During those teenage years, my primary occupation was the calculated avoidance of school. I was no slacker; I did not directly rebel and refuse institutional education. Rather I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy devising ways to retain the appearance of going to school while actually passing my time with more important engagements. Thus I somehow goaded my parents into “homeschooling” for a couple years. Then, when we reached a level of mutual dissatisfaction with this arrangement, I stumbled upon a life saver. It is called Running Start and ostensibly provides a way for ambitious high school students to take classes at local community colleges, fulfilling school requirements while earning college credits at the same time. In my case however, it wasn’t so much a thirst for higher education that provided motivation as the lack of classroom time these courses entailed. College classes are designed to stimulate more independent study, and therefore have a corresponding scantiness of lecture hours. Combine this fact with the lenient attendance policy of the college, and the fact that commuting to class required that I take a ferry off the island each day, and found myself with more freedom that a 17 year old knows what to do with.
Instead of using my new found liberty in a sensible teenage way, to sit by the river chain smoking cigarettes or visit an exciting and inappropriate boyfriend, I made a beeline for the bookshop. In the turbulence of adolescence, it was a comforting, almost numbing space. Walking through the doors I could forget all existential wrestlings and immerse myself in unfamiliar worlds, all at my fingertips. The sections that drew me were indicative of a desire for escape and catharsis: travel, languages, mystery, self help and mythology. I would wonder the shelves collecting volumes here and there. Then I would establish myself in a corner of the bookshop cafe, order a coffee and some extravagantly sticky pastry and spend a luxurious morning buried in other peoples words. Rarely did I actually purchase a book—that wasn’t necessary except on occasions of debilitating angst. Instead, once I’d had my fill of Lonely Planet’s guide to Argentina, Bill Bryson’s uproarious travels or Celtic Myths and Legends, I’d reluctantly return the books to their shelves and walk back out into the world, temporarily revived.
There was one section however that warranted a visit no matter my state of mind; restless wanderlust or violent psychic battle, I’d never leave without pausing in the cookbook section. And it was this area that proved most dangerous to my wallet; as pleasant as it is to browse a cookbook, your really need to own the thing and christen it with sticky fingerprints before it truly serves a purpose. So I’d frequently cave under the temptations of souffles, pates and pastries, and find myself back out in the fresh air, fifteen dollars poorer, slightly dazed and clutching a copy of Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking, or Pasta Classica: The Art of Italian Pasta Cooking.
These days I have outgrown the habit of shirking responsibilities in favor of lingering in bookshops, but I still luxuriate in any excuse to duck into one of these wonderful establishments on a rainy afternoon and lose myself among the pages. And I still have a profound weakness for culinary tombs. So when I stumbled upon Books for Cooks while cycling round Nottinghill, I couldn’t resist. I should have known that it was a dangerous move.
The store is diminutive yet absolutely crammed with culinary literature, from Jamie Oliver’s latest bestseller to obscure volumes on foraging and the classic prose of M.F.K. Fisher, this shop is a foodie’s dream. Walking through the door I felt like a dog let loose in a field of rabbits, crazed with choice, not knowing where to bury my nose first. But I had to be firm. My current mission is pickling, so I limited myself to the section on preserving fruits and vegetables, and spent a deliciously tortured half hour trying to decide which book to buy. Preserves: River Cottage Handbook No. 2 was tempting, but I eventually opted for The Art of Preserving by Rick Field and Rebecca Courchesne as it seemed to have greater breath and more creative flavor combinations.
Now, with the book at home, I have the equally agonizing task of deciding which recipe to try first: pickled okra flecked with garlic and chili looks stunning but of course its not the season; pickled pearl onions or garlic are good standbys. Yet, as the days draw in and the rain becomes more determined, I am gravitating towards the fire of jalapeños sweetened with honey or the zap of red onions spiked with habaneros, lime, and herbs. For the moment I am content just to pour over the pictures and recipes, conjuring up flavors in my mind and tucking ideas away like bottles of pickled beets for future use.
Maybe not so far in the future . . . thumbing through these recipes I am working up an irresistible craving for Mexican flavors. Since London is sadly lacking in good, cheap Mexican eateries I might just have to take matters into my own hands tonight and whip up some pickled chilies, tomatillo or mango-lime salsa, fresh tortillas and make a little feast of my own!
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tricks of the Light
It is Halloween. The clocks have been turned back and outside the day is dying young. As the light fades my newly carved jack o’ lantern is thrown into grinning, lopsided relief. In the spirit of this festival, I am going to enjoy his cackling smile for one more evening before hacking him up and turning him into pumpkin bread. A fitting end for a Halloween character.
As promised, I am in the midst of pickling. And when I say ‘in the midst,’ I mean that I am curled up in an arm chair listening to the soothing gurgle of my beets boiling on the stove, waiting for them to become tender. I chose beets to begin my foray into the land of pickled foods because I remember with relish my mother’s version—a tongue curling wallop of vinegar followed by the intense and earthy sweetness of the root itself. Also, the process looked childishly simple: beets, vinegar, spices and sugar; boil, boil, bottle and store. Finally, the nutritional value of beets is well known; they are action packed with invigorating vitamins and minerals, and are particularly good for cleansing the liver. This morning, when I arose from the aftermath of another festive Saturday night, with little sleep in my pocket and a unaccountable battle taking place between the various portions of my body, I naturally warmed to the thought of preparing such a wholesome, reviving food.
