Does anyone have the time to peel potatoes?
I don't.
I love eating them in many different ways but I really can't use the peeler on them and certainly not a knife. I have until now blamed this on my left-handedness, but with hindsight and a bit of maturity I think it may be something to do with prioritisation...
Would I rather peel potatoes or stroke my cat/read my book/walk my imaginary dog/poke around in my garden/read Grazia magazine/recharge my ipod/fill my car with petrol (god I love the smell of petrol)/water my chilli plants/take pointless photos on my mobile phone/count the spiders' webs in my kitchen/stroke my cat etc. etc.?
When I really really do have to peel them for a special recipe I'll usually boil them in their skins and then use my asbestos fingers to peel them while they're hot. That's how I make my tortillas. And very tasty they are too. Or so my imaginary friend Pablo says.
But the thing I eat most often is dirty mash. You just find some lovely small and waxy potatoes, put them in cold water with lots and lots of rock salt and bring them to the boil and cook them for 15 minutes. Then you get one of those appliances that is like a mouli (my one is called a potato ricer) and squeeze them through. It is really quick and very satisfying and all you have to do is to clear the really bad debris from the holey round disc now and then. A few pieces of potato skin really won't make any difference and in fact a few bits here and there will add lots of flavour to your lovely mash.
Then you add butter and milk (heated for best results) and lots of salt and pepper. Whip it all up with a rubber spatula. Then the fun starts tasting it for seasoning. I have realised that I have to make twice as much as any recipe states because I always end up eating half of the quantity getting it seasoned properly. But is it worth it? Of course it is. And it's fun because it's dirty mash and good clean fun was always one of those concepts that doesn't quite work in reality, n'est-ce pas?
Sunday 22 October 2006
Saturday 21 October 2006
Meat
I have a somewhat complicated relationship with meat.
I always loved the taste of it as a child. My mother’s mince yum yum (fried mince, onions and garlic, well seasoned with tomato ketchup and an enormous splash of Worcester sauce, served with rice) was, and still is, one of my favourite meals.
But I was extremely sensitive and sentimental about animals and as soon as my teenage rebellion was in full swing I became vegetarian, much to the exasperation of my stepfather, who saw it as
a. confirmation of my communist tendencies and
b. the insidious influence of my father’s girlfriend, who did not eat meat herself and served up nut roast instead.
I soon moved to France, where vegetarianism was not very common. Indeed, most of the French people I met could not even grasp the basic concept. Animals were functional; they supplied affection, fur, home security and meat and that was that.
Somehow (mainly thanks to my fabulous surrogate Lebanese grandmother-of the-time who made me fantastic taboule every day), I managed to survive happily in France for another ten years or so without eating meat. Then, I moved back to England.
One day I found myself in a first class seat on a plane to Frankfurt. In the seat next to me was a middle-aged man, quite obviously of German descent, who had a noble air about him (he turned out to be a baron - it was the tweed and leather lederhosen that gave him away). He started talking to me as soon as the champagne was being served. I think he wished to establish that I was seated in the correct part of the plane.
He told me that he was on his way back from a visit to a Scottish estate where he had been hunting, shooting and fishing. He seemed oblivious to my rising hackles and proceeded to eulogise about the excitement involved in deer stalking and the fascinating and cunning mental games that exist between the hunter and hunted. The main thing that struck me was that he seemed to have genuine respect for the animals he hunted. I thought of my favourite hunter, Hemingway, and it all started to make sense. Despite my best intentions, I started to become seriously aroused, not in an overtly sexual way, but certainly in a carnivorous way. I suddenly fancied meat very much indeed.
This was very good timing as the people I had been sent to meet in Germany didn’t seem to have a relationship with vegetables at all. The only one that shared the table with 225 varieties of sausage and cured meat was, of course, the potato.
So, I took the plunge and tasted meat for the first time in about 14 years. I spent the next 3 days eating every single variety of animal that I could lay my hands on. I was in meat heaven! I realised how bored I had been with food and how many new taste sensations were now open to me.
Since then there has been no going back. I feel, ironically, more connected to nature now that I understand the relationship between man and meat.
As we're now in the game season and if you like your flesh lean and tasty, here’s a recipe courtesy of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall – I’ve just made it for supper and it’s very nice indeed.
Stewed venison
You can vary this according to the cuts of venison available. Even larger cuts that are still on the bone, such as shanks and neck, are good, not least as the bones will enrich the liquor as the stew cooks, so you probably won't need any extra stock. Another nice variation is to use chunks of spicy chorizo instead of pancetta, and/or little venison meatballs made from the burger mix (see recipe below) - in both cases, fry gently and add for the last 45 minutes of cooking. Serves six.
