thigh and breast) and check that the juices are clear (not pink or bloody) and make sure that it is hot. Once you are sure that it is, leave to rest in a warm place, for at least 20 minutes, and then carve and serve when you are ready with whatever trimmings and fixings you choose.

Happy Holidays, whatever they are!

Erica x

“Most of you … worrying over the bird are … a few cupfuls of salt away from dazzling your family with the finest turkey they have ever eaten”

— John Currence

preserved lemons

Housekeeping! From August 2014, Living Within.

A holiday month, and distant climes beckon, and I am writing this from the South of France; not my normal locale, and I might be out of my comfort zone as far as holidays and a little R&R go - what with it being so hot and busy and noisy and sandy and all - except there is also a fantastic market just down the road. A little bit touristy, as many French markets are at this time of year, and a little bit inclined to want to counter my French with their English, but we “get by”, and understand each other. Food is, after all, a universal language and I am allowed to touch and taste, even prod a little, and everyone has advice to give about how best I might put together my next meal with whatever it is that they have to offer.

My first stall this morning is full of things “preserved”: olives, and tomatoes and other Provençal basics, but winking at me atop all the rest are the preserved lemons - a Morrocan staple and a very particular seasoning ingredient. Only these are not actually lemons at all, they are citrons (or “cédras” in French), a bigger subtler version from the same basic family and maybe worth a try in a tagine or a salad or to chop with a few olives, or who knows what else.

They are, as you can see from the picture, priced at a premium for an August holiday market, but they can be made at home with very little trouble or expense. Citrons, of course, are not as readily available to us as they are in the Mediterranean, but lemons are more traditional preserved in this manner in any case and so are a perfect substitute. It is only the skin that you eat when they are eventually ready, and so the citron, while well suited as it has more skin and pith than it does pulp as a rule, has a milder flavour than a lemon, maybe making it more suitable for adding raw to a salad, but lemons will definitely give you more zing.

You will need: a clinically clean preserving jar, with lid (either: scald with boiling water; put through a hot dishwasher cycle, or “bake” in a moderately hot oven for a good 5 minutes - leave to cool); lemons (unwaxed, enough to fill the jar and more to provide juice to cover them); some coarse salt, and a little olive oil.

Cut the lemons that will fill your jar along their length (from tip to stalk end - DON’T cut all the way through the stalk end; you want a “cross” cut through each lemon so that you can see the four exposed quarters, but the lemon should retain the overall shape of a whole fruit). Rub a tablespoon of salt into the pulp of the lemon and then put it into the preserving jar, and repeat this process with as many lemons as will squeeze snugly in there together, side by side and top to tail.

Squeeze the juice from the additional lemons, enough to provide juice to completely cover those that are in the jar, and when the jar is full, to about 1cm from the top with lemons and salt (add any ‘escaped’ salt to the jar), drizzle a layer of olive oil over the top as “seal”. Close the jar with its appropriate clinically clean lid, and put in a cool place (the fridge is perfect) and leave for about a month - or a couple of weeks at least if you can’ t wait longer - before using.

When they are ready, use the “quarter” lemons by scraping away the pulp (discard this) and then chop the rind and pith into small chunks or dice, or slice thinly, and add to a chicken tagine (spiced with cumin and turmeric, based on golden onions, partnered with chickpeas, and garnished, finally, with fresh parsley), for example, or add to a bowl of olives, or to a dish of potatoes or to couscous - whatever! You may become addicted and just not know when to stop.

Erica x

“So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch”

— Pablo Neruda

a case for pastry

From “Living Within”, July 2014

An unexpected poll at a gathering of friends last month left me wondering why my fellows, some great cooks amongst them, admitted to a man (or, more accurately, to a woman) that not one of them ever thinks to make their own pastry. A bit taken aback, I missed the opportunity to persuade or cajole, and I am not sure I will find occasion any time soon to remedy this and “indulge” them in in-depth talk of pastry.

So here may lie my opportunity to press a case for pastry making, especially important, maybe, at this time of the year when produce is at its peak and looking for opportunity to frame itself appropriately. I could tell you that, genuinely, it is neither hard nor time consuming to make, I might also add that it is not expensive, or that it is satisfying and can be a therapeutic pastime. But more important than any of this, probably, is that, done right, it will ALWAYS taste better than anything that you can buy.

The basic proportions for a short crust dough are very simple. You will need double the weight of flour to fat (butter is my preference). I learned at my mother’s elbow with a basic recipe of 8oz plain flour and 4oz fat (about 220g:110g), a pinch of salt and some ice cold water. There are many variations on this, but let’s start here with proportion and method and you can move onward to the internet, the library, or maybe even your own bookshelves to find further example.

Things to remember:

• keep the ingredients as cool as possible; chill the butter; ice the water.
• Sieve the flour into a large mixing bowl - if it looks lump-free in its packet, you can dispense with the sieve. Add a pinch of salt and mix in with a fork or wire whisk.
• Cut the butter into small cubes (about 1cm) and toss these into the flour.
• Maintain your cool! Keeping your hands as much out of the bowl as you can manage, and using ONLY your fingertips, squeeze the butter and the flour together, raising your hands up and out of the bowl as you do so (imagine that you are really letting air into the mix). With the lightest touch that you can manage, continue to do this until the fat and the flour look a bit like breadcrumbs; a heavy hand will warm the fat too much and cause you to have oily lumps instead of a light crumble, so look out for this danger.
• Add in the iced water, tablespoon by tablespoon. How much to add is a bit of an art form - one that you can hone with a little experience - but it is impossible to be too prescriptive. I add in about 4 tablespoons at the start, toss the ingredients lightly together through the fingers of one hand, or use a blunt edged knife to stir them gently together. Add in more water as you need it. What you are trying to achieve is for the crumbs to come together and just hold as a recognisable dough - one that is homogenous and will roll out without crumbling. So much easier to add more water in than to take some out - so proceed with caution.
• As soon as you have a dough, wrap it in cling film, gently press it into a disc, and flatten slightly, and allow to rest by chilling for 30 minutes in a fridge.

To make an easy, flat, free-form tart: melt about 40g of butter, very gently, set aside and keep warm. Pre-heat your oven to 180ºC (or equivalent). Roll the pastry out on a lightly floured surface using a lightly floured rolling pin (move the pastry often as you do to make sure it is not sticking - no need to turn it over) into a flat round disc a few mm’s thick, then transfer to a baking sheet lined with baking parchment (as you would shop-bought pastry too).

Mix together a tablespoon each of: sugar; plain flour, and ground almonds (if you have them - sugar and flour will do if you don’t) and spread this over the pastry base (leaving a border of an inch or two all the way round - this will absorb excess juice from the fruit). Fill the middle with suitable fruit - halved apricots in my pictured example - you could also use pitted cherries, plums, sliced apples, blackberries - something that can take a bit of heat. Arrange in neat patterns or pile in a heap - anything goes. Sprinkle with two or three tablespoons of sugar (according to the sweetness or tartness of the fruit) and roll up the edges of the pastry to enclose the sides. Brush the pastry edge with the melted butter and sprinkle a couple of tablespoons of sugar on top of this. Place in the heated oven and bake until the pastry looks golden brown and crisp and the fruit looks tender (between about 25 and 45 minutes, depending on your oven - check often). Serve straightaway or at room temperature and pass round the cream.

Erica x

“Pastry requires very few ingredients, so it is particularly important to choose them carefully.”

— Michel Roux

fish on saturday

from "Living Within", June 2014

Parting ways with tradition and its sometime religious and other norms, Saturday night is when we most often eat fish in my house. Saturday morning shopping at Claygate Parade has become the family habit - we are blessed to have a full complement of almost everything that a shopper might need represented there, and in amongst the rest, one of the best fishmongers in the country. I have no official confirmation to support this contention (although I know they do not lack awards) but I am pretty sure it must be true. There may well be others as good, but I am not convinced that any could better the picture perfect marble slabs of fresh fish at Williams and Bunkell or the expertise that lies behind their presentation.

Our practice is to choose from what is available in the morning and then to work with it to make a Saturday night supper. Whatever that turns out to be, fish needing no long slow cooking or fancy extras as a general rule, it tends to be pretty simple.  Much can be poached, baked, grilled or fried with a fair amount of flexibility and speed, and the flavours that seem to complement are not normally biased toward the over complex or powerful.

Gurnard was on the slab this weekend - no, not a fish I am too familiar with either, for those of you who are wondering, and not really a looker, but it does have a history of being relatively good value to recommend it as starting point. The fish crew selected and filleted a large specimen - not an easy task with a gurnard so I am told, but carried out, as always, with great skill - to provide two large fillets (enough for four if stretched); firm-fleshed, not quite a monkfish in texture, not quite a bream or a bass in delicacy of flavour, but delicious nonetheless and as easy to cook as any.  Next door, FruitWorld had Cyprus potatoes and some fulsome green and white chard, and a menu was in the making.

Wash the potatoes well and slice as thinly as you can manage (a properly sharp knife is essential); toss in a bowl with some olive oil, salt and pepper, a finely sliced onion, and fresh oregano leaves (in full leaf in my garden pots right now, and so I used plenty) and a sprinkling of saffron if you have some - not too much, but saffron adds beauty to the colour and a subtle depth to the flavour when used in small quantities. Add in a small glass full of water (you could soften up the saffron in a little of it first to help it blend more easily), then mix together well and place in a gratin or roasting dish just big enough to hold everything comfortably. Roast, uncovered, in a hot oven for between about 30 - 40 minutes - until the top layer is nicely golden and a sharp knife poked through the centre finds little resistance.