The following recipe gives you a small quantity of pickled beets. Sadly I don’t own a canning kettle yet so I’m pickling in small batches until I find one.
2 1/2 pounds beets
2 cups white vinegar
1 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
6 whole cloves
3 whole allspice
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon salt
Scrub beets to remove dirt. Leave them whole with a little stem attached to minimize the loss of juices during boiling. Put them in a pot, cover with water, bring to the boil and cook until just tender, that is until you can pierce them through with a metal skewer. Drain and rinse under cold water. Allow beets to cool until you can handle them, then slip off skins, cut off stems, and slice into wedges. Tie the spices up into a little bundle in some cheese cloth. Next prepare the brine by tossing this spice sashay into a pot with all remaining ingredients and bringing to the boil. Add beets and simmer for five minutes. Remove spice sashay. Remove beets from liquid with a slotted spoon or tongs, pack into jars, and pour brine mixture in to cover beets.
Note: If you are doing this properly, unlike me, you will need to sterilize the jars first, pack full of beets, add brine to cover beets with 1/2 inch of head space (the space between the top of liquid and lid of jar), and process in a water bath canning kettle. If you follow proper canning rules, you can preserve beets for the whole year.
Besides being a purifying and nutritious food, pickling beets turned out to be the perfect spooky Halloween project. Pressing off their skin streaks your hands a creepy crimson. And when you slice them in half the center reveals a warped underworld sunset, the blackened outer rim softening through rusty red to a delicate, almost translucent heart of pink.
As promised, I am in the midst of pickling. And when I say ‘in the midst,’ I mean that I am curled up in an arm chair listening to the soothing gurgle of my beets boiling on the stove, waiting for them to become tender. I chose beets to begin my foray into the land of pickled foods because I remember with relish my mother’s version—a tongue curling wallop of vinegar followed by the intense and earthy sweetness of the root itself. Also, the process looked childishly simple: beets, vinegar, spices and sugar; boil, boil, bottle and store. Finally, the nutritional value of beets is well known; they are action packed with invigorating vitamins and minerals, and are particularly good for cleansing the liver. This morning, when I arose from the aftermath of another festive Saturday night, with little sleep in my pocket and a unaccountable battle taking place between the various portions of my body, I naturally warmed to the thought of preparing such a wholesome, reviving food.
The following recipe gives you a small quantity of pickled beets. Sadly I don’t own a canning kettle yet so I’m pickling in small batches until I find one.
2 1/2 pounds beets
2 cups white vinegar
1 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
6 whole cloves
3 whole allspice
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon salt
Scrub beets to remove dirt. Leave them whole with a little stem attached to minimize the loss of juices during boiling. Put them in a pot, cover with water, bring to the boil and cook until just tender, that is until you can pierce them through with a metal skewer. Drain and rinse under cold water. Allow beets to cool until you can handle them, then slip off skins, cut off stems, and slice into wedges. Tie the spices up into a little bundle in some cheese cloth. Next prepare the brine by tossing this spice sashay into a pot with all remaining ingredients and bringing to the boil. Add beets and simmer for five minutes. Remove spice sashay. Remove beets from liquid with a slotted spoon or tongs, pack into jars, and pour brine mixture in to cover beets.
Note: If you are doing this properly, unlike me, you will need to sterilize the jars first, pack full of beets, add brine to cover beets with 1/2 inch of head space (the space between the top of liquid and lid of jar), and process in a water bath canning kettle. If you follow proper canning rules, you can preserve beets for the whole year.
Besides being a purifying and nutritious food, pickling beets turned out to be the perfect spooky Halloween project. Pressing off their skin streaks your hands a creepy crimson. And when you slice them in half the center reveals a warped underworld sunset, the blackened outer rim softening through rusty red to a delicate, almost translucent heart of pink.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
In a Pickle
As part of my masters degree program in the anthropology of food, I have to read mountains upon mountains of texts on a diverse array of food related topics. Right now we are covering food safety, so I have spent the week familiarizing myself with friendly creatures such as Salmonella enteritidis, Escherichia Coli O157:H7, Vibrio Cholorae O1, Clostridium botulinum and other equally delightful bacterial pathogens that occasionally waltz into our lives with uncomfortable, rather disgusting, and sometimes exceedingly dangerous results.
From the texts I read, there is a consensus among the authors that food is getting more dangerous by the day. The numbers reveal rising rates of food borne illness, more virulent forms of pathogens, and the reemergence of diseases once thought to have been destroyed. Despite the (often frustratingly bureaucratic) efforts of government agencies it is proving very difficult to stem the tide.
The challenges to the safety of our food are many and varied, including internal divisions and conflicts of interest within regulatory agencies, as well as resistance from producers and processors. When an outbreak of food borne illness occurs, everyone points fingers: producers blame the government, regulatory agencies blame each other, retailers blame consumers and so forth.