1 tbsp oil (or dripping)
250g salted pork belly or pancetta, cut into chunky cubes
1.5kg venison neck and shoulder meat, cut into large chunks
2 onions, peeled and finely sliced
2-3 large carrots, peeled and cut into big chunks
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 bay leaves
1 sprig thyme
150ml red wine
500ml-plus beef or game stock
Salt and black pepper
Heat the oil in a large, heavy frying pan. Add the pork and fry gently until it is lightly browned and the fat runs. Transfer the pork to a casserole, but leave the pan and bacon-flavoured oil on the heat. Now brown the venison, in batches, transferring it to the casserole as soon as it is lightly coloured.
Add the onions to the pan and sweat until soft but not brown. Transfer to the casserole, then add the carrots, celery, bay leaves and thyme to the pan. Deglaze the pan with wine - allow it to bubble for a minute, to evaporate some of the alcohol. Pour over the meat, along with the stock and a little water if needed: the meat should be covered by a good couple of centimetres. Season sparingly with pepper, but not salt (the bacon will be quite salty).
Bring to a simmer and cook, uncovered, at a very low, tremulous simmer for one-and-a-half to two hours (up to three if you've used neck or shanks on the bone), until the meat is very tender. (You can also cook it, covered, in a slow oven - about 140C/275F/gas mark 1.)
When the meat is cooked, taste the stew and adjust the seasoning. The juice will be thin, but well-flavoured. Serve with a dollop of good, buttery mash and steamed seasonal greens.
I always loved the taste of it as a child. My mother’s mince yum yum (fried mince, onions and garlic, well seasoned with tomato ketchup and an enormous splash of Worcester sauce, served with rice) was, and still is, one of my favourite meals.
But I was extremely sensitive and sentimental about animals and as soon as my teenage rebellion was in full swing I became vegetarian, much to the exasperation of my stepfather, who saw it as
a. confirmation of my communist tendencies and
b. the insidious influence of my father’s girlfriend, who did not eat meat herself and served up nut roast instead.
I soon moved to France, where vegetarianism was not very common. Indeed, most of the French people I met could not even grasp the basic concept. Animals were functional; they supplied affection, fur, home security and meat and that was that.
Somehow (mainly thanks to my fabulous surrogate Lebanese grandmother-of the-time who made me fantastic taboule every day), I managed to survive happily in France for another ten years or so without eating meat. Then, I moved back to England.
One day I found myself in a first class seat on a plane to Frankfurt. In the seat next to me was a middle-aged man, quite obviously of German descent, who had a noble air about him (he turned out to be a baron - it was the tweed and leather lederhosen that gave him away). He started talking to me as soon as the champagne was being served. I think he wished to establish that I was seated in the correct part of the plane.
He told me that he was on his way back from a visit to a Scottish estate where he had been hunting, shooting and fishing. He seemed oblivious to my rising hackles and proceeded to eulogise about the excitement involved in deer stalking and the fascinating and cunning mental games that exist between the hunter and hunted. The main thing that struck me was that he seemed to have genuine respect for the animals he hunted. I thought of my favourite hunter, Hemingway, and it all started to make sense. Despite my best intentions, I started to become seriously aroused, not in an overtly sexual way, but certainly in a carnivorous way. I suddenly fancied meat very much indeed.
This was very good timing as the people I had been sent to meet in Germany didn’t seem to have a relationship with vegetables at all. The only one that shared the table with 225 varieties of sausage and cured meat was, of course, the potato.
So, I took the plunge and tasted meat for the first time in about 14 years. I spent the next 3 days eating every single variety of animal that I could lay my hands on. I was in meat heaven! I realised how bored I had been with food and how many new taste sensations were now open to me.
Since then there has been no going back. I feel, ironically, more connected to nature now that I understand the relationship between man and meat.
As we're now in the game season and if you like your flesh lean and tasty, here’s a recipe courtesy of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall – I’ve just made it for supper and it’s very nice indeed.
Stewed venison
You can vary this according to the cuts of venison available. Even larger cuts that are still on the bone, such as shanks and neck, are good, not least as the bones will enrich the liquor as the stew cooks, so you probably won't need any extra stock. Another nice variation is to use chunks of spicy chorizo instead of pancetta, and/or little venison meatballs made from the burger mix (see recipe below) - in both cases, fry gently and add for the last 45 minutes of cooking. Serves six.
1 tbsp oil (or dripping)
250g salted pork belly or pancetta, cut into chunky cubes
1.5kg venison neck and shoulder meat, cut into large chunks
2 onions, peeled and finely sliced
2-3 large carrots, peeled and cut into big chunks
2 sticks celery, sliced
2 bay leaves
1 sprig thyme
150ml red wine
500ml-plus beef or game stock
Salt and black pepper
Heat the oil in a large, heavy frying pan. Add the pork and fry gently until it is lightly browned and the fat runs. Transfer the pork to a casserole, but leave the pan and bacon-flavoured oil on the heat. Now brown the venison, in batches, transferring it to the casserole as soon as it is lightly coloured.