While the potatoes are cooking, prepare the fish fillets by seasoning well on both sides with salt and pepper. About 10 minutes before the potatoes are expected to be finished, heat up a large frying pan, and fry the fillets in a little oil and butter over a medium heat (“presentation” side down first) until the fish is “just” cooked - be careful not to dry it out by frying for too long, the fillets are quite thick in the centre and need to be cooked through but gurnard has a reputation for being a little dry, possibly in part accounted for by overthinking how much time to allow for this.  They will only take a few minutes on each side even watching the middle carefully. Once the fish is cooked and has a nice outside “crust” of golden brown, remove from the pan carefully and keep warm.

The fillets can be served with a little melted butter cooked with a squeeze of a lemon in the wiped down pan to pour over for serving, but on Saturday I let the chard do the work of balancing out flavour.  Blanched in boiling salted water - thick white stalks cut into appropriately thick slices for about 3 minutes first, followed by the leaves (washed and needing only a minute or two in the boiling water) - drained and served dressed with salt, a dribble of olive oil and a generous squeeze of lemon juice (cut lemons handed round separately for the fish if still needed) all was harmonious, and gurnard now added to our Saturday night favourites.

Erica x

“There are quite a few species of this fish but, discounting minor variations …, they all look like Donald Duck”

— William Black

papillon-er?

from "Living Within", May2014

I have been away from home over Easter, in South West France, and it was lovely. The air full of perfume and promise, the afternoon sun as strong as summer, and the spring flora already including full-on rose and jasmine blooms in amongst the wisteria and the iris - delicious! We ate outdoors and, with a special occasion and visitors on the horizon, put lamb on the menu. Not having a spit roast attachment for my barbecue (or more accurately, not one that anyone can locate or has learned how to use) my habit, domestically, would be to get Paul from the Game Larder to butterfly a leg of lamb so that it might be cooked flat against the irons, and both it and we might seem a bit relaxed - casual even - with an easygoing centrepiece for an outdoor lunch and no deadline pressure for guests whose ETA is likely to be very approximate.

I took out my dictionary in attempt to work out if the word “papillon” might be “verbed”, or substituted for more appropriate idiom, in order to explain to Paul’s French counterpart (Alain) exactly what I required. I struggled, however, to find direct translation for this procedure; one that wouldn’t leave me potentially misunderstood (if not actively laughed at) or, worse, without the cut I wanted.

In the event I opted to play it safe and went with description, but did happen to thrown in that, back in Blighty, we call the end result a butterfly. Arched eyebrows and a bit of bemusement at this English oddball request may have followed, but we all played it straight in the moment, the lamb was ordered, no obvious face was lost, and the technique with the pretty name in English beautifully achieved. There were remarks, however, as I went to collect it later, that Monsieur Evrard (Alain’s more formal “nom de guerre”) had understood, as he laid out the finished lamb, how perfectly apt is the “butterfly” moniker - maybe we English have just taught the French something about the charm of language, and, maybe, this little corner of France will put “papillon-ing” on the list of butchery techniques that they offer as a summer special; I can but dream.

But back to the cooking. Butterflied lamb can be treated as a whole piece or cut into a few large ones (three or four, along obvious lines once you have it in front of you) to keep the meat evenly sized - in terms of thickness - across the grill, and help it to take on as much “aromatising” over its surface area as possible.

Rub salt and pepper all over, coat with a little oil (olive or other cooking), and then add whatever herbs you think might complement. Thyme and Rosemary are always a good bet, lemon juice (and zest) will help to flavour and to tenderise - white wine would do similar job - and garlic, chopped fine, is particularly good as the new season bulbs, fresh out of the ground, start to make an appearance on the markets with their delicate spring flavour.

Rub this marinade over the meat, turn the meat in it from time to time, but otherwise leave it to take on board flavour for at least an hour.  Remove it from the fridge for the last hour in any case, even if you have left it marinading for much longer - it is never a good idea to put overly chilled meat straight into the oven or on the grill; the cooking time is harder to predict if the edges and the middle have a lot of catching up to do with each other, especially if the meat will not require much cooking. 

Sear the meat on a barbecue grill for about 3 minutes a side (until it looks nicely charred in patches) and then finish it off with another 5 minutes or so, either in a hot oven or slightly above the coals and with the lid on the barbecue (longer if you want your lamb only just pink rather than very rare - press it gently to see how it is doing - the more give there is in the meat the rarer the result; go carefully and check often, once you have lost any bounce you will have lost much of the tenderness and all colour except brown).

Leave to rest for about 10 or 15 minutes, then slice and serve with salad, cooked vegetables, potatoes, bread, some type of grain or lentil - whatever takes your fancy - and maybe more fresh herbs as garnish or sauce (and don’t forget that mint goes very well with lamb).

The whole process is probably simpler if you happen to live near Claygate as Paul and his team have already perfected the art of the butcher’s butterfly and we can be pretty sure will know exactly what is meant if we ask for one. With my garden roses here currently in bud and the jasmine looking promising, we are only a short way behind our southern French confrères; we should be in our element “à table” out of doors in no time.

Erica x

“Avril fait la fleur, mai en a l’honneur”

— French saying, “April makes the flowers, May steals the glory” (not too literal, but hey…)

curry patta

from "Living Within", April 2014

For some years now I have been in search of a local source of curry leaves. A Malaysian friend has sometimes shared supplies when her family is visiting; a New Malden grocer, once upon a couple of years ago, kept a semi-reliable (if almost never fresh) stock next to the bunches of coriander; Asda at Roehampton was, oh so fleetingly, a surprise source but, more recently, “kari patta” has meant a trip to Southall as the only supply that I can find outside Soho’s China Town.

I believed Jamie when he started using them several years back and said the supermarkets would follow his example, but the best they appear to have done since is offer a few dried leaves in a spice jar - and, for the record, don’t waste your money; the essential nature, not to mention all the fragrance and flavour are long gone by the time the leaf has reached this stage of desperation. So, imagine my surprise when Fruit World in Claygate was spotted recently not only displaying bags-full of this holy grail amongst herbs, but also the freshest and most healthy looking examples of these leaves that I have been able to get my hands on for a very long time. Gold Star for Mick and the team for branching out (badum tish!) and bringing them to Claygate Parade; and here is a blatant plea on my part to keep them there.

These dainty citrus herbs take their common name more from the dishes that they get added to than anything specifically curry-ish in their nature. Bitter-sweet in their lemony fragrance, they are an essential part of much of the cuisine of Southern India and South East Asia. It is hard to describe their effect to those who have not yet encountered them but they are so very distinct that if a recipe requires them it is wiser to ditch the recipe entirely than to attempt to find substitute for them.  Unlike our own bay leaves (which they vaguely resemble in shape if not size), they are edible, so long as not too aged or large; do not consume them without cooking them however - they will not only be a little tough but they have been known to carry toxins in their raw state.

But what, you might ask, are we supposed to do with them? Curry leaves can be added to almost anything. Originating in South India, they marry well with mustard seed and turmeric and with fish and sauces to which coconut has been added, but you can add them to an infinite variety of Asian or even Western dishes - be bold and dare to experiment - once you have a supply stored in your fridge, you will want to make the most of them. Always allow them to fry a little before adding most anything else to the pot; throw a small handful (about 20) into some hot oil or melted butter, this will both tenderise and intensify fragrance and flavour. As soon as they start to crackle and take on translucent patches, you are ready to add in whatever aromatics come next - maybe onions and garlic, ginger or fresh chilli - continue to build your dish from this base.

Curry leaves will perfume a pilaff or a lentil dish most beautifully. For a delicate pilaff, sautée the leaves on their own or with whatever other spices take your fancy (cloves, cinnamon, cardamom are all suitable bed fellows); add in some washed and drained long-grain rice; stir gently (to cover with the oil in which you have fried the herbs and spices), and fry for a minute or two; add salt and enough water to cover by just over a centimetre; bring to a rolling boil; stir once; cover with a well fitting lid and leave to cook over a very low heat for about 12-15 minutes. Leave to sit in its own steam for a further 5 minutes after turning off the heat (without, at any stage, opening the lid), fluff with a fork and serve with whatever else is on the menu.

Incidentally, for those of you interested in potential health benefits, The Times of India indicates that, in amongst fighting diabetes and anaemia, these include greying hair prevention. I will take this news, as I do almost everything that I eat, with a healthy pinch of salt; while delighted with the joy these leaves bring to my palate, I will certainly not be amongst those applying them directly to my pate.

Erica x

“Nothing but the exotic, delicate, smell of a crushed (curry) leaf can transport me so successfully to India.”

— Stevie Parle

a hill of beans

from "Living Within", March 2014

We have taken a bit of a battering over this winter but, when in crisis, we Brits are very good at calling for someone to start boiling water. Instead of steaming cups of tea or cleaning up operations, I am thinking bean-feasts and calling for the pulses - bastions of all that is cheap and tasty and good for you. There is much scope from a pulse in terms of versatility and good husbandry and only small amounts of effort involved in the cooking.

under water

Dried bean pulses come in many guises: cannellini; aduki; broad; black or red kidney; garbanzo; green flageolets; butter, or pinto, amongst many others. They require a bit of forethought although not a lot of effort. The night before you want to cook them, they should be washed and soaked in cold water, and, on the day, they will require an hour or so to cook through to tenderness.  Once washed and soaked (on a sliding scale from about 8 hours for a bean to nothing at all for some lentils), discard the soaking water, rinse the pulses, and then cover in about twice their volume of clean fresh water and add some aromatics for flavour. There are certain things that will toughen up the outer skins and make beans and lentils harder to cook - salt in the water is one of them, acid is another, so in spite of all those Italian grandmothers and Jamie Oliver telling you to add a tomato to the cooking water, I would leave the tomato until later in the process. Add instead aromatics more appropriate for a light stock. Any or all of: a halved onion; whole garlic cloves; celery; bay leaf; thyme; parsley stalks; carrot; cloves, or peppercorns can be added to the water - then bring the whole, gently, to a boil.