It may seem an easier option for government, producers and processors to educate consumers, improve controls in slaughter, transport, and storage—and these are no doubt vital measures—but I don’t see how we can truly improve food safety without a serious reevaluation of the food system as a whole. This line of analysis brings us back to a familiar issue: the changing, increasingly intensive, economically pressured farming and its inability to supply us with sustainable (in this case sustainably safe) food. The story of antibiotics in farming is a familiar example: economic pressure leads to intensive cattle rearing in conditions and with feed inappropriate for cattle. This in turn leads to cattle sickness, the routine use of antibiotics, which result in greater resistance to antibiotic treatment in the consumer. Antibiotics are a fundamental weapon against many diseases; if we become resistant to their effects . . . the story is worthy of an end-of-world action special!
Yet these readings also prompt me to think about the connection between safe food and cultural food practices. In the Nicols Fox’s book Spoiled: The Dangerous Truth About a Food Chain Gone Haywire, I was struck by Fox’s account of Dr. Robert Tauxe’s work on cholera in Subsaharan Africa. Studying an outbreak of the disease during a famine, he made the startling connection between the emergence of cholera in the population and a famine-induced change in methods of preparing their staple millet dish. In pre-famine days the group had added goat yoghurt to the millet, a practice they were unable to continue once the famine hit and the goats went dry. Analyzing the yoghurt, Dr. Tauxe found that this fermented, cultured food added to the millet served to inhibit the growth of the bacterium V. cholerae. As Fox concludes, “a seemingly simple and inconsequential change, the omission of one ingredient, had led to the horrifying epidemic of disease.” Perhaps it is not only the way we grow crops, feed and slaughter animals, and transport food all over the world that contribute to food borne illnesses. Perhaps some of the pre-industrial and non-western practices of food preparation hold keys to safe, healthy food.
I know this theory has been explored and argued by several researchers including Dr. Weston Price in the middle of the 20th century on Nutrition and Degeneration. Today, Dr. Sally Fallon has deepened and expanded Price’s theory and developed what she refers to as a challenge to “politically correct nutrition and the diet dictocrats.” One of the main components of her understanding of “nourishing traditional foods” centers around something called lacto-fermentation. In fact, in recent years, many other nutritionists, doctors, and researchers have begun looking at traditional fermented foods that have been lost to our daily diet, but that contain vital elements that keep us healthy, promote vigorous immune systems, foster good bacteria and resist nasty pathogenic bacteria.
And so, inspired by the invigorating powers of fermented foods, I’m going to take them one as my new Grub & Grist project. Bring on the sauerkraut, kimchi, and miso, the kefir, skyr and mead. But first, something a little more approachable . . . This weekend, in order to avoid getting into a pickle about the ominous state of our food system, lets lighten things up and, well, get into some pickles!
From the texts I read, there is a consensus among the authors that food is getting more dangerous by the day. The numbers reveal rising rates of food borne illness, more virulent forms of pathogens, and the reemergence of diseases once thought to have been destroyed. Despite the (often frustratingly bureaucratic) efforts of government agencies it is proving very difficult to stem the tide.
The challenges to the safety of our food are many and varied, including internal divisions and conflicts of interest within regulatory agencies, as well as resistance from producers and processors. When an outbreak of food borne illness occurs, everyone points fingers: producers blame the government, regulatory agencies blame each other, retailers blame consumers and so forth.
It may seem an easier option for government, producers and processors to educate consumers, improve controls in slaughter, transport, and storage—and these are no doubt vital measures—but I don’t see how we can truly improve food safety without a serious reevaluation of the food system as a whole. This line of analysis brings us back to a familiar issue: the changing, increasingly intensive, economically pressured farming and its inability to supply us with sustainable (in this case sustainably safe) food. The story of antibiotics in farming is a familiar example: economic pressure leads to intensive cattle rearing in conditions and with feed inappropriate for cattle. This in turn leads to cattle sickness, the routine use of antibiotics, which result in greater resistance to antibiotic treatment in the consumer. Antibiotics are a fundamental weapon against many diseases; if we become resistant to their effects . . . the story is worthy of an end-of-world action special!
Yet these readings also prompt me to think about the connection between safe food and cultural food practices. In the Nicols Fox’s book Spoiled: The Dangerous Truth About a Food Chain Gone Haywire, I was struck by Fox’s account of Dr. Robert Tauxe’s work on cholera in Subsaharan Africa. Studying an outbreak of the disease during a famine, he made the startling connection between the emergence of cholera in the population and a famine-induced change in methods of preparing their staple millet dish. In pre-famine days the group had added goat yoghurt to the millet, a practice they were unable to continue once the famine hit and the goats went dry. Analyzing the yoghurt, Dr. Tauxe found that this fermented, cultured food added to the millet served to inhibit the growth of the bacterium V. cholerae. As Fox concludes, “a seemingly simple and inconsequential change, the omission of one ingredient, had led to the horrifying epidemic of disease.” Perhaps it is not only the way we grow crops, feed and slaughter animals, and transport food all over the world that contribute to food borne illnesses. Perhaps some of the pre-industrial and non-western practices of food preparation hold keys to safe, healthy food.
