Any ethnography will contain a substantial section on ‘rites of passage’. The study of anthropology places much attention on these transitionary periods because they appear to be something of a universal, common, in some respect, to all human societies. They mark the transition from one phase of life into another, often involving some sort of test to prove that one is worthy of inclusion. A rite of passage combines three distinct phases: separation, when the subject is ‘removed’ either physically or metaphorically, from their previous existence, a ‘liminal’ period where they are effectively in limbo – neither one thing or another, often incorporating some sort of ‘test’, and an ‘inclusion’ where they are welcomed back from their exile and begin enjoying the trappings that come with their new status. If all this sounds a little exotic and foreign think again. Baptisms, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, drinking society initiations, 21st birthdays, graduation – these all contain the three basic elements common to all rites of passage. This may all seem a little off topic for a food related blog but I like to educate as well as inform and record the myriad of culinary adventures that make up a vast proportion of my existence. Plus it is related in a rather circuitous fashion as I underwent a personal rite of passage, of sorts, last week.
Contrary to what many of the larger supermarkets would have us believe, meat doesn’t grow in neat little packages ready to wrap in plastic and place into a chilled cabinet. It actually comes from living, breathing fur and feather covered animals which need killing, skinning, gutting and chopping up before they arrive in those neat little packages. They have heads and eyes and hearts and guts (lots of guts) and a whole body full of less than pleasant bits which have got to be removed before those sanitised pieces of flesh can be put in the oven or frying pan and chewed down in a spirit of gentle innocence and slight ignorance as to where they came from. Meat can now be enjoyed without even considering the consequences or chain of events that led to it being arranged on a plate with some tasty veg and gravy. This really wasn’t intended as a standing on soapbox style rant, honestly. More a precursor to explaining my little initiation ceremony into the warm embrace of life in the country which involved the dubious privilege of transforming a full creature, squidgy bits and all, into something worth eating.
It started with a pheasant in a field. A dead pheasant in a field that was easily accessible without breaking too many laws regarding trespassing or poaching. I vaulted the fence with the gentle grace of a heavily pregnant sow and picked up the dead bird to give it a once over and a good sniff, just to make sure that it hadn’t been mauled by a passing predator or been dead long enough for the smell to make me dry heave. Thankfully it looked, and smelt, fresh, a small hole in the breast suggesting a glancing shot had caused its death. After meeting the approval of my incredibly understanding and equally intrepid girlfriend we took the bird home and hung it up the garage for three days which we were informed was an optimum length of time for those who don’t like their game to be too ‘high’. There was something strangely macabre and slightly medieval about seeing a dead pheasant swinging from one of the beams in the garage, as if some horrific lynching had just been carried out by a feathered mob and the image stayed with me for some time even after the garage door had been shut. And there it hung for three days until the time came for me to make my first foray into plucking and gutting.
To be continued.
NB – there is a photographic record of the entire event. If there is enough interest, it shall be included.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Monday, 19 May 2008
Caking it
Ah, the humble banana. One of the original superfoods, this snack in a jacket was providing us with a nutritional boost before those young pretenders like açai and goji berry were even saplings. Technically a herb, the average banana contains hefty doses of vitamins B6 and C as well as a hit of potassium and a decent amount of dietary fibre. In addition they are packed full of complex carbohydrates and score low on the glycaemic index (bonus if you happen to be following Anthony Worrall Thompson’s diet of choice, although I’m not sure if that is a ringing endorsement considering his ample girth and his apparent willingness to lend his name to more products than St. Michael) and 72 million tons of these yellow wonders are consumed every year. In short they are a supremely tasty, healthy and convenient foodstuff, the ultimate fast food.
With this in mind I set about attempting to neutralise the incredible positive effects of the banana by mashing it up and mixing it with quantities of sugar, butter, flour and eggs to make a cake. And what a cake it was. Simple, sweet, light, soft and very banana-y. Perfect for filling that space between lunch and dinner with a mug of tea on a slightly damp Sunday afternoon. I urge you to try this.