aromatics

Gently is the watchword of cooking pulses. While boiling point is needed to get the cooking process started, and in the case of kidney beans a 10 minute boil a necessity in cooking out potentially harmful toxins before simmering, with this exception, the more quietly you get there and the more calmly you leave the whole simmering, the more even the resulting pot full of tender pulses.  As the beans come to the boil, they will give off a layer of foamy scum at the surface of the water, skim this off (it stops forming after the water is boiling) and when a sure boil is reached, turn the heat right down and put a lid to at least partially cover.  Check the beans for tenderness from about 45 minutes onward, and in about 10 minute intervals thereafter, to decide when they are ready.  Once cooked (the process will normally take between an hour or two depending on many factors including size and age of the dried bean) the pulses should be left in the cooking water to which salt is now added (a teaspoon or two - or more - as always, seasoning is a personal affair so I will leave exact quantities to you) and the beans allowed to cool; they will take on more flavour as they do so.

with mint

When you are ready to serve, drain an appropriate amount of beans from their cooking liquid (from which you have discarded the aromatics) and re-heat in a pan with a dressing of a little butter or olive oil (add a few tablespoons of the cooking water too to help loosen and heat the beans without having to fry them); do taste the beans at this stage and adjust salt and pepper levels as you see fit. Finally, when they are warmed through and ready to hit the plate, you can dress them with some chopped fresh tender herbs to complement whatever else you may be eating (parsley, mint, thyme, chervil …, you get the picture) or with some sautéed chopped tomatoes, and use to accompany or bulk out almost anything. Roast lamb, potatoes, squash, root vegetables, salads, cold cuts, soup - the list is almost as long as your imagination.

cannellini

You can buy your pulses ready cooked and canned, it is easy and still cheap to use them this way, but nothing beats the flavour of those you have spent a tiny bit of effort on cooking for yourself, and almost nothing could be easier to do.

Erica x

“Cooking dried beans is as basic as it gets: put the beans in a pot, cover with water, and simmer until tender.”

— David Tanis

candy christmas

from "Living Within", December 2013

This season makes me think of candy sweetness. Sugar plums and candy canes jingle into consciousness on stage, and screen and through loud speaker systems, and candied fruit makes its annual appearance amongst the Christmas specials.  Mince pies, fruit-heavy cakes and plum puddings all require their share of jewel bright glacé cherries and sweetly preserved citrus peel. The ultimate jewel in the candy crown may, of course, be the marron glacé (or candied chestnut) - not as a rule to be messed about with or mixed in with anything else, just relished as a luxurious and unalloyed joy (if your pocket allows that is) unadulterated by anything apart from the the pleasure of eating it.  There is a reason that they cost stupid money - they require level upon level of skill and patience and fiddly process, and days (and days!) of tender loving care and attention - casualty levels are alarmingly high - so, no, you are not being ripped off, they are a luxury item as a result of the time and trouble that it takes to create them.

This year when I have been having some fun preserving, jams and jellies and marmalades, I might even given them another go as a home-made treat and, if you have the time (about a couple of weeks), and the inclination, do search out a method while the raw item is available to buy, fresh from the tree, and in the markets.

In their stead, I can offer you here a quick method for candying citrus peel, an essential ingredient to much of the seasonal fare, and one that is not even remotely as good when bought ready chopped in tubs from the supermarket. Candying fruit can be a painfully long process - the skins must be pre-softened so that the sugar doesn’t cause them to harden before they have a chance to sweeten, and the time to impregnate entire fruits (whole or in pieces) with sugar syrup and then allow them to dry is often lengthy. But here is a method that is relatively fast, and the end result can be baked with, nibbled on, or even dipped in chocolate to be served with coffee.

Take some large navel-type oranges (up to 5) - wash, cut in half crosswise, and scoop and scrape the pulp and membranes from the middle, leaving the white pith intact.

Cut long slices of peel, about 1cm at the broadest point. Place in a saucepan, cover with boiling water and simmer for 5 minutes - drain and repeat (with fresh boiling water) 4 more times (5 times in total); this will start softening the peel and take away bitterness. Drain for the final time and reserve.

Make a sugar syrup. In a heavy-based pan, add 250ml cold water to 500g granulated sugar with a teaspoon and a half of powdered ginger (optional, but will give a nice kick).  Stir over a low heat until ALL of the sugar has dissolved. Raise the heat and when the syrup has boiled for a couple of minutes, add in the blanched orange peel, bring up to a gentle simmer and leave to cook (partially covered with a lid) for about 35 - 45 minutes or until the peel is softened. Take the peel, carefully, out of the pan, and leave to drain in a single layer over a wire rack. When they have stopped dripping and are cool, transfer to some waxed paper or baking parchment, again in a single layer, and sprinkle liberally with more granulated sugar; leave to dry for several hours, or overnight (best done near a radiator, in an airing cupboard, or some place warm and dry). When dry (no longer sticky), store in as airtight a jar as you can find.

I shall leave you with my best wishes for a Merry Christmas, and a quote from that harbinger of the Christmas season, “Elf” the movie.

Erica x

“We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy; candy canes; candy corns, and syrup.”

— Buddy

kale and collards

from "Living Within", November 2013

North Carolina state farmers' market

I have been travelling since I last wrote - a short trip round some of the Southern States of the USA. Technically, it is “fall” there but, if you squint your eyes enough to miss the mass of pumpkin patches (selling, not growing) and the plethora of Hallowe'en themed items hanging out on homes and businesses, you could almost imagine it still summer; the sun is hot and being outdoors the preferable option.

The South is having a bit of a moment food wise - the rest of the country is leaning in to see what is happening down there while a new generation of Southern cooks re-discover and re-imagine heritage ingredients and good down-home cooking. We ate like kings - soul food, fried chicken and okra, cornbread and creamy grits, lima beans and succotash, catfish and shrimp. We learned that buttermilk can find its way into a batter or a biscuit or a filling for a pie and add subtleties, softness or sharpness with which we are not familiar.

Whatever the main dish, “sides” normally feature - this is the land of “meat and three” (a main dish and three sides) and greens are nearly always on the menu. Southerners favour their greens bitter - turnip tops and dandelion leaves, arugula (rocket) and mustard greens - but by far and away the most popular are collards - large, cabbagey, bitter tasting, sold in the market in piled-up flat-leafed bunches, cooked in a smokey ham stock for a VERY LONG TIME, until the bitterness has been tempered and the colour darkened, and with so much seasoning - spicy, sour, sweet or just plain salty - that you must sit up and take notice and be grateful for that ubiquitous pitcher of iced water.

We have no collard greens here but we have a very close relation in kale. Now kale is not by any stretch at the glamour end of the vegetable spectrum, my optician mentions it as good for the eyes which makes it sound worthy; it is a difficult leaf to learn to love, particularly when sold by supermarkets in hermetically sealed plastic bags, hacked about with little care or understanding of the nature of the central rib or clue as to the look of the whole leaf. These quibbles aside, however, kale, curly or black (cavolo nero), has a complex winter flavour that is improved by the first frosts of the year and a stretch of cold weather, and is perfect for just about now.

The new Southern chefs, devoted as they are to locally sourced ingredients, inherited tradition, and recipes “talked down” through generations, do allow themselves whatever other influence happens to be theirs - “Grandma cooking on steroids” is how one Tennessee chef describes his style.  So here is an English cook’s take on Southern collard-style greens, with a nod to the South and its traditional seasonings (notably onion and smoky ham); I have not worried about the dread word ‘authenticity’ that plagues our modern food landscape.  These are greens influenced by a grandmother from South Carolina and a chef based in Nashville with Italian inclinations who have “talked me down” some of their methods, but I have felt free to take or leave from them and add to them what I will - I hope that you might try them too with whatever main takes your fancy.

Blanch washed and sliced kale in a pan of boiling salted water until tender (about 3 minutes) - remove from the water and set aside to drain (reserve the cooking water). In a frying pan, fry some chopped smoked streaky bacon (ideally sourced from a good butcher and not a plastic packet) in olive oil until golden; add in a chopped onion and cook until soft, then add in sliced garlic, a sprinkle of chlli flakes and season with salt and pepper and allow the garlic to soften too. Add some cooked butter beans or cannellini beans and the cooked kale - stir and leave to simmer until the kale is as you want it - retaining colour and bite or very soft, as you prefer - use some of the cooking water to help moisten if you need extra liquid. Add a squeeze of lemon juice mixed in at the very end to sharpen up the flavour. Taste and adjust seasoning before serving; serve hot and, for those who want more of the South, with hot sauce to hand.

Erica x

“… most any Southerner worth their salt pork can tell you his experience with collard greens”

— John T Edge

Apple Harvest

(From Living Within, October)

I’ve been chatting with American friends recently and their bumper apple harvest is filling their lives with apple hunts and applesauce, apple crisps, and apple cider doughnuts - the latter available at their orchards, sometimes alongside some apple core vodka, if they are very, very lucky (exceptionally smooth, so I am told).

Their talk of Gravensteins and Honeycrisps and Macouns and Cortlands has whetted my appetite for our own English varieties. Unfortunately, I have not been able to find a source of the Claygate Pearmain, first identified by one John Braddick in a hedge in our very own village in 1821, but while grabbing a final bag of damsons from the dwindling supply at Garsons last week, I found a nice display of recently harvested local apples - Russets, Coxes, Red Windsors and something called Scrumptious.

Russets

Red Windsors

Now of course you don’t actually have to cook apples to enjoy them - a good flavoured and textured apple is a joy to eat all by itself or with just a hunk of cheese but, that said, there is plenty of scope for the cook to get busy.