I know this theory has been explored and argued by several researchers including Dr. Weston Price in the middle of the 20th century on Nutrition and Degeneration. Today, Dr. Sally Fallon has deepened and expanded Price’s theory and developed what she refers to as a challenge to “politically correct nutrition and the diet dictocrats.” One of the main components of her understanding of “nourishing traditional foods” centers around something called lacto-fermentation. In fact, in recent years, many other nutritionists, doctors, and researchers have begun looking at traditional fermented foods that have been lost to our daily diet, but that contain vital elements that keep us healthy, promote vigorous immune systems, foster good bacteria and resist nasty pathogenic bacteria.
And so, inspired by the invigorating powers of fermented foods, I’m going to take them one as my new Grub & Grist project. Bring on the sauerkraut, kimchi, and miso, the kefir, skyr and mead. But first, something a little more approachable . . . This weekend, in order to avoid getting into a pickle about the ominous state of our food system, lets lighten things up and, well, get into some pickles!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sanity and Suet
Contrary to expectation, London has been blessed of late with glorious fall weather. A week ago the air turned from tepid gray to sharp blue, so that you now walk through a world stripped bare of summer’s sludge, crackling with frosty brilliance. Leaves cascade like amber jewels from trees, curl to brown, then crunch underfoot in a most satisfying manner. This is rapidly becoming my favorite season. I love hauling out my long winter coat from the cupboard, wrapping a scarf around my neck, and stepping out into that invigorating world where the wind tugs against my cheeks. During fall, I maintain a reserve of summer’s heat within and so the chill comes as a refreshing change. And at this time of year the prospect of winter is actually appealing. Through a sort of survivalist amnesia, I forget the reality of endless drizzle, of a sky hovering an ominous gray blanket overhead, so close and flat and solid that it is enough to induce a claustrophobic panic. Instead my mind conjures up images of beef stew and crackling fires, fondue and hot chocolate and christmas . . . .
Christmas! The thought reminded me of my latest culinary project. This year I am determined to make proper mince pies.
For those uninitiated in this wondrous tradition, mince pies are an age old English Christmas treat. Evolving out of a festive “Christmas pye” that combined a variety of meats and dried fruits, it gradually accumulated the booty of English adventures overseas: from spices brought by the crusaders to sugar squeezed from the colonies. Today the meat has disappeared from the dish, a hint remaining only in the suet used to enrich and preserve the fruit.
This year I decided to go ultra traditional with my pies; I am tredding their home turf after all. Also, I wanted to try properly aging the mincemeat. I’d heard that the mixture of fruit, spices, sugar, and alcohol matures if left to sit, resulting in a superior filling, mellowed and deepened by age. However, being a 21st century babe I’d never had the foresight to get out my mixing bowl in September and stir up a batch.
In fact, in my explorations of old-fashioned DIY cooking, I’ve discovered that many of these lost skills are less a matter of technical expertise (okay, okay, so I haven’t tackled cheese making yet), rather they simply require a different approach to the kitchen. They require something that is a foreign to most of us today. In the world of microwavable TV dinners, 24hour pizza delivery, and Rachel Ray’s 30 minute wonder meals we’ve lost something of the resolute—and to my mind supremely comforting—rhythm of cooking.
September tomatoes are canned for a February bolognese sauce; October apples for winter chutney; summer fruit for Christmas spirits. This week rye and water are stirred daily for next week’s bread. These are projects I take on for fun, as a hobby, and in full knowledge that sometimes I can and will say fuck it, order pizza, wash it down with a cheap larger and luxuriate in the joys of 21st century convenience food. For our great grandparents—or more precisely our great grandmothers—these tasks were endless and probably tiresome. Grub & Grist isn’t about some sanctimonious return to the woods. Its about the love of good food and the satisfaction of creating something wonderful to eat.
And yet I get a lovely sense of fulfillment in from these rhythmical tasks. Waking up in the milky light of dawn, slipping into the kitchen to stir a bowl of sourdough and make a cup of tea while the rest of London sleeps—that is a magical moment of the day. And no matter how dire the news of the world or how difficult my day, coming home and boiling bones for stock or fruit and sugar for jam is immensely and inexplicably reassuring. Obviously I am not alone in this sentiment; most cooks mention the therapeutic nature of cooking in one way or another. The rhythmic nature of these old culinary arts I find particularly effective, so that the kitchen becomes like an old rock of a friend, a stalwart anchor in an exciting and dynamic—yet often fragmented—world. Even D.H. Lawrence finds it a heartening process:
“I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade.
It’s amazing how it cheers one up to shred oranges and scrub the floor.”
All I can say is that Mr. D.H. should try mincemeat. It is, in my experience, an equally reviving culinary endeavor.
I am experimenting this year with a recipe from the website Historical Foods, and although I can’t vouch for it yet it looks promising: Early 20th Century: Traditional Mincemeat Recipe. This particular recipe is for a mincemeat that should be aged. Beware of aging any old mincemeat as in needs to have certain characteristics to avoid fermentation. In this version suet is used to prevent fermentation: the mixture is warmed in the oven, the fat melts and coats the fruit acting as a kind of seal. Then a measure of brandy is added for additional protection against bacteria, the mince is packed into sterilized jars and left in a cool place to mature until Christmas.