Lazy Sunday Banana Cake
(I only have the old fashioned measurements, sorry. But www.onlineconversion.com should see you right if you insist on doing things the metric way)
5oz plain flour
5oz caster sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2oz unsalted butter, cubed
2 (very) ripe bananas, well mashed (imagine you are about to feed them to a baby)
2 eggs, whisked lightly
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Turn on the oven to about 180 degrees. Mix the flour, sugar and baking powder together in a sufficiently sized mixing bowl. Add the butter and attempt to incorporate it into the dry ingredients with the fingertips. As soon as it looks like it is half mixed, pour in the bananas – if you’ve mashed them enough they should pour, or rather slop, out of the bowl – eggs and vanilla and stir it with sufficient enthusiasm to turn the mixture into something resembling a batter. Pour it into a loaf tin and bake for about 25 minutes, or until it has darkened on the top and cooked within. Eat it hot from the oven with a dribble of plain yoghurt to try to mitigate the fact that you’ve transformed a sensational superfood into a calorific cake.
www.justcookit.blogspot.com
With this in mind I set about attempting to neutralise the incredible positive effects of the banana by mashing it up and mixing it with quantities of sugar, butter, flour and eggs to make a cake. And what a cake it was. Simple, sweet, light, soft and very banana-y. Perfect for filling that space between lunch and dinner with a mug of tea on a slightly damp Sunday afternoon. I urge you to try this.
Lazy Sunday Banana Cake
(I only have the old fashioned measurements, sorry. But www.onlineconversion.com should see you right if you insist on doing things the metric way)
5oz plain flour
5oz caster sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2oz unsalted butter, cubed
2 (very) ripe bananas, well mashed (imagine you are about to feed them to a baby)
2 eggs, whisked lightly
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Turn on the oven to about 180 degrees. Mix the flour, sugar and baking powder together in a sufficiently sized mixing bowl. Add the butter and attempt to incorporate it into the dry ingredients with the fingertips. As soon as it looks like it is half mixed, pour in the bananas – if you’ve mashed them enough they should pour, or rather slop, out of the bowl – eggs and vanilla and stir it with sufficient enthusiasm to turn the mixture into something resembling a batter. Pour it into a loaf tin and bake for about 25 minutes, or until it has darkened on the top and cooked within. Eat it hot from the oven with a dribble of plain yoghurt to try to mitigate the fact that you’ve transformed a sensational superfood into a calorific cake.
www.justcookit.blogspot.com
Friday, 16 May 2008
A Tasty Badger
I’ve recently spent some time working at a food magazine based close to Portobello Road in west London (every single time I think, say or even write the words ‘Portobello Road’ I end up with a tenacious little ear worm of the song of the same name from the innuendo ridden Disney musical ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’. For those of you who haven’t seen the movie the reference will no doubt be lost, those of you who have seen it will now be humming the song relentlessly for the next couple of hours and for that I apologise). Given my proximity to Notting Hill and the fact that I was working on a food title, it is hardly surprising that I enjoyed a few gastronomic related experiences during my time there: As one who has an almost unhealthy passion for bookshops and all things food related, ‘Books for Cooks’ on Blenheim Crescent is something of a personal Mecca and I did well to limit my purchases to a solitary tome. The market rivals many that I’ve seen on the continent, even on quiet days, although Friday is by far the best day to experience it. I also had a truly outstanding falafel from a small van although my request for hot chilli was almost denied to me and it was only on proving that I could handle the fiery sauce by sampling a small amount that he relented and tipped some onto my wrap. A Spanish food shop nestling just under the Westway had the largest selection of Manchego cheese I’ve ever seen and the Gran Reserva that I plumped for was an exquisite example. But by far my favourite moment was a serendipitous visit to a pub called The Fat Badger.
I’d phoned the pub earlier in the week to talk about a campaign that the magazine was running in support of British pig farmers and ended up chatting to the amiable head chef, Will Leigh, formerly of Kensington Place. His unbridled enthusiasm for food was immediately evident and we spent a good few minutes discussing the delights of cruibeens and other such delicacies. A couple of days later, I’d arranged to meet a friend there and walked over after work. He was running late and so I ordered a drink and went in search of the chef to indulge in some food chat with a fellow enthusiast. As it was barely half past five, the quiet before the storm of evening service meant he was more than happy to talk and it was a genuine pleasure to discuss matters ranging from the provenance of his pork to the benefits of buying smoked eel from Holland with someone so profoundly passionate about it. Gradually, as the place busied we realised that few people would get served if he wasn’t behind the stove so we shook hands and parted company, he to the kitchen and I to a worn Chesterfield sofa with a pint and my book waiting for Tom to make the arduous journey from Shepherds Bush (a treacherous two miles). I was busy thinking of ways to convince him that we should stay for more than just a drink when Will returned from the kitchen and headed over, bearing a plate of what looked like incredibly tasty food.