A simple applesauce is a pretty standard accompaniment to rich meat such as pork or game - bake the peeled and cored apples (sharp flavoured ones are best), cut into chunks, with a squeeze of lemon juice, a tablespoon or two of sugar (depending on the sweetness of the apples) and a couple of tablespoons of water, covered and stirred from time to time, and when the apples have become soft and will stir up into a smooth sauce they are ready for serving. For a more sophisticated savoury accompaniment, peel, core and slice apples (a variety that will hold its shape - not a Bramley, for example) and fry in a little foaming butter with a finely sliced onion, and season with generous amounts of freshly ground black pepper. As the apple slices start to take on a little colour, the onions to soften, and the whole looks just about ready to serve, stir in a tablespoon or two of cider vinegar; cook all together for a minute or two more and serve as for the applesauce.

Elizabeth David cooked her (eating) apples (peeled, cored and sliced) in a frying pan with some butter and a tablespoon or three (or four) of sugar - depending on quantity and sweetnesss of apples and individual taste buds - until they were gently coloured and nicely flavoured, carefully shaken or stirred so as to preserve their shape; you can serve this, as she did, as a very simple pudding, with or without cream, or use the apple slices in a shortcrust apple tart.

Apple crumbles are another very easy treat - slice up five or six peeled and cored eating apples and toss with a little lemon juice, about 5 tablespoons of sugar, two teaspoons of cinnamon and a small grating of nutmeg. Leave for about 20 minutes to let the juices start to run. Melt an ounce or so of butter in a frying pan, allow it to start foaming and to take on a little nut brown colour and aroma, then toss the apple slices and their juices into the butter - when all are coated and the juice is slightly syrupy, turn off the heat and transfer the apples to a baking dish large enough to hold them.

In the meantime mix together 100g plain flour, a small handful of rolled oats and 50g sugar; rub in 100g cold butter (cut first into small chunks) until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs - you can cover and chill this until you need it. When ready to go, pre-heat the oven to 180ºC, scatter the crumb mix over the top of the apples and bake for about 40 minutes, until it looks golden brown and the apple mixture is bubbling away at the bottom. Serve with cream or ice-cream.

Garsons’ display

Whether your source is Wisley, Garsons Farm, FruitWorld, or the supermarkets (at this time of the year, even they will have added to their normal imports with some locally grown specimens), I do hope you enjoy the start of this year’s apple season and that you make the most of as many varieties as you can lay your hands on.

Erica x
www.acooksblog.com

“Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.” ~ Song of Solomon 2:5

Jamming

A little late, but for the record - from early October.

Charlotte, checking for mellow fruitfulness

It’s all Charlotte’s doing really. She was the one who prompted rounds of “cherry trumps” between us this spring, after she had rubbed my nose a little in Nancy Mitford’s, still unfortunately apt, description of the sterility of the place in which I live - at least fruiting-tree wise - contrasting it with her own county (Suffolk), where she happens to live on a working farm, with an orchard. Just for the record, I won (I think), although - and Nancy would no doubt have smiled - I did have to invoke some cherry trees with their feet firmly planted in the Gironde in order to do so.

Top Trump

More recently I ventured to Suffolk where Charlotte weighed me down with generosity and grapes from her father-in-law’s laden and ancient vines (he was rather defeated by quantity and absence at the time), and the suggestion that grape jelly might be an appropriate way of preserving these particular fruit for seasons to come. As you might imagine, pride salvaged by way of the cherries, I was more than happy to acknowledge such munificence and superiority of grape harvest, and set to work straightway on making said jellies.

As a bit of a virgin conserver (what with living in Surrey and not having much of a glut of fruit to deal with in a normal year) and never having made a fruit jelly, I did a bit of research and it seemed that the technical bit - proportions of fruit to sugar to gelling agent (pectin) - are pretty standard. I relied, eventually, on a trusty looking tome “Larousse des Confitures”, aided and abetted by the late great Richard Olney, and discovered that grape jelly can be made with the juice provided from about 1.2kg of fruit (stalked) with an equal quantity of sugar (actual calculation based on a 1:1 ratio of juice, strained through a jelly bag - Heath Robinson contraptions perfectly acceptable - to sugar), the juice of a lemon, and about 200ml of apple juice - to add a bit of a pectin boost for a lowish pectin fruit.

So, on to the method. First cook your grapes. Put the (stalked and washed) grapes and a scant 200ml water into a large saucepan; bring to a boil and bubble gently for about 5 minutes pushing against the grapes with a skimmer or a spider or even a potato masher to burst the skins open at the same time. Next, pass the cooked grapes through a moulin à legumes on a fine setting (to get rid of the bulk of the skins and the pips).

Pour the resulting pulpy liquid into a jelly bag hung over a large bowl (a muslin cloth tied or pegged to an upturned stool or low table will do) and leave to drain, unassisted, for as long as it takes (from a few hours to overnight, depending on quantity and fineness of your muslin - the finer the weave, the longer the drain but the clearer the gel).

For the apple juice, simmer about 1kg of washed and quartered apples, sour ones are best, (no need to peel or to core but you can removed the stalks) in a litre and a half of water, for half an hour. After this time, ladle out the apples and their surrounding liquid into a sieve sitting over a bowl; allow the juice to drain through, don’t push it, and reserve. You will need about 200ml apple juice for the juice yielded from 1.2kg of grapes, the rest can be frozen in 200ml quantities for use at other times.

When all of your ingredients are ready to go but before you start work, you will need to sterilise some jars (1.2kg fruit to 1kg sugar makes, approximately 4 standard jam jars). Wash them in warm soapy water, rinse and drain (or wash in a dishwasher) and then put them in an oven at about 160ºC for 5 minutes or so (with their scrupulously washed lids if you are not sealing with cellophane or other means), then turn the oven off and leave the jars inside, untouched, until you need to fill them.

Meanwhile, put some small plates or saucers into your fridge or freezer to chill along with a handful of teaspoons and forget about them until later.

Weigh the liquid that you have captured in the bowl, put it into a wide, heavy-based saucepan (ideally a jam pan with outward sloping sides if you have one - if not, improvise as best you can) and add to it an equal quantity of plain white granulated sugar and the lemon and apple juices. Stir together, over a low heat, until ALL of the sugar is dissolved.

Bring to a boil, skim the boiling liquid of any initial scum that rises to the surface and then boil at a vigorous bubble for about 10 minutes or until the frothy scum starts to abate a little and the boiling bubbles are starting to change consistency (they will get bigger and slower), then start testing for a “set” (technical term). Vigorous boiling helps to speed up the process of getting the jelly to set but be careful that you don’t have hot spots at the bottom of your pan on which the mixture might “catch” or burn or caramelise - regulate the heat if you sense it is all getting at all out of hand.

Setting point is at about 105ºC (if you happen to have an appropriate thermometer) but can vary according to pectin and sugar and acid concentrations so can also be checked by dropping a small amount of the boiled liquid (using your pre-chilled teaspoons and plates) onto a plate and watching to see what happens to it. If it spreads uncontrollably, you are a way off. If it settles into a neat beady bubble that holds its shape and will wrinkle slightly when you push it (leave it to cool and settle a little first) you are there.

Do be careful not to overcook - you don’t want the jelly to become sticky or stiff, and caramelising the sugar will change the taste drastically; to this end, take off the heat immediately a set is reached. Once the bubbles have died down, skim the surface one last time of all the foam and bubbles sitting on the top - use a metal spoon - a special skimming one is best but you want something with relatively “sharp” edges, and then start ladling it into your sterilised jars. Fill them leaving about 1cm of head room and seal immediately; leave to cool and then store in a cool, dry, place or in the refrigerator. Don’t forget to label it, especially if you are planning on making more than one type or batch of preserves.

grape jelly

But grape jelly is probably at the advanced level end of the preserving spectrum. There is much for the perfectionist to concern themselves over. Grapes are not naturally high in pectin making the set problematic - but overboil and your jelly becomes gummy, underdo it and the gell may always sit on the sryupy side of soft (don’t lose heart though, the gelling process continues to work some magic for a few weeks after the making) and making the gell crystal clear involves concerns all of its own. So, moving back a preserving step and with a visit to France, a kitchen with a proper jam pan and, of course, markets full of fruit (notably plums of many descriptions and sizes) at my disposal I thought I might learn a few things from making some jams instead. Consulting my trusty “Larousse des Confitures” once more, it turns out that nearly all jam (or at least that relating to most varieties of plums, which is what I have been working with) can be made using about 1.2kg of fruit (net weight will be about 1kg once stoned) to 800g sugar (granulated white standard) and the juice of a small lemon.

Choose your plums carefully - you want them to be ripe but firm and without any significant blemish or mould on the outside. Wash, halve and pit the plums (you can use the lemon juice to help prevent a bit of browning of the cut edges but that’s up to you) and cover with the sugar in a large bowl - layer it up as you go if you like - but add in all of the lemon juice at this stage so that you don’t forget it later. Cover close to the surface with cling film and leave to macerate for anything from one to 24 hours. The longer you leave the fruit at this stage the more it becomes impregnated with the sugar - or so the theory goes.

Have ready your chilled saucers and spoons and jam pots (about the same number) as for the jelly.

Transfer the plums and sugar to a jam making pan, put onto a gentle heat and, stirring - at least from time to time - dissolve the sugar in the juices of the plums, all of it, then turn up the heat and boil and skim as for the jelly.

It will take about 10 minutes for this quantity of fruit for setting temperature to be reached (105ºC) but test with the cold plate as well. Do make sure that bits of the fruit and sugar don’t catch on the bottom of the pan at the vigorous boiling stage - regulate the heat carefully and stir from time to time to make sure that it doesn’t. Once you are happy that the jam has come to a set, turn off the heat and skim and jar exactly as for the jelly. Voilà! Couldn’t be simpler.

bobbing damsons coming to a boil

Jams made so far this year in my kitchen include both Quetsche (a kind of plum, not commonly available in the UK but can be found in parts of France) and Damson.