Christmas! The thought reminded me of my latest culinary project. This year I am determined to make proper mince pies.
For those uninitiated in this wondrous tradition, mince pies are an age old English Christmas treat. Evolving out of a festive “Christmas pye” that combined a variety of meats and dried fruits, it gradually accumulated the booty of English adventures overseas: from spices brought by the crusaders to sugar squeezed from the colonies. Today the meat has disappeared from the dish, a hint remaining only in the suet used to enrich and preserve the fruit.
This year I decided to go ultra traditional with my pies; I am tredding their home turf after all. Also, I wanted to try properly aging the mincemeat. I’d heard that the mixture of fruit, spices, sugar, and alcohol matures if left to sit, resulting in a superior filling, mellowed and deepened by age. However, being a 21st century babe I’d never had the foresight to get out my mixing bowl in September and stir up a batch.
In fact, in my explorations of old-fashioned DIY cooking, I’ve discovered that many of these lost skills are less a matter of technical expertise (okay, okay, so I haven’t tackled cheese making yet), rather they simply require a different approach to the kitchen. They require something that is a foreign to most of us today. In the world of microwavable TV dinners, 24hour pizza delivery, and Rachel Ray’s 30 minute wonder meals we’ve lost something of the resolute—and to my mind supremely comforting—rhythm of cooking.
September tomatoes are canned for a February bolognese sauce; October apples for winter chutney; summer fruit for Christmas spirits. This week rye and water are stirred daily for next week’s bread. These are projects I take on for fun, as a hobby, and in full knowledge that sometimes I can and will say fuck it, order pizza, wash it down with a cheap larger and luxuriate in the joys of 21st century convenience food. For our great grandparents—or more precisely our great grandmothers—these tasks were endless and probably tiresome. Grub & Grist isn’t about some sanctimonious return to the woods. Its about the love of good food and the satisfaction of creating something wonderful to eat.
And yet I get a lovely sense of fulfillment in from these rhythmical tasks. Waking up in the milky light of dawn, slipping into the kitchen to stir a bowl of sourdough and make a cup of tea while the rest of London sleeps—that is a magical moment of the day. And no matter how dire the news of the world or how difficult my day, coming home and boiling bones for stock or fruit and sugar for jam is immensely and inexplicably reassuring. Obviously I am not alone in this sentiment; most cooks mention the therapeutic nature of cooking in one way or another. The rhythmic nature of these old culinary arts I find particularly effective, so that the kitchen becomes like an old rock of a friend, a stalwart anchor in an exciting and dynamic—yet often fragmented—world. Even D.H. Lawrence finds it a heartening process:
“I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade.
It’s amazing how it cheers one up to shred oranges and scrub the floor.”
All I can say is that Mr. D.H. should try mincemeat. It is, in my experience, an equally reviving culinary endeavor.
I am experimenting this year with a recipe from the website Historical Foods, and although I can’t vouch for it yet it looks promising: Early 20th Century: Traditional Mincemeat Recipe. This particular recipe is for a mincemeat that should be aged. Beware of aging any old mincemeat as in needs to have certain characteristics to avoid fermentation. In this version suet is used to prevent fermentation: the mixture is warmed in the oven, the fat melts and coats the fruit acting as a kind of seal. Then a measure of brandy is added for additional protection against bacteria, the mince is packed into sterilized jars and left in a cool place to mature until Christmas.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Granola and Guinness
“Grub first, then ethics” - Bertolt Brecht
I am not sure that homemade granola counts as a legitimate Grub & Grist endeavor. It seems too simple and painless. Too much idleness, not enough sweat. But in the spirit of avoiding puritanism, with its nauseating zeal for hard work, I decided that granola must be included. Plus, there is no better way to spend a sharp fall afternoon than curled with your back to the oven, a book in hand and a batch of nutty granola turning golden as you read.
Returning to the student life, I’ve been flexing my muscles once again in the art of procrastination. All it took this morning was one look at the furrowed visage of of Max Weber, wobbling atop a mountain of reading, to send me scuttling into the security of the kitchen. I brewed a pot of coffee, wrestled with my conscience, and came to a compromise. I would battle on with The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, but only on the condition that I would be allowed to make granola at the same time. Comforted by this bargain, I switched on the oven, mixed up a batch, and settled into a comfortable rhythm of reading, stirring, and reading some more. Probably not the most studious approach to studying the classical social theorists but I found it tremendously comforting nonetheless.
The following is a recipe for my all time favorite granola. It is adapted from Marty and Peggy’s original creation for their Smilin Dog Cafe, a heavenly establishment that is forever in my heart.
Ingredients:
5 cups oats
1 cup sliced almonds
1 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 cup dried blueberries or raisins
1/2 cup flax seeds
1/2 cup boiling water
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup real maple syrup
2/3 cup canola oil
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Method: Set the oven to 325F/160C. Mix together the first six ingredients in a large bowl. Then, in a smaller bowl, mix together the remaining ingredients and add them to the large bowl, stirring well. Spread the mixture out onto a couple roasting pans and bake for 20 minutes. Stir and bake for another 15 minutes. Stir again and bake for 10 minutes. Repeat at five minute intervals until the granola glows a golden brown and has a nice crisp, crunchy look. Remember to check the mixture often as it browns to avoid burning.