And it was. It was one of the tastiest plates of food I’ve had in a long, long time. Thick chunks of pork belly rillons with soft, meltingly soft fat and succulent flesh with artichoke hearts and crunchy croutons and a zingy fresh gremolata which gave the dish a zesty lift. Good? The best description, and compliment, I can give is that it was the sort of food that just forces an unstoppable smile spreading across the face thanks to its absolute perfection and I can’t wait to go back.
www.thefatbadger.com
I’d phoned the pub earlier in the week to talk about a campaign that the magazine was running in support of British pig farmers and ended up chatting to the amiable head chef, Will Leigh, formerly of Kensington Place. His unbridled enthusiasm for food was immediately evident and we spent a good few minutes discussing the delights of cruibeens and other such delicacies. A couple of days later, I’d arranged to meet a friend there and walked over after work. He was running late and so I ordered a drink and went in search of the chef to indulge in some food chat with a fellow enthusiast. As it was barely half past five, the quiet before the storm of evening service meant he was more than happy to talk and it was a genuine pleasure to discuss matters ranging from the provenance of his pork to the benefits of buying smoked eel from Holland with someone so profoundly passionate about it. Gradually, as the place busied we realised that few people would get served if he wasn’t behind the stove so we shook hands and parted company, he to the kitchen and I to a worn Chesterfield sofa with a pint and my book waiting for Tom to make the arduous journey from Shepherds Bush (a treacherous two miles). I was busy thinking of ways to convince him that we should stay for more than just a drink when Will returned from the kitchen and headed over, bearing a plate of what looked like incredibly tasty food.
And it was. It was one of the tastiest plates of food I’ve had in a long, long time. Thick chunks of pork belly rillons with soft, meltingly soft fat and succulent flesh with artichoke hearts and crunchy croutons and a zingy fresh gremolata which gave the dish a zesty lift. Good? The best description, and compliment, I can give is that it was the sort of food that just forces an unstoppable smile spreading across the face thanks to its absolute perfection and I can’t wait to go back.
www.thefatbadger.com
Tip Top Tapas
Even the best-laid plans can sometimes be scuppered by external circumstances. As a result of the appearance of a substantial amount of cloud and rain displacing the unseasonably delightful weather we have had recently, yesterday’s summer themed meal of fresh rocket, Jersey potatoes and lamb failed to materialise and we were left with a dinner shaped hole where it had previously been residing in the consciousness. As an alternative I decided to attempt an exercise in improvisation by using up the various items in the fridge and cupboards that were nearing the end of their consumable existence. Better they end up as sustenance rather than compost. An aging chorizo sausage provided ample inspiration for a mini selection of hearty tapas, perfect for conjuring up images and flavours reminiscent of more Mediterranean climes while outside the rain dripped down the window in energetic streaks and the trees shook at the whim of the wind.
The piquant chorizo was cut into little gem sized cubes and fried in a little olive oil until the edges were beginning to crisp and the paprika had leached out and stained the oil a deep red. At the last minute two generous handfuls of broad beans and some chopped garlic were added to the pan and cooked for no more than a minute. The pale, almost translucent, green of the mass of beans was studded throughout by tasty little morsels of sausage. To go with it, a simple tomato sauce (garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, smoked paprika and a tin of tomatoes blitzed to a smooth consistency) was reduced down to an intense and warming thickness and pepped up with a little cayenne pepper before being poured over some fried potato to make a quick patatas bravas.
Buoyed by my recent bread making success I felt it would be right to bake an appropriate loaf to match the general theme. Using white bread flour and olive oil in place of wholemeal flour and sunflower oil resulted in a lighter loaf with an amazing resistance and slight chewiness that was just perfect for mopping up the tasty sauces that were left over. Unfortunately, hunger proved victorious over patience and we sat down to eat picnic style on the lounge floor before we could even think of taking any pictures. But we did manage to get one of the bread. Again.
The piquant chorizo was cut into little gem sized cubes and fried in a little olive oil until the edges were beginning to crisp and the paprika had leached out and stained the oil a deep red. At the last minute two generous handfuls of broad beans and some chopped garlic were added to the pan and cooked for no more than a minute. The pale, almost translucent, green of the mass of beans was studded throughout by tasty little morsels of sausage. To go with it, a simple tomato sauce (garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, smoked paprika and a tin of tomatoes blitzed to a smooth consistency) was reduced down to an intense and warming thickness and pepped up with a little cayenne pepper before being poured over some fried potato to make a quick patatas bravas.