Quetsches

damsons

The Quetsche jam is very good, I made one version with some young walnuts and a bit of cinammon (be warned if handling young walnuts in their green outer shells, the staining to your skin will last about a fortnight and is really not pretty!)

a cautionary tale

But damson has proved significantly popular (and by the way, don’t believe anyone who translates questche via prune de damas as being the equivalent of an English damson - they may all have origniated in Syria and belong to the same extended family, but the size and the taste are quite different from each other); I have been struggling to keep up with supply and demand for this very time consuming and relatively hard to come by fruit (at least if you don’t have access to a damson tree).

Nigel Slater, states in his diaries that only a masochist would bother to stone a quantity of damsons before cooking them, and others talk optimistically about stones bobbing around at the surface and being easy to pick out of a cooked mass of fruit, but my advice would be to be wary of such seductive counsel - stoning the fruit allows you to be sure not only that the fruit is good inside (no wormy bits or spoiled areas) but also that the teeth of all your consumers are safe from unexpected trauma - take a little time (about an hour a kilo I’m afraid) and a very sharp small knife and cut out the grippy stones as close as possible to the flesh. However much work, the end result is well worth whatever effort is put into the making; it is supremely delicious.

The jam making season is destined to become one of my future favourites but, be warned, once you have mastered the technique, and tasted the finished product, a bug may start to get under your skin and you may make way more jam than any one family can really need. The time when you need to take proper stock, however, is perhaps when you start sizing up your garden for orchard potential.

“That’s why I hate to get started in these jam sessions. I’m always the last one to leave.” ~Elvis Presley

Erica x

caponata

From Living Within, September

Marble fragment of the Great Eleusinian Relief, Metropolitan Museum of Art, “Demeter, the goddess of agricultural abundance, stands at the left, clad in a peplos and himation (cloak) and holding a scepter.”

It’s funny how things have a habit of turning out alright in the end; summer did get here, eventually, and now that we have reached September all is right in Demeter’s corner of heaven as the harvests start coming home - almost on schedule.

But before we move on to the harvests, let’s just pause a moment to appreciate while we still can the bounty of summer’s heat. I want to show you sunshine in a bowlful of Caponata. First introduced, as far as I am concerned, by Inspector Montalbano in last year’s television series (filling the BBC4 Nordic noir slot while the nation was on holiday and not really watching) - Sicilian, gutsy, handsome in a rugged kind of way, caponata, has become a firm favourite of mine. An amalgam of summer veg with aubergine at its heart, held together in a sweetly sour binding of tomato and vinegar, caponata is pretty elastic in allowable ingredients and even better the day after making.

Here is a version that I have made recently, as authentic or inauthentic as any other, perhaps, as there appears to be no consensus in Sicily as to what is acceptable - feel free to tweak it with additions, omissions or substitutions as you will.

Aubergines and courgettes (a few of each) - chop into pieces about an inch cubed, give a light sprinkle with salt and leave to drain in a colander for as long as you are able (anything from 15 minutes to a couple of hours - the vegetables will disgorge some of their liquid during this process).

Onions, celery, garlic - roughly chop a large onion, take the fine yellow heart of a head of celery and chop into pieces roughly the same size as you have the onion, and slice or chop some garlic.

Tomatoes - use fresh if they are ripe and flavoursome, tinned at a pinch - core, skin, halve, and squeeze out the seeds of a few large tomatoes and chop coarsely.

Warm some olive oil in a heavy-based frying pan, soften the onion and the celery (about 10 minutes over medium/low heat) - until the onion is just thinking about turning gold - lower the heat, add the garlic and allow to soften for a minute more; add in the tomatoes, a little salt, turn up the heat, and cook until the tomatoes are pulpy, thick and saucy; add in a couple of teaspoons of wine vinegar and about the same of sugar, cook for a few minutes longer, taste and adjust the seasoning and then leave to cool a little.

Squeeze out some of the water from the salted vegetables, lay them out on kitchen paper and dry them as much as you are able. Heat some oil in a clean heavy-based frying pan - enough to shallow fry or to deep fry as you will - then fry the vegetables, in batches (never overcrowd the pan), remove from the oil when golden brown all over and drain on more kitchen paper and sprinkle with a little more vinegar.

When finished, add the fried vegetables to a large bowl. Mix in with them: a handful of toasted pine nuts (toast in a single layer in a hot oven for a few minutes only - watch them like a hawk so that they do not burn!); a tablespoon or two of rinsed preserved capers; a small handful of pitted olives (of any colour of your choosing or a mix, whole or halved) and, finally, the tomato sauce. Add in some chopped fresh herbs (basil, parsley or, even, mint would all be acceptable) and adjust the seasoning to your taste - some freshly ground black pepper if no more salt is needed. Finally add a good drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Leave, covered, for the flavours to meld in their residual heat for as long as you can (15 minutes if you are in a hurry but a couple of hours is best). Serve at room temperature - never cold or the range of flavours will be dulled.

As with almost all cooking, the quality of your ingredients will dictate the end result. Choose well flavoured examples of everything that you use, from the oil to the salt. Caponata can be served as a meal in itself (with some crusty bread alongside to mop up the juices) or as antipasto or accompaniment to other things. Buon Appetito!

Erica x

“‘What did you eat?'… 'Caponata.’ he said in a choked-up voice

How on earth was it possible to get a lump in one’s throat simply by uttering the word 'caponata’?” ~Andrea Camilleri

The Southern Cocktail Hour

From Living Within, July/August - a little late in the day but just for the record.

July and August are the easiest months to write about food, in a normal year that is. This is the time when we can expect the early treasures to be superseded by the just plain plentiful and for the weather to be hot and balmy - at least some of the time. Now is the time to fire up the barbie and be outdoors with friends and family and food that is just so easy because it already tastes great before you even think about paying it too much attention. The only thing that might be sending you to your stove to spend some quality time is to preserve some of this bounty for the winter. Except this year such bounty as is coming in (normally by air) may also have been deprived of enough sun to develop character or flavour and, frankly, I am losing confidence in what to expect that we might be expecting.

So I think it might be best if, just for now, we imagine a place where warmth is more or less guaranteed and where food is the stuff of legend. Imagine, for example, that we are in the Deep South (and I’m not talking Brighton, we have headed off to the Cotton States of the US of A) and are looking forward to the crawfish boiling in a ten gallon outdoor pot, or the gumbo bubbling on momma’s stove, or the pulled pork that has been marinated and slow cooked to tangy perfection, or the corn that needs no more than shucking and tossing in a pan with a little butter and some chilli flakes. Meantime, sitting on our porch in the sultry heat that surrounds us, a little craving is making itself felt for something to snack on that will make those taste buds sit up and pay attention to that cold beer in our hand or that julep beaded with ice cold water dripping from the glass.

Are you with me yet? Well, allow me introduce you to one of my new favourite snacks - one that needs no sun on its back but will not be diminished by a little heat either, one that has been gaining ground away from its southern heartland in the States but which has, in this corner of leafy Surrey, yet to find the recognition that it so surely deserves. Let me introduce you folks to the fried pickle - yes, you heard that right and, please, don’t look away now, it has so much more to recommend it than the name or even the pictures might suggest.

Tangy and sour with some sweetness around the edges (if you are careful in your choice of pickle that is, which you really must be - choose large crisp dill pickles, ones that have a little sweetness) served fresh from cooking and with dipping and hot sauce fixin’s on the side, the fried pickle is a bit of a revelation.

To make these little delicacies: slice your pickles whichever way and however thick you like; dust in some flour that has been seasoned with salt and pepper, paprika and a pinch of cayenne; dunk them in a dish of buttermilk (the sourness of which is the reason why you need your pickle to have a little sweetness) and, finally, coat in some breadcrumbs. When you have them all prepared and ready to go, fry in batches, in enough hot oil to cover the pickles and to turn them golden in a matter of minutes, and then drain on paper towels over racks and season lightly with more salt. Serve hot with the dipping sauce (mayonnaise, or more buttermilk with a couple of spoons of mayonnaise mixed in and seasoned with salt, pepper, ground cumin and freshly chopped dill leaves), sprinkle hot pepper sauce liberally over, if hot sauce is to your taste, dunk in the dipping sauce and enjoy with that ice cold drink.

I do hope all y'all have a great rest of the summer, whatever it brings from here on in, and with a bit of luck, by the time we are all back in September, an Indian summer will be settling in nicely.

Erica x

“If it ain’t fried, it ain’t cooked” ~Southern saying

April Spice

From Living Within, April

At about this time in a normal year I would be contemplating lightening up my wardrobe and bringing out the straw baskets for some spring shaped shopping but, as my paper reminds me this morning with news that mulled wine sales are up by 50% in Marks and Spencer stores this first week of the Easter holidays, this year is far from normal and we are still up to our ears in winter chill. Fatigue is setting in as we tire of our winter duds and of root vegetables and comfort foods; frankly, we have all had enough.

So what to do when the weather and the season are so out of step? In my kitchen I am headed on a spice trail; Moorish, Moroccan, Middle-Eastern or further to the great subcontinent of India, these cuisines don’t require exactitude of recipe based as they are on an understanding of harmony in aromatics, colour, texture and flavour, and are always welcome no matter the season or the outdoor temperature. For anyone interested in joining me, I am going to share here the elements of a generically spiced Indian curry.

The subcontinent is, of course, a big place and the influences on it many and varied. The Moghuls entered and conquered from the north bringing with them Persian influence and sophistication - an emphasis on meat is an important legacy from these powerful, manly invaders - and the paddy fields dedicated to that queen amongst rices, basmati, have from ages past been placed firmly around the foothills of the Himalayas, establishing this refined and scented grain as a regal staple here where biryanis and pilaffs are more associated with celebration than anywhere else. In coastal areas fish is predominant, and in the south, where coconut also often features, a more vegetarian ethos fits with the strictures of Hindu sensibilities (not to mention the prevalent poverty), and hot chilli peppers, introduced from the Americas by Portugese colonisers, are the most widely adopted form of heat and piquancy. So you can see that a generic Indian anything is not really going to be an easy task. Nevertheless I offer here a method for an easily adaptable curry that can accommodate fish, foul, meat, and even vegetable and, once learned, can be repeated and built upon as you make it your own without it ever becoming tiresomely familiar.

