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.

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.

Like good music or beautiful words . . .

"The noise from good toast should reverberate in the head like the thunder of July."
- E. V. Lucas

Returning to bread, as I mentioned in the last post, my first loaves of sourdough have been drawn from the oven and I now have enough bread to last me through a prolonged siege. It’s kind of ridiculous.  The last batch of starter was more soupy than normal so I ended up adding mounds of whole wheat flour to achieve the right consistency of dough—soft and very slightly sticky.  Even so, perhaps I got impatient and failed to add quite enough flour because the resulting loaves, while wonderfully flavorsome, were slightly too dense and not as voluminous as I’d hoped. Still, it is virtually impossible to achieve a light loaf with only rye and whole wheat flours; these lend themselves to a hearty, earthen loaf instead.

Despite my love of a northern, nut-brown bread, I know that after chomping through a couple kilos of this stuff I’m going to be craving something lighter. So next batch I’m moving on to a mixed, granary style loaf.

Yesterday I had some sourdough for breakfast. As it warmed and caramelized in the toaster, that familiar, inebriating aroma filled the kitchen.  What is it about the smell of toast that is so evocative? Is it merely the bodily recollection—as with many foods—of childhood? And yet there seems something altogether more powerful at work when it comes to toasting bread.

Curious, I scanned the web for leads on these phenomenon and came across an interesting BBC story on the subject (it makes sense that Brits would be particularly attached to toast as it is an all-pervasive part of their breakfast table). "Toast brings out the child in us," say Cardiff experts

Whether chemistry, memory, or other factor is at work, I admit to an undying love of toast, specifically toasted brown bread topped with butter and either marmalade, marmite, or a potent homemade jam.  As the interviewees mentioned, it is warming and comforting to eat.  And then there is that gratifying crunch that E. V. Lucas so wonderfully describes.  Like good music or beautiful words, toast is nothing less than existentially nourishing. 

 

Chutney Mania

Little did I know, stirring together an aromatic mixture of fruit, sugar, vinegar, and spice, that I had stumbled on a family obsession.

“What are you up to this afternoon?” my flat mate Stu asked, wandering into the kitchen.  It was a grey drizzly Sunday, ideal for a leisurely session in front of the stove, steaming up the kitchen and filling the air with fragrant smells, a perfect afternoon for chutney.

“Ah,” Stu exclaimed, “you must be an Adams if you’re making chutney!”

I paused, confused. “Oh yes, “ Stu went on, “the Adams’s are mad about the stuff. They have it with everything. Chutney and pickles, they love ‘em all.”

When I thought about it, I had noticed a prodigious amount chutney and pickles when I last visited my aunt and uncle in Wales. In fact it was there I’d tasted pickled walnuts—unknown to your average American palate—for the first time.  My cousin had about half a bottle’s worth with his meal. It was all beginning to make sense.

Stu’s observation was confirmed when, not a day later, I received an email from my uncle Chris.  It read as follows:

Rachie,

We were very pleased that you are becoming a chutney enthusiast.

The attached is the recipe for probably the best chutney you will ever taste.  A. Mollie is Rosie's Aunty (not a real Aunt) Mollie.  Aspinster, sadly no longer with us who captained the England Ladies cricket team for many years in the 1950s.

Love

Chris

A day later I received an email from my cousin (he of the half jar of pickled walnuts) complaining that, as he is currently exiled from his native England, he is forced to make his own chuntey. There is nothing of sufficient quality in the length and breadth of the United States. Even via mail order from Virginia. Now that is dedication.

So there I was thinking this was a popular British fixation only to discover that my own extended family is perhaps uniquely affected by chutney mania.

Auntie Mollie’s recipe came in the form of a scanned page of loopy writing describing instructions for an apple and tomato chutney.  It looks intriguing and I intend to try it soon. Meanwhile, all I had at my disposal on that rain-washed Sunday were apples, onions, and an impatient urge—clearly genetic I must now conclude—to try my hand at the craft.

The process was wonderfully simple, involving nothing more than chopping the apples and onion, tossing them into a saucepan with all remaining ingredients, and cooking until thickened. And the result, while I’m sure falling short of A. Mollie’s chutney, was definitely satisfying: a pleasant balance of fruit, spice, acid, and sugar . . . perhaps ever-so-slightly too sweet.

Today my chutney and bread making came together at lunch. Simple, quick, and eminently satisfying: a thick wedge of sharp English cheddar and generous layer of chunky apple chutney crammed between two slices of nutty, wholegrain sourdough bread.

Borough Market

In order to begin chutney making in style, I decided to pay a visit to Borough Market. Technically speaking I could easily have bought the necessary ingredients from Sainsburys, but I felt that this option lacked glamour. Besides, I’d heard so many eulogies on this wondrous open air market, it was time to see for myself.

Borough market is situated just south of London Bridge, in the Southwark neighborhood. It is a venerable market, some say dating back to Roman times. Where legend ends and history begins is hard to tell but given the market’s location, nudging up to the river Thames, it is not surprising that it has been a thriving center of commerce for hundreds of years. Today it doubles as both a wholesale and retail market, the former open during the wee hours of morning when only those dedicated and industrious chefs are mad enough to be awake. The retail market however is clearly geared towards a more leisurely bunch, open in the middle of the day and boasting not only produce, meat, and dairy, but also Spanish tapas, artisan coffee, fine wines, posh cheeses, and a plethora of other delectables to tempt the wondering foodie.