Buoyed by my recent bread making success I felt it would be right to bake an appropriate loaf to match the general theme. Using white bread flour and olive oil in place of wholemeal flour and sunflower oil resulted in a lighter loaf with an amazing resistance and slight chewiness that was just perfect for mopping up the tasty sauces that were left over. Unfortunately, hunger proved victorious over patience and we sat down to eat picnic style on the lounge floor before we could even think of taking any pictures. But we did manage to get one of the bread. Again.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
Getting green fingered
I’ve never been the most agriculturally minded individual. Prior to moving to the countryside, despite my best intentions to plant a veggie patch last year, the closest I had got to growing my own was planting some cress seeds in an empty egg shell at primary school. Granted, the egg shell did have a face painted on it and the cress was cut into a Mohican style hair cut after it had sprouted but as sustenance it wasn’t a great success.
It was certainly time to rectify this. One of the aspects of moving that excited us most was the prospect of becoming more self-sufficient and we wasted little time in transforming large areas of the garden into functioning vegetable patches. I had no idea how much hard work this involved and for four days afterwards my back, neck and shoulders ached with a deep-set pain and a layer of dirt resolutely refused to shift from underneath my fingernails. But it was a great feeling, made even sweeter by the knowledge that just a few short months ago I was whiling away my days in a strip lit, climate controlled office where the windows wouldn’t open and everything felt sanitised and slightly unreal. Now the sun was on my back and I was spending my days doing everything I loved and nothing I didn’t. We’d planted an ambitious selection of edible goodies into five seedling trays and the excitement when the first of the tiny green shoots popped through the lightly compacted earth was phenomenal. Within a week all of the various seeds that we had planted had begun to push their way through the surface and were rapidly outgrowing their little temporary homes, eager to be planted into the newly dug beds.
This was about four weeks ago and now, whilst we still have a considerable wait for many of the plants to bear fruit, the leafier of the plants are looking lush and ready to eat with continental salad leaves and rocket leading the charge. The pace and voracity with which they’ve started to take over their little corner of the garden has been mildly alarming but also strangely comforting. As a measure of success it appears as if we’ve come out on top and now it is possible to see the effects of the hard work that went into the beds just a few short weeks ago. It makes the whole process worthwhile and, while I’d always been attracted to the idea, only now am I truly beginning to see the benefits and attraction of slow food, there is just something that resonates with a profound satisfaction of seeing the progress of food in this way. So much so that think we need wait no longer and these vibrant little green leaves will be eaten tonight with a gently roasted piece of lamb breast and some delightfully spring like Jersey potatoes.
It was certainly time to rectify this. One of the aspects of moving that excited us most was the prospect of becoming more self-sufficient and we wasted little time in transforming large areas of the garden into functioning vegetable patches. I had no idea how much hard work this involved and for four days afterwards my back, neck and shoulders ached with a deep-set pain and a layer of dirt resolutely refused to shift from underneath my fingernails. But it was a great feeling, made even sweeter by the knowledge that just a few short months ago I was whiling away my days in a strip lit, climate controlled office where the windows wouldn’t open and everything felt sanitised and slightly unreal. Now the sun was on my back and I was spending my days doing everything I loved and nothing I didn’t. We’d planted an ambitious selection of edible goodies into five seedling trays and the excitement when the first of the tiny green shoots popped through the lightly compacted earth was phenomenal. Within a week all of the various seeds that we had planted had begun to push their way through the surface and were rapidly outgrowing their little temporary homes, eager to be planted into the newly dug beds.
This was about four weeks ago and now, whilst we still have a considerable wait for many of the plants to bear fruit, the leafier of the plants are looking lush and ready to eat with continental salad leaves and rocket leading the charge. The pace and voracity with which they’ve started to take over their little corner of the garden has been mildly alarming but also strangely comforting. As a measure of success it appears as if we’ve come out on top and now it is possible to see the effects of the hard work that went into the beds just a few short weeks ago. It makes the whole process worthwhile and, while I’d always been attracted to the idea, only now am I truly beginning to see the benefits and attraction of slow food, there is just something that resonates with a profound satisfaction of seeing the progress of food in this way. So much so that think we need wait no longer and these vibrant little green leaves will be eaten tonight with a gently roasted piece of lamb breast and some delightfully spring like Jersey potatoes.
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