Hours later, as the granola lay cooling on the kitchen table, I was still sitting wrestling with The Prostestant Ethic, feeling increasingly irritated by its whole ethos. Why did those damn puritans have to ruin everybody’s fun, eh? I shook my head. Just a case of cabin fever, I decided, snatching up the book and heading for the door. I was going to read at the pub.
In Seattle I used to do homework in cafes. Everyone did. Duck into any Seattle coffee house today and you’re bound to find at least a handful students huddled in the corner peering over textbooks and laptops. In stereotypical Seattle style, I’d quickly settled on a cafe, two blocks from my house, and proceeded to spend hours each day reading and writing, often procrastinating over a blueberry muffin and third cup of coffee. In London however, I had not managed to find a satisfactory cafe to fit the purpose: quiet, cozy, and within easy walking distance of my flat. Then I gradually realized that people here often work not in cafes but in pubs.
Well, you know what they say; when in Rome . . .
The Colton Arms, just a few yards from my front door, turned out to be ideal for my purpose. I walked into the warm front room, all dark wood and gleaming brass. It was deserted save for a barman and an old dude with a dog. The former was very friendly, handing me a well-poured half of Guinness and chatting amiably. To be honest, I had been slightly intimidated by the prospect of sitting alone reading in a pub, but here it felt like to most natural thing in the world. I found corner, took a sip off the silken, creamy top, and settled back into my book. I don’t know whether it was the lull of voices or aged warmth of the room, but I found it far easier to focus there and spent a happy hour finishing off the protestants. With or without their approval.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Trouble with Jelly
The construction of pork pies is not for the faint of heart. Not only does it require a solemn commitment of time, energy, planning, and sweat, it also demands a certain weathered callousness to the sight, smell, and textural delights of raw pig.
There are three elements to this dish: stock, filling, and pastry. After a scrutinizing the recipes of several chefs, I decided to use Nigel Slater as a guide to filling and stock, while following my cousin Olly’s instructions for pastry (the latter having run his own pie business in a previous life).
It is best to begin with the stock as this requires chilling overnight in the fridge.
1 pigs trotters
bones from pork
1 rib celery
1 onion
1 carrot
1 bunch parsley stalks
4 black peppercorns
Throw all ingredients into a saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil. Lower to a simmer and cook for 11/2 hours. Strain into a container, allow to cool, and then chill in fridge overnight.
Next day wake up and cancel any appointments for the next 4 hours or call in sick to work. You will need some time. (Not realizing this I spent the morning fiddling with pastry while fretting over what else I should be doing i.e. wrestling with the finer points of Durkheimian sociology for one of my MA classes. It was fruitless. Pigs trotters hold infinitely more appeal for me than protracted definitions of social phenomena.)
Begin with the pastry:
1/2 lb. lard
1/2 pt. water
1 lb. all purpose flour
1 egg beaten to brush pastry
Put the lard and water in a saucepan and heat almost to boiling. Stir roughly into the flour to make a soft ball of dough (at this point it will smell like a heavenly kitchen in which pounds of bacon are sizzling and mountains of bread are baking in the oven!) Wrap in cling film and allow to cool to just warmer than body temperature.
Meanwhile, make the filling:
1/2 kg boned pork shoulder
125 g pork belly
125 g streaky bacon
2 good sprigs of thyme, finely chopped
2 sage leaves, finely chopped
1 large pinch ground mace
1 large pinch ground white pepper
1 large pinch ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
Dice all the meat very finely. Add all other ingredients to the bowl and mix well.
Preheat the oven to 180C/ F. Lightly grease and flour a dozen muffin tins (or a deep cake tin with removable base for one large pie). When the pastry has cooled until it is just warm to the touch, unwrap it, pull off a third for the lids and set aside, and roll out the rest into a thick round. Cut into small rounds to fit the muffin molds and press into base and sides, making sure there is a small lip around each rim. Fill with the meat mixture leaving a little room at the top. Roll out the remaining dough, cut into lids and poke a small hole in the top of each round. Brush the rims of the filled pastry with beaten egg and press a lid onto each, crimping and sealing well to avoid leaking. This is crucial!
Place muffin tins (or single cake tin) in the oven on a baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes (30 mins. for large version). Lower oven temperature to 160C/ F and continue baking for 60 minutes (90mins.) until pale golden. Brush tops with beaten egg and return to oven for a further 30 minutes.
When the pies are done pull the stock from fridge and remove the layer of fat. You should have a nice jelly beneath. Heat to boiling, transfer to a jug, and then pour into the hole in each lid with the aid of a thin funnel. Chill pies overnight to set the jelly.