Spices are added whole or ground into the cooking pot and it is important to understand how they work. Nearly all spices benefit from some cooking to help release their flavour and crushed or ground that flavour is released more fully; however, ground spices lose their potency very quickly, which is why one must throw away ground spices that have been sitting in the cupboard for any length of time. The ready ground from the supermarket are fine for an everyday kind of meal, but if you want something truly special take the time and trouble to grind your own as and when you need them. Most whole spices will benefit from gentle toasting in a dry pan (over a lowish heat and for just long enough for them to start to smell fragrant) and then grinding them in either an electric coffee grinder (one that will never, ever be used to grind coffee incidentally!) or with a mortar and pestle.

The early building blocks of this curry include whole cardamom pods (split to expose their seeds), cloves, cinnamon stick and bay leaves toasted lightly in a heavy and wide based pan, otherwise empty apart from a little cooking oil. As soon as these spices have started to release some fragrance, and taking great care not to let them burn, add in copious amounts of finely sliced onions (at least two and three or four usually won’t go amiss). The onions need to brown in order to give the right flavour and colour to the finished dish and their volume will reduce considerably as they do so. Stir them regularly (constantly if your heat is very high and you want caramelisation to happen quickly) until they are an even shade of golden brown; again, you must be careful not to burn them for as soon as this happens the flavour will turn from fragrant to acrid.

Season the onions with a little salt, turn down the heat and add in some ginger-garlic paste - made by peeling a thumb sized piece of ginger and two or three cloves of garlic and either chopping them very finely, or grinding them to a paste (this can be done in an electric processor but is also achieved very effectively with a grater - a fine blade for the soft garlic and perhaps a slightly coarser one for the more fibrous ginger). This paste should be cooked and stirred for two or three minutes, enough time for a change in aroma from sharp and slightly harsh to something perfumed and having lost all raw edge; it absolutely must not burn, which it is inclined to do if the heat is too high or if it is allowed to stick to the bottom of the pan.

Add in some ground spices - a teaspoon of turmeric, a scant tablespoon of cumin and coriander and a half a teaspoon or so of chilli powder, hot or mild according to your taste and tolerance for chilli heat. These will also need stirring and gentle cooking for about a minute. If at any stage the mixture is in danger of sticking to the bottom of the pan, add in a little water - no more than a teaspoon or two at a time, the spices and aromatics should remain as a paste and toast or fry not boil.

To enrich the paste add some chopped tomato flesh (skin and seeds removed) and/or some plain yoghurt or coconut milk. Yoghurt has a tendency to “split” or curdle at high temperatures so add it gradually and stir it in carefully over a low heat; if it does curdle, don’t worry too much, the look not the flavour will be the main casualty. Once your base sauce is beginning to simmer and has a thick consistency, add in whatever you would like to cook in it. Choose from: diced stewing lamb; chicken pieces (skin removed); fish (choose something that will retain it’s shape once it has cooked), or prepared vegetables. Season your chosen main ingredient before you add it to the pot or just after you have done so and coat in the sauce. If you need more liquid at this stage, add in a small wineglass measure of water but bear in mind that the main ingredient is likely to give off liquid of its own. Simmer, stirring from time to time and covered if cooking is going to take more than a few minutes only for as long as the main ingredient requires to cook: fish, for example, will take minutes, chicken somewhere in the region of half to three quarters of an hour and lamb up to a couple of hours or longer depending on cut and how slowly you cook it; fish should be just cooked, meat should be tender and the sauce should be thick and well flavoured.

Toward the end of cooking time taste the sauce adjust the seasoning and remove any visible whole spices. Add some fresh tomato wedges if you like and garnish with finely chopped or sliced fresh ginger or chilli and fresh chopped coriander leaves. Serve with a salad of chopped cucumber and tomato, hand around plain yoghurt and maybe some chutneys and accompany with bread or with plain steamed long-grain rice (preferably basmati).

There is much you can do to alter and embellish this curry - other spices, herbs, vegetables and sweetening and souring agents will each add their own qualities - but this basic dish, I am prepared to lay odds, will taste like nothing you have tasted in any restaurant. You are at liberty to be as gentle or as heavy handed as you like with the spices and flavours and, once mastered, there is no going back!

Erica x
(www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk)

“The most important element of cooking is the taste you create.” ~Ismail Merchant

it's not just about the soup

From Living Within, March 2013, page 21

At a friend’s house for supper a few nights ago our host had spent time, and no small effort, cooking a Jewish delicacy, one that is known by name pretty much the world over but not something that I have actually ever tasted before. Frankly, I have very little knowledge of Jewish food or the symbolism that surrounds it but it was a treat to be offered this wholly unexpected gem of traditionalism, a labour of love if ever I encountered one; I am of course talking Chicken Soup.

It sounds pretty simple but there is much more to it than I would have imagined - noodles and matzo balls, a broth rich enough to be considered therapeutic and accompanied, naturally, with tales of matriarchs and in-laws, discussion of the relative merits and densities of a matzo, and apocryphal anecdotes of Hollywood sirens concerned for the fate of the rest of the matzo animal. But I hear tell that the Chicken Soup debate is an emotional minefield within Jewish communities and, unqualified as I am to enter it, will offer no further critique other than to say that ours was delicious and the occasion very special.

It occurred to me that soup plays a role in many histories and traditions. It has achieved a level of immortality in popular culture: in song from the Mock Turtle to Carole King, and as comedy gold from a real-life New York soup stand in Jerry Seinfeld’s 90’s TV sitcom. Whether homely pottage, delicate consommé, smooth velouté or spicy mulligatawny, soup can be a comfort, a cure, a leveller, an appetite stimulant - but whatever else it is, it always feels familiar.

In a month when our thoughts are turning, almost desperately, to spring but in which we are still waiting for spring veg to become more fulsome and available, soup enables us to straddle the seasons with some ease; we can incorporate those vegetables that have taken us through winter and add in the vitality of spring as and when we see it.

Italian minestrone would be my soup of choice with which to make this almost seamless transition. There is no place for an overly prescriptive recipe for a minestrone as we have to allow for almost any vegetable to find some space in its allotted time in the calendar, and anyway, as for a Jewish bubbie, no two Italians are likely to agree on the exact details of how to achieve perfection in it. A minestrone requires a broth - chicken, vegetable or, at a pinch, plain water - a base of aromatics on which to build flavour, something starchy to thicken it and often a little splash of green with which to brighten its finish.

To go through the building blocks in a little more detail we should start, briefly, with the broth. Whether vegetable or light chicken in base, this should have been made from raw ingredients and not a stock cube. You can buy (at considerable expense) fresh stock in the supermarket, but better if you can to make your own with a left over carcass and/or some vegetable trimmings - simmer gently in enough water to cover for as long as it takes to extract the flavour (an hour or so for vegetables, upwards of 2 for chicken) skimming and straining the resulting liquid at strategic points along the way (namely as it comes to a boil before being reduced to a simmer, and when you have decided it is done). If all else fails, a minestrone can be made with water instead of broth, although you will probably have to go a little heavier on the seasoning to make up for the shortfall in flavour.

The base aromatics are traditionally a mix of onion, celery and carrot - the holy trinity of vegetables - diced finely and softened in a little oil or butter over a low heat. In Italy this is called a soffrito and acts as a flavour base for many different dishes. The soffrito should be soft and well cooked but never browned and will take, at least,10 minutes to cook down slowly.

Once the soffrito is ready, the other vegetables and broth can be added all in their time. Some sliced or chopped garlic might be added to the base to further enrich the flavour and when this has softened, any other vegetables (excluding anything that will take less than 3 minutes to cook) in order of how long they will take to cook through. These might include finely sliced leek, a chopped fennel bulb, chard stalks, potato (diced or whole), podded peas or green beans (broad or french). When all these vegetables are in, add a couple of litres of broth or water. Bring this to a boil and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. The soup will be ready as soon as the vegetables in it are tender. Anything that only requires a little wilting in hot liquid should be added just minutes before serving; finely sliced spinach or chard leaves, for example, which should stay a vibrant shade of green; overcooking these will dull both their colour and their flavour

The starchy element can come from a number of sources. Potato; some pre-cooked chickpeas borlotti, cannellini, or other beans; pasta noodles or shapes (again pre-cooked), or a handful of raw rice are all candidates. Add enough to add some substance but be careful (especially with rice which will expand significantly on cooking) if you don’t want the soup to finish thick enough to hold a spoon upright. Anything that is already cooked will need no more than 5 minutes to absorb flavour but allow enough time for rice or potatoes to cook through.

Seasoning should be added gradually; it is probably best if you add a little salt each time you add a new ingredient (taste it before you season once the broth has been added). Use a light hand at the beginning and remember to taste the soup at the end of cooking so that you can make final adjustments.

Once the soup is ready, serve in warmed bowls. Garnish with any or all of some chopped tender herbs (basil or parsley), a drizzle of well flavoured olive oil, a handful of Parmesan cheese and some freshly ground black pepper.

The soup should be hearty but, for those who require more substance, you can always have to hand some fresh crusty bread; and the customary call to table? “Soup’s in!”.

Erica x

www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk

“This man sells the greatest soup you have ever eaten, and he is the meanest man in America. I feel very strongly about this, Becky; it’s not just about the soup.” ~Sleepless in Seattle (Nora Ephron)

there will be blood - a marmalade epic

(A little late in the day; this draft got held up in the finishing and is just making it into the end of February - it should have appeared a month ago*)

A word of warning to those who choose to read ahead, this post is going to get detailed and a little technical (not to mention a little long) because, not having made marmalade in a while, I have done a fair amount of research for this project. For the sake of my future preserving self, I am recording a little of what I have found, so be prepared for what may be a surfeit of detail.