 
As I entered the market, I shoved my hands firmly into my coat pockets. “Now look,” I said to myself, “don’t even think about buying anything frivolous. You’re here for a kilo of apples, one onion, and a cup of Monmouth Coffee, for research purposes, naturally.” (Before leaving Whidbey Island and my beloved UBCC coffee, I had done serious research on where to find the best caffeinated brew in London. The answer was clear: Monmouth Coffee Company had, by most accounts, the most beautiful beans in town.

They certainly had an eye for aesthetics, I reflected, standing in the slow moving coffee queue. Doors flung wide, the interior boasted a beautiful layout in rich brown hues. The center of the room was taken up by two long communal tables and in the middle of each were several enormous pots of jams. The tables themselves were littered with crumbs, coffee cups, and papers, and surrounded by customers, chatting, reading, and sipping away.  Pastries jostled for space on a counter at the back, baristas moved rhythmically through the motions of packing, pouring, and steaming milk, while chalk boards behind them romantically depicted the journey of beans from tree to cup.  The scene was admirably constructed and shamelessly alluring. More importantly, I decided, taking a reverent sip off a double short americano (called a “long black” in London lingo), the coffee itself was exquisite. Monmouth, for all its hype, certainly delivered the goods. 

After coffee I wandered wide-eyed around the market, fighting the urge to buy everything in sight. There was a stall selling unctuous olive oils, there was a chocolate shop (I couldn’t resist buying just one bar—silken, midnight-black 85% cacao content).  On one corner a handsome, ruddy cheeked guy was ladling sangria into plastic cups for his customers, two fashionably dressed young women who looked as though they’d already had a few too many, despite the early hour. Overcoming the urge to join these ladies in a midday tipple, I wandered off only to find myself in front of an equally distressing pork pie stand. Panic was beginning to settle in as I scanned the market, desperate to get away from temptation. How easy it would have been to spend half a month’s rent on pork pie, chocolate, and premium Italian olive oil!

 

I withdrew to the relative safety of the produce area, took a few deep breaths and bought my apples and onion. Done. Now all I needed was to make a dash for the exit without any mishaps.  On the way out I was halted by a whiff of something smokey and slightly spicy . . . . chorizo rolls: a soft, floury bap encasing a chunk of hot chorizo sausage, piquillo peppers, arugula, and a drizzle of olive oil, £ 3.50.

It was lunch time after all. Couldn’t argue with that.

Cheers for Chutney

I have not been in England more than a few weeks, but already I have noticed several intriguing peculiarities. Top on my list are a) a penchant for standing in line, or “queuing,” for no apparent reason, i.e. queuing ten deep in front of one ATM while a few yards away another is free; b) apologizing at any and every opportunity, even if the fault is clearly not theirs, and c) a habit of conducting business not in coffee shops, as Seattleites do, but in pubs . . . counterproductive, one might think, but a custom of which I wholly approve.

On the gastronomic front, I must add to the list a vigorous enthusiasm for chutney. They slather it on sandwiches, burgers, and curries of a sorts, and usually provide an army of different chutneys choices to go with chicken or pork. There are the classics, such as mango, apple, cranberry, and onion; then there are more elaborate concoctions such as pineapple, fig, and ginger; spiced beetroot and orange; pear and dried apricot . . . the list is endless.

The British passion for chutney is imbedded in the country’s imperial history. Just as the Brits raided, appropriated, and promptly bastardized such foreign refinements as tea, coffee, and sugar, they did the same to chutney. The word itself comes from the Hindi “chatni,” meaning “to taste” and is used to describe a wide range of sauces and seasoning preparations. From smooth to chunky, sweet to spicy, chutney in its native India was and still is a common accompaniment to many a meal. Traditional chutneys however were freshly made from seasonal fruits and vegetables—a far cry from the often sticky, hyper-sweet versions that you find on supermarket shelves today. And yet before I am too hard on the my forebears, I must admit that sometimes a dab of good quality chutney is ideal for enlivening a meal. The best chutneys seem to me a wonderful fusion of English and Indian flavors—lively and complex, a sophisticated preserve.

So while my sourdough starter is bubbling away, collecting yeasts from the air, I have decided to attempt a few different chutneys. As it is early autumn, this is also the perfect time to preserve some of the season’s harvest for those dour winter days ahead. To begin I’m going for a simple apple chutney, eager as I am to cook with that quintessential English cooking apple, the Bramley.

The London Ferment

After the velvet quiet of Whidbey Island, the slate grey bustle of London was disorienting. Gone were the mist-wrapped mountains and luxuriant forests to be replaced by swarming masses, labyrinth-like streets, and a steady drizzle from leaden clouds.

On the whole I was delighting by the change: To hear ten languages in the space of ten yards, to have a myriad cuisines and cafes on my doorstep, and to have the prospect of this whole marvelous metropolis to explore was heady stuff to a island girl.  And yet the whole rhythm of life is so different from the one I left behind that the shock of change left me bemused and somewhat dizzy. So it is for solace as much as for substance that I have returned to bread making. There is nothing like the gentle, measured making of a sourdough to sooth a case of culture shock.

Before leaving the US, I did toy with the idea of bringing my painstakingly nurtured starter to England, but eventually decided customs might not approve . . . . They don’t specifically bar sourdough starters, but then again, perhaps the issue doesn’t arise often enough to appear on their website’s list of prohibited items?  Alas, I suspect that the horrendous air quality on the plane would have killed the poor little yeasts anyway.

So I had to start from scratch. Yet again. Strangely, its only been a couple days since I began the new starter, but it seems incredibly lively already! Perhaps London yeasts are, like Londoners themselves, a more frantic, hurried bunch? Or is the crucial difference in the flour? The rye I bought looks similar enough, though a little coarser ground. Nevertheless, all that matters it the bubbly and wonderfully putrid smell—all good qualities in a young starter.