After all the fretting and sweat, and pigs trotters, my pies turned out a minor success: the pastry wonderfully rich and crumbly yet well cooked; the filling far more toothsome and and flavorful than any store bought version. So why to do I not proclaim this a major success? I am not known for culinary modesty.The one disappointment was the jelly. As I explained above, the theory is simple: pour the liquefied stock through the hole in the top of the pies. If all goes well it will seep across the top of the meat and down the sides creating that ethereal layer between crust and filling. So much for theory. My attempts to inject the stock into my pies failed, even when I ran to the store and armed myself with a fine-nosed funnel. There just wasn’t enough space between the crust and filling. I think this was due either to not sealing the crust well enough or to filling the molds too full of meat (hence the provisos about leaving room above the filling and meticulously sealing the tops to the bases).
That said, I am generally pleased with the outcome of my first attempt. The pies pass the taste test with flying colors and though they may lack artistry they will provide me with many scrumptious pack lunches over the next few months. It would be ideal for a picnic. I already have a mental image of sitting on top of a hill, blown by the wind and flushed from a hike, biting into the crumbly pie and washing it down with a bottle of cloudy cider.
There are three elements to this dish: stock, filling, and pastry. After a scrutinizing the recipes of several chefs, I decided to use Nigel Slater as a guide to filling and stock, while following my cousin Olly’s instructions for pastry (the latter having run his own pie business in a previous life).
1 pigs trotters
bones from pork
1 rib celery
1 onion
1 carrot
1 bunch parsley stalks
4 black peppercorns
Throw all ingredients into a saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil. Lower to a simmer and cook for 11/2 hours. Strain into a container, allow to cool, and then chill in fridge overnight.
Next day wake up and cancel any appointments for the next 4 hours or call in sick to work. You will need some time. (Not realizing this I spent the morning fiddling with pastry while fretting over what else I should be doing i.e. wrestling with the finer points of Durkheimian sociology for one of my MA classes. It was fruitless. Pigs trotters hold infinitely more appeal for me than protracted definitions of social phenomena.)
Begin with the pastry:
1/2 lb. lard
1/2 pt. water
1 lb. all purpose flour
1 egg beaten to brush pastry
Put the lard and water in a saucepan and heat almost to boiling. Stir roughly into the flour to make a soft ball of dough (at this point it will smell like a heavenly kitchen in which pounds of bacon are sizzling and mountains of bread are baking in the oven!) Wrap in cling film and allow to cool to just warmer than body temperature.
Meanwhile, make the filling:
1/2 kg boned pork shoulder
125 g pork belly
125 g streaky bacon
2 good sprigs of thyme, finely chopped
2 sage leaves, finely chopped
1 large pinch ground mace
1 large pinch ground white pepper
1 large pinch ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
Dice all the meat very finely. Add all other ingredients to the bowl and mix well.
Preheat the oven to 180C/ F. Lightly grease and flour a dozen muffin tins (or a deep cake tin with removable base for one large pie). When the pastry has cooled until it is just warm to the touch, unwrap it, pull off a third for the lids and set aside, and roll out the rest into a thick round. Cut into small rounds to fit the muffin molds and press into base and sides, making sure there is a small lip around each rim. Fill with the meat mixture leaving a little room at the top. Roll out the remaining dough, cut into lids and poke a small hole in the top of each round. Brush the rims of the filled pastry with beaten egg and press a lid onto each, crimping and sealing well to avoid leaking. This is crucial!
Place muffin tins (or single cake tin) in the oven on a baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes (30 mins. for large version). Lower oven temperature to 160C/ F and continue baking for 60 minutes (90mins.) until pale golden. Brush tops with beaten egg and return to oven for a further 30 minutes.
When the pies are done pull the stock from fridge and remove the layer of fat. You should have a nice jelly beneath. Heat to boiling, transfer to a jug, and then pour into the hole in each lid with the aid of a thin funnel. Chill pies overnight to set the jelly.
After all the fretting and sweat, and pigs trotters, my pies turned out a minor success: the pastry wonderfully rich and crumbly yet well cooked; the filling far more toothsome and and flavorful than any store bought version. So why to do I not proclaim this a major success? I am not known for culinary modesty.The one disappointment was the jelly. As I explained above, the theory is simple: pour the liquefied stock through the hole in the top of the pies. If all goes well it will seep across the top of the meat and down the sides creating that ethereal layer between crust and filling. So much for theory. My attempts to inject the stock into my pies failed, even when I ran to the store and armed myself with a fine-nosed funnel. There just wasn’t enough space between the crust and filling. I think this was due either to not sealing the crust well enough or to filling the molds too full of meat (hence the provisos about leaving room above the filling and meticulously sealing the tops to the bases).
That said, I am generally pleased with the outcome of my first attempt. The pies pass the taste test with flying colors and though they may lack artistry they will provide me with many scrumptious pack lunches over the next few months. It would be ideal for a picnic. I already have a mental image of sitting on top of a hill, blown by the wind and flushed from a hike, biting into the crumbly pie and washing it down with a bottle of cloudy cider.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Trodden
My next project is also inspired by this old island. From medieval kitchens to Sweeney Todd to Melton Mowbray, meat pies have a long, although as we know not always distinguished, history in England. Today there are a wide variety of sustaining pies that are commonly cooked and sold; the archetypal collection include shepherds pie, game pie, steak and kidney pie, and the type closest to my heart—the pork pie. I won’t bore you with more long-winded eulogies to this estimable food (for that I’ll send you here), suffice to say I have a constant hankering for it and have often thought about making my own. Anything so scrumptious in its store bought incarnation must be absurdly divine when made from scratch with with the best ingredients and your own sweat and tears, right? (Well, I suppose that’s a debatable statement, but I find the DIY version adds an impalpable element of satisfaction.)