Marmalade, it seems, is pretty much an exclusively British obsession in the early months of each year. Seville Oranges - sour, coarse, pippy - arrive fleetingly on our shores from the beginning of January; the Spanish seemingly happier to sell their crop to us than to use their own harvest. No other oranges will really do to make proper British marmalade, the bitterness of a Seville being essential to a sophisticated marmalade palate. Some of us even become a little fanatical in our desire to perfect these bitter sweet preserves and to record the experience and compare notes and preferences.

American tastes, by and large, do not seem to run to marmalade; national palates there, so I am told, are attuned to sweeter or saltier preserves (grape jelly and peanut butter? ) and having, in any case no history with or crop of bitter fruit to use have no need to have acquired this particular foible. However, whether you consider a taste for marmalade refined, acquired or aberrant probably owes more to your geography and upbringing than to any absolutes of taste or sophistication.

Marmalade making, like all preserving, is a bit of a science. A certain proportion of fruit to liquid to sugar, the natural pectin of the fruit put to use to provide a set, but broad method and fine detail allowing the maker to exercise both choice and skill. The shred can be coarse and chunky or fine and delicate; marmalade can be very tangy with pith included in its body, or it can be clear gelled, pithless and shredded fine or, in extreme cases, shredless (although I think the fans of this last variety probably buy theirs off the supermarket shelf).

Tawnys and Vintage Oxfords lie at the heavier, tangier end of the spectrum and the more delicate, perhaps wimpy, Golden and Silver Shreds at the end where my taste buds were, in childhood, more comfortable (the alternative being my father’s Oxford thick cut for which I still have no fondness). My palette has developed and sharpened a little over the years; tangy is good, so long as not too thick and dark, and I prefer my marmalade with a little substance, more orange than tawny, with peel and never too sweet or syrupy.

So what else did I find out? I found that there are numerous techniques, preferences, and conflicting tips; there are those who boil whole oranges and then cool, peel and shred them before adding sugar; these fast workers will typically have their marmalade made in a day. There are others who slice the fruit first and then take a couple of days over the affair. There are those who swear by unrefined sugar to avoid “toxic froth” (although I think that this may in fact be toxic tosh and the unrefined and brown sugar contingent simply prefer their marmalade darker and more caramel tasting); the opposing camp profess a better colour and flavour will be created by white granulated (never caster or icing which will give you problems), and, finally, there are those who warm their sugar while others think that this is a waste of time.

I scoured my bookshelves and the internet and found an obscure and sketchy recipe that took three days to prepare and this time factor, to my mind, translated to a superior marmalade (although there is no other evidence than time taken to suggest that this is true). An idle comment from somewhere that water is not the only suitable liquid led me to believe my marmalade might be more “orangey” if I were to substitute the juice of sweet oranges for some of the water, and this, coupled with the appearance of blood oranges alongside the Sevilles, led me to believe, further, that I could make a luxurious product with a particularly beautiful colour if I mixed the two (although, quite possibly, I have only made it more expensive).

I am a week behind Nigel Slater, (*or at least I was when I started!) but then he has a column and a deadline to make while I am lacking not only discipline but an editor and a character limit.

Anyway, I will delay no further and provide you with the recipe and notes that I followed; a record for myself if there are no others game to take on a three day challenge. The three days involve slicing the oranges and soaking and part cooking and soaking again before getting round to the nitty gritty of adding sugar (always, always to pre-softened peel that will otherwise become tough as soon as the sugar hits it). The peel in the finished product with this method should be particularly tender (even if it is not always very fine) having benefitted from its prolonged bathing.

This method involves a little more sugar to fruit than is traditional (simply because it also requires a little more liquid). The flavour is supposed to be mild although mine has a definite tang - a level just above subtle - and it is not overly sweet. The set is good, the peel well distributed and prominent, and the colour a golden amber (the colour of the blood oranges, unfortunately, not particularly noticeable in the final product). The flavour is good and in this, I like to think the blood oranges have played some part, simply because, after slicing all those Sevilles, with their bothersome pips and strong orange aroma, the beauty and fragrance of the blood oranges was notable and in my mind, at least, will have added a little finesse to the finished project (although I could, of course, just be kidding myself).

This quantity of ingredients will make about 10lbs marmalade. Most extra large pans will have difficulty coping with this in one batch and I cooked mine in two.

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3 DAY MARMALADE

Ingredients:

12 Seville oranges;
2 blood oranges;
2 lemons;
4½ litres juice/water or a combination of the two,
(I used 12 blood oranges which contributed just under 1 litre of juice);
Approx 3kg white granulated sugar (calculate exact weight as per instructions in the method;

Method:

Day 1

• wash all of the oranges and lemons with hot water.
• Thinly slice all of the oranges (except the blood oranges being used for their juice) and one of the lemons, teasing out all of the pips at the same time. Put the citrus slices into a large bowl and put the pips into a small one.
• juice as many of the blood oranges as you like and add enough water to the juice to create 4½ litres of liquid in total (or use 4½ litres of water).
• cover the citrus slices with about 4 litres of the liquid, weighing them down in the liquid with a large plate or similar so that they do not float above it, and cover with cling film; cover the pips with the remaining 500ml liquid and also cover with cling film. Leave all to steep, in a cool place, for about 24 hours.

Day 2

• put all of the citrus slices and their soaking liquid into a large, heavy-based pan. Bring to a boil, skimming off the surface scum/foam that rises to the top, and then allow to simmer gently for about 30 minutes;
• remove from the heat and leave to steep, covered, for a further 24 hours (or thereabouts).

Day 3

• sterilise jars and lids . (You can sterilise them in the hot wash setting of a dishwasher, remember the jars should be warm at the time you are ready to fill them.)
• sieve the pips from their soaking liquid and reserve both; divide the pips into two and put into two (small) muslin bags and tie the bags securely with kitchen string. Add the juice of 1 lemon to the liquid that the pips have soaked in;
• weigh the fruit and the liquid (including the liquid that has soaked the pips) separately from each other;
• put all of the liquid back into your original pan (keep the fruit pulp separate at this stage) and add sugar . To calculate the amount of sugar, bear in mind that the liquid will be about twice the weight of the fruit pulp and for this you will need about 1kg of sugar per 500g of fruit pulp - the ratios are: 1 part fruit pulp : 2 parts liquid : 2 parts sugar (for other methods, the fruit to liquid to sugar ratios are about 1:1:1);
• over a low heat, gently stir the sugar in the pan (preferably with a large metal spoon) until it is dissolved and there is no trace of grittiness - raise the heat and bring to a boil and allow to boil briefly; remove from the heat. ;
• the weight of the sugar syrup that you have just created will be equal to the weight of all of the liquid plus whatever weight of sugar you added to the pan (for example, if there was 3 litres of liquid (which would have been the equivalent of 3kg) the syrup should now weigh 6kg). Divide this syrup into two equal quantities (by weight and NOT by volume - 300ml of sugar syrup will weigh more than the same volume of water or orange juice) and put one half back in the pan and reserve the other half until later. Divide up the fruit pulp into two equal weights and add one half to the syrup in the pan together with one of the muslin bags full of pips;
• bring the ingredients up to a good rolling boil and then boil at the highest temperature that you feel comfortable with (and from which the marmalade will not damage you or make too big a mess of your hob) - I used an AGA hot plate and a simmering plate which I danced between depending on how much mess they were making and how low or high the rate of boiling;
• skim the top regularly if you see any foam/scum appearing and, from time to time, give the bag of pips a squeeze to make sure that it is releasing pectin efficiently into the mix. You can stir, or not, with a blunt ended wooden spoon or heat proof spatula, according to your preference; stirring will lower the temperature temporarily but will even up the heat across the pan and will stop the mixture from catching on the bottom of the pan if it is inclined to do so;
• start checking for a set after about 10 - 15 minutes. A set will be achieved at about 105ºC (a temperature that is harder to achieve, in an even spread across the pan, from 104ºC than you might think); check at regular intervals (start at about 10 minutes and make those intervals shorter the nearer you get to temperature). Keep a few saucers in the freezer to do a second check; take out a small quantity of the marmalade with a teaspoon, put it on a freezing cold plate, and as soon as it is cool, check to see if it will wrinkle if you push it with your finger - if it remains liquid, you are not there yet, as soon as it wrinkles you are done;
• as soon as a set is reached, take the pan off the hob, skim any scum/foam from the top and remove the muslin bag (two pairs of tongs might help with this). Leave to cool, without further disturbance, for about 15 minutes. In the meantime, make sure that your jars are ready and that they are warm;
• After 15 minutes, stir the marmalade gently to redistribute the peel and then, using a an appropriately sized ladle and a jam funnel, if you have one, (and remember, the width of the neck of the jam funnel needs to be smaller than the size of your jam jar openings - needless to say, I didn’t think about this beforehand!) pour the marmalade into the jars; seal immediately and leave, where they stand, to cool completely;
• repeat the whole process with the other half ingredients that you have reserved;
• when the marmalade has all cooled, tighten up any loose lids. The marmalade can be eaten immediately, but it will mature after a week or four and the flavour should get better. Store in a cool place and use up within the next year or so;

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A few things that I learned the hard way: a muslin bag should not be overlarge; marmalade making takes longer than you think; a sugar thermometer that sits in the pan and that you don’t need to hold might make life easier; prepare for everything to get very sticky, and, just for the end of day three, to feel for a moment that you may never, ever, eat marmalade again.