Until now I have been hesitant to try my hand at pork pie; I’d heard that the process is long, complicated, and rather tricky. But that challenge isn’t going to stop Grub & Grist from the relentless pursuit of culinary prowess! Also, now I’m in England, the task doesn’t seem as daunting. Surely a country of pork pie enthusiasts will reward my efforts with advice, inspiration, and a certain crucial ingredient. . .
Pigs trotters are the all important source of that cool, melty jelly layer between crust and meat. In the US, finding trotters is an ordeal, as we’re shamefully short on butchers and generally lack an appreciation for any part of the pig that cannot be transformed into bacon. I’d assumed that in the UK the case would be different. Butchers still line many a high street and have not been entirely relegated to a dingy corner of the super market. In fact, there is a resplendent butcher’s shop by the name of H.G. Walter next to my local tube station that always proffers a gleaming display of meats and holds a fistful of awards for its products.
So I wondered over there this afternoon, determined to find a pair of trotters for my pie. The precise tone of my determination, however, would best be described as grim. It was Sunday and I was scowling at the sunlight, clutching my head now and then against the brightness and bustle of London. It had been a festive night accompanied by too many glugs of a deceptively innocent pink drink called a Hollywood. (You’ve always got to watch out when a drink is baptized with a California name. It may look like sparkles and sunshine but beware . . . ) My mood worsened still further when I had trudged to the butchers only to find it shut. Sunday, dammit.
Still fixated on trotters, I began walking towards Fulham on North End Road, hoping to find an open shop. A cousin of mine had suggested I try a butcher in a poorer area. That made sense, I reasoned, given that poorer areas generally correspond to non-posh-white communities which in turn tend to have richer traditions of cooking with such products as opposed to feeding them to their pets. I perked up. The road in question looked like just such a place, so I headed straight for the first butcher I spied.
What followed encapsulates the depths to which my compromised mental state had sunk. Walking in the door I stood in line, glancing curiously at the massive, curvaceous knives hung from the back-splash of the butcher’s work counter and sniffing dubiously at the air, potent with the odor of raw meat. “Do you have pigs trotters,” I asked innocently.
The man behind the counter smiled sweetly. “We don’t sell pig.”
He pointed to as sign plastered onto the display case. “Halal.”
I turned red, garbled apologetically, and slunk out the door. I need to go home now and stick my head in a dark corner for the rest of the day, I thought. Retreat for the night and try again tomorrow.
Until now I have been hesitant to try my hand at pork pie; I’d heard that the process is long, complicated, and rather tricky. But that challenge isn’t going to stop Grub & Grist from the relentless pursuit of culinary prowess! Also, now I’m in England, the task doesn’t seem as daunting. Surely a country of pork pie enthusiasts will reward my efforts with advice, inspiration, and a certain crucial ingredient. . .
Pigs trotters are the all important source of that cool, melty jelly layer between crust and meat. In the US, finding trotters is an ordeal, as we’re shamefully short on butchers and generally lack an appreciation for any part of the pig that cannot be transformed into bacon. I’d assumed that in the UK the case would be different. Butchers still line many a high street and have not been entirely relegated to a dingy corner of the super market. In fact, there is a resplendent butcher’s shop by the name of H.G. Walter next to my local tube station that always proffers a gleaming display of meats and holds a fistful of awards for its products.
So I wondered over there this afternoon, determined to find a pair of trotters for my pie. The precise tone of my determination, however, would best be described as grim. It was Sunday and I was scowling at the sunlight, clutching my head now and then against the brightness and bustle of London. It had been a festive night accompanied by too many glugs of a deceptively innocent pink drink called a Hollywood. (You’ve always got to watch out when a drink is baptized with a California name. It may look like sparkles and sunshine but beware . . . ) My mood worsened still further when I had trudged to the butchers only to find it shut. Sunday, dammit.
Still fixated on trotters, I began walking towards Fulham on North End Road, hoping to find an open shop. A cousin of mine had suggested I try a butcher in a poorer area. That made sense, I reasoned, given that poorer areas generally correspond to non-posh-white communities which in turn tend to have richer traditions of cooking with such products as opposed to feeding them to their pets. I perked up. The road in question looked like just such a place, so I headed straight for the first butcher I spied.
What followed encapsulates the depths to which my compromised mental state had sunk. Walking in the door I stood in line, glancing curiously at the massive, curvaceous knives hung from the back-splash of the butcher’s work counter and sniffing dubiously at the air, potent with the odor of raw meat. “Do you have pigs trotters,” I asked innocently.
The man behind the counter smiled sweetly. “We don’t sell pig.”
He pointed to as sign plastered onto the display case. “Halal.”
I turned red, garbled apologetically, and slunk out the door. I need to go home now and stick my head in a dark corner for the rest of the day, I thought. Retreat for the night and try again tomorrow.
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