“I came all the way in a lifeboat, and ate marmalade. Bears like marmalade.” ~Paddington Bear, Michael Bond

Erica x
www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk

Saint Valentine's Day

From Living Within, page 21, February 2013

a mated pair of pheasants is always to be found together; detail from “The Unicorn is Found”

St Valentine, the patron saint of lovers, celebrated for centuries on 14 February each year in spite of there being no clear single identity for him or striking reason why he has become associated quite so completely with romantic love. Nevertheless, the name Valentine is very much associated with hearts and flowers and all things pertaining to lovers and his Feast day is documented as being so connected as far back as the late 1300s when Chaucer made reference to St Valentine’s day in his poem The Parliament of Fowls; the birds of the air gather on this particular day in this particular poem to plead for and choose their mates (some, it must be said, more successfully than others).

Modern day St Valentine sentiment may be considered to have become a little formulaic and lacking in imagination. There is attached to Valentine’s day, as with so many other religious days of observance, a bit of an industry, and cards and gifts may tend toward the cheesy and the more general rather than the personal. An anonymous card sent to the object of one’s affection may suffice for the young and the young at heart but, assuming that, like me, you are past the stage of furtive cards and mystery admirers, how best might one push the boat out and show that you care this St Valentine’s Feast?

You could book a table at a restaurant and let someone else do the cooking. You will, of course, have to sit with other Valentine couples trying hard to find a little personal romantic space in a public setting, and you will probably need to have planned well ahead - good restaurants will be busy - but there is no doubt that good food cooked by an expert can be a treat.

But to avoid the cliché, not to mention the slight awkwardness of attempting romance against all the odds in a crowded room, you could stay home instead and cook for your beloved. It is probably best to Invest in something a little special ingredient-wise, chill a bottle of bubbles, with no need to worry about who is going to be noble and drive home afterwards, and do make a dessert. I would avoid, however, going in for anything that is going to take hours of work or likely to be in any way a disappointment in terms of reaction gained against time spent or from over ambitious menu planning.

As the old dictum has it “Faites Simple”. While a little luxury is unlikely to go amiss and pains should be taken to avoid the humdrum for this particular week night supper, this doesn’t have to mean a multi-coursed extravaganza either. Choose what you will, a good steak or something roasted if you like, but some shellfish I think would be perfect; lobster, perhaps, if your wallet runs to it, but, if not maybe some clams or prawns. Mixing any of these with a little pasta will stretch them to a filling supper with a touch of the exotic about them and they couldn’t be easier or faster to cook.

Clams require scrubbing when you bring them home, individually, under clear, cool, running water; any open ones that don’t close up when they are tapped should be discarded before cooking, and conversely, any that don’t open up when cooked should be discarded after. Once washed, leave them covered with a cool damp cloth (or newspaper) in a cool place (the salad compartment of the fridge is probably best) until you are ready to cook them.

When you are ready to eat, place a large pan of water on to boil for the pasta (linguine or spaghetti would be good), and, when it is boiling, salt it well. In the meantime, heat a wide, shallow, heavy-based pan, one for which you have a lid and one in which the clams will sit comfortably in one layer, add a little oil and a clove or two of garlic, sliced or chopped, and, as soon as the garlic starts to cook (and well before it starts to burn) add a generous splash of white wine, and/or a few diced, skinned and seeded fresh tomatoes. When, all is good and hot, throw in the clams, clamp on the lid and time for about 3 minutes, cooking all the time over a fairly high heat and shaking the pan a couple of times during cooking.

Check after 3 minutes and, if the majority of the clams are open wide and looking plumply ready, turn off the heat, sprinkle the whole with some chopped fresh parsley, check and adjust the seasoning (ie add salt and/or ground black pepper to taste) and give a quick stir. Leave, uncovered, to one side until the pasta is done. If you are feeling perfectionistic, you can remove about two thirds of the clams from their shells, leaving a few with shells intact to look decorative, and you can strain off the sauce and reduce it a little to concentrate the flavour (before seasoning) but neither step is strictly necessary.

While the clams are cooking, cook the pasta according to the instructions on the packet but set your timer for a minute less than those instructions say that it will take to cook. When time is up (bar that minute), test the pasta for doneness - it should retain a little hardness at its core but be almost cooked through. Remove the pasta from its boiling water (using tongs, a spaghetti fork or a large slotted spoon or spider) and put it into the pan with the clams; turn the heat back on under the pan. Toss the pasta with the clams until it is well coated with the sauce that the clams have given off and serve immediately (sprinkled with a gesture of olive oil and more chopped parsley if you like). From start to finish, the whole thing can be made in just a little longer than the time it has taken for you to cook the pasta.

Lobster can be added to pasta in similar fashion; if it is already cooked (as I am assuming is likely) you can warm chopped lobster flesh (with or without shell attached) with similar ingredients used as a base to those that I have suggested for the clams (you will not need a fiercely high heat this time - cooked lobster requires only gentle warming, not further cooking). You may want to soften some finely chopped fennel in a pan and add a small splash of pastis and a scant sprinkling of chopped tarragon as substitutes for the garlic, white wine and parsley (allow the fennel to cook gently until it is nice and soft before adding the lobster) - these gently sweet aniseed flavours, if not overdone and overpowering, can complement lobster very well. Tomato gives additional colour and flavour, but is, as for the clams, entirely optional.

Given that it is Valentine’s day, whether you choose to stare doe-eyed at each other across a shared dish of noodles, like that famous scene from Disney’s “Lady and The Tramp”, is your affair entirely and I shall not make any further suggestions except to say that I would add a simple dessert - a crème brulée, a melting chocolate fondant, or perhaps a pink tinged cake of some sort - and to wish you all a Happy St Valentine’s Day.

Erica x
(www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk)

“spice a dish with love and it pleases every palate” ~Plautus

January Rhubarb

From Living Within, January 2013, page 6.

The festivities are pretty much over and another year has been celebrated and laid to rest. The New Year may be full of resolution and optimism, but there is no getting away from the fact that January is the bleakest month the calendar has to offer. Spring still has the significant buffer of February before we have real prospect of green shoots and renewal, the weather likely to be at its coldest and gloomiest, the days are short, and the sparkle and twinkle are done leaving our homes and gardens stripped, stark and, frankly, a bit bare.

To brighten up this slightly desolate picture and attempt to gladden hearts I am writing this month to remind you of some shots of colour and flavour particular to January; some high spots in this challenging month, and hope that I can leave you in a better place than where I have started and with a little something to look forward to on your January tables.

January marks the start of the forced rhubarb season, and it is pretty swiftly followed by the finish so make the most of it while you can. This delicate and refined rhubarb, brought forward from its more natural season, thrives in the cold and damp conditions provided by the Rhubarb Triangle of Yorkshire and is not, unlike most plant life, improved by any glint of daylight. Both grown and harvested without natural light, and in special sheds, artificially heated for the final push, it grows fast and furious in glorious shades of pink and red; no trace of green coarseness taints its beauty even in its yellow leaves.

Rhubarb is an ancient plant, long ago used for medicinal purposes in Northern Asia. We English were amongst the first to cook with it and it became one of our kitchen staples. Its popularity dimmed at a time when sugar became both scarce and rationed with a wartime population encouraged to eat home-grown and plentiful rhubarb lacking, however, easy access to the sweetness needed to ameliorate its mouth-puckeringly sour natural flavour. Rhubarb became the stuff of bad memories for a generation and forced production is significantly diminished from its pre war glory years; its stock pretty low as a foodstuff that has for many years lacked sponsorship, glamour, or a clear identity (being technically a vegetable but used more like a fruit) and with a name, unfortunately, that lends little if any cachet. But, as often happens as fashions come and go and memories become consigned to history, it has had a bit of a resurgence in recent years and come to the notice of a new generation of British chefs looking for home grown produce in preference to the more exotic. We home cooks can also expand on it as an ingredient for a traditional humble crumble or a pie (good as both these are) and I can assure you that a stick or two of pink rhubarb can rise above the homely and the comforting and bring a touch of elegance to the table.

Rhubarb requires gentle handling, low temperatures, and careful watching if it is not to turn into a mush and needs ingredients that will complement and help reveal the natural, if somewhat concealed, sweetness that underlies its more obvious bitter overtones. It can be poached in dessert wine or sweet orange juice, with sugar or honey according to your own taste - don’t be tempted to be heavy handed with the sweetness however - one of rhubarb’s main charms is that it should retain its bitter integrity. It sits well with vanilla or ginger and looks beautiful when served with the red stained segments of a blood orange, also, happily, about to come into season.

Two or three sticks, sliced into shortish lengths, put in a non-metallic oven-proof dish with enough wine or juice added to give a comfortable pool to bathe but not drown in and sprinkled with no more than about 50g of sugar, covered with foil and baked in an oven pre-heated to a moderate 150ºC-160ºC for between 15 and 30 minutes (until a sharp knife will just pierce easily to the centre of the rhubarb) will poach rhubarb perfectly. Treat with great care while lifting the rhubarb from its juices from where it can be used to garnish some whipped cream on a soft chewy meringue, the cooking juices (with any less than perfect rhubarb pieces pushed through a sieve to join them) used as a syrupy sauce to drizzle over just before serving.

Rhubarb will give dramatic effect to a tart, provided you are prepared to take a bit of time cutting the stems evenly, standing them up in regimented concentric circles or making pretty mosaic patterns, and then take care not to overcook them. It can also be used in more savoury fare as an accompanying sharpener to cut through rich fatty foods like pork, duck or an oily fish such as mackerel in place of other fruit that do a similar job, like apple, or orange.

The sweet blood oranges also coming into their short season and the sour Seville ones that will make a brief appearance in January, for those interested in making their own marmalade, will add other bursts of January zest and vitality. The Fruit World team will no doubt, as last year, be able to supply you with all of these seasonal treats and I hope that I may have tempted some of you, not already familiar, to seek them out and try something with them.

I wish you all a very Happy New Year and, with even January able to provide such sophisticated prospects, the domestic amongst them, imagine how much there is to look forward to once the days start getting perceptibly longer.

Erica x

www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk
www.acooksblog.com

“In a few sheds near Wakefield, you can hear the rhubarb grow”~ Ian Jack, journalist