Add the onions to the pan and sweat until soft but not brown. Transfer to the casserole, then add the carrots, celery, bay leaves and thyme to the pan. Deglaze the pan with wine - allow it to bubble for a minute, to evaporate some of the alcohol. Pour over the meat, along with the stock and a little water if needed: the meat should be covered by a good couple of centimetres. Season sparingly with pepper, but not salt (the bacon will be quite salty).
Bring to a simmer and cook, uncovered, at a very low, tremulous simmer for one-and-a-half to two hours (up to three if you've used neck or shanks on the bone), until the meat is very tender. (You can also cook it, covered, in a slow oven - about 140C/275F/gas mark 1.)
When the meat is cooked, taste the stew and adjust the seasoning. The juice will be thin, but well-flavoured. Serve with a dollop of good, buttery mash and steamed seasonal greens.
Tuesday 3 October 2006
Camper Vans
I've realised that I want to go on a long journey in a camper van - immediately. There's one called Claude, an old 50s sky blue Comma van, waiting patiently in a barn in Herefordshire for just that purpose. I've chickened out so far as Claude has a reputation for breaking down on precipices in the Dolomites and for being quite badly behaved - usually miles from civilisation. But the allure of the open road and Claude’s sweet little wooden interior are suddenly proving quite irresistible.
I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve just seen the film Little Miss Sunshine (I urge you to see it if you haven’t already), but I am suddenly conscious of how important road movies are in my life - in my imaginary life anyway.
If I were to probe the reality of going on a journey in Claude, I think I would be rather nervous. The imaginary me loves sleeping rough and waking up with dew on my eyelashes, washing in brooks and wearing home-knitted jumpers and big boots with no heels.
The real me is thinking of the time when my sister and I shared a tent in America when we were teenagers and had a little misunderstanding with three thousand or so local mosquitoes. Or the time when I had a holiday job in a bed and breakfast in Cornwall and poached two hundred eggs every day at dawn in exchange for sleeping in a tent in the owners’ garden, shared with a hungry horse with a penchant for canvas. The only way to escape after 7 nights of being constantly nibbled by a sharp set of equine teeth was to slice a small chunk of flesh between my thumb and first finger with a very sharp knife while washing up (try it, it’s very theatrical) and wait for the subsequent, but pretty immediate, horror, sympathy and leaving present. I was very pleased to say farewell to that tent and to hitch hike all the way back to London without saying goodbye to the insatiable nag. I still have a sliver of a scar on my hand to remind me of the halcyon days of my youth.
Back to today, I’ve just been to see what’s going to be auctioned tomorrow at the local Chattels Market. It’s wonderful there. You can bid on all sorts of fabulous house clearance items to the sound of hundreds of cows mooing away in a very echo-y barn next door. There was a camper van parked there which triggered the whole camper van thing today. This one had little curtains and more than a little rustic allure.
My last bargain at the Chattels was an antique Japanese parasol and a huge box of church candles (£5 the lot). It was huge fun bidding. The auctioneer is very kind with me. He remembers when I missed out on a huge box of Second World War ammunition. He seemed to sympathise at the time and made a few jokes about it and has been very nice ever since.
Going back to food, I think I would like to attempt to roast marshmallows over an open fire in my road movie. I’m assuming that you just thread them on a long silver skewer and put it in the fire. Is that correct…?
I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve just seen the film Little Miss Sunshine (I urge you to see it if you haven’t already), but I am suddenly conscious of how important road movies are in my life - in my imaginary life anyway.
If I were to probe the reality of going on a journey in Claude, I think I would be rather nervous. The imaginary me loves sleeping rough and waking up with dew on my eyelashes, washing in brooks and wearing home-knitted jumpers and big boots with no heels.
The real me is thinking of the time when my sister and I shared a tent in America when we were teenagers and had a little misunderstanding with three thousand or so local mosquitoes. Or the time when I had a holiday job in a bed and breakfast in Cornwall and poached two hundred eggs every day at dawn in exchange for sleeping in a tent in the owners’ garden, shared with a hungry horse with a penchant for canvas. The only way to escape after 7 nights of being constantly nibbled by a sharp set of equine teeth was to slice a small chunk of flesh between my thumb and first finger with a very sharp knife while washing up (try it, it’s very theatrical) and wait for the subsequent, but pretty immediate, horror, sympathy and leaving present. I was very pleased to say farewell to that tent and to hitch hike all the way back to London without saying goodbye to the insatiable nag. I still have a sliver of a scar on my hand to remind me of the halcyon days of my youth.
Back to today, I’ve just been to see what’s going to be auctioned tomorrow at the local Chattels Market. It’s wonderful there. You can bid on all sorts of fabulous house clearance items to the sound of hundreds of cows mooing away in a very echo-y barn next door. There was a camper van parked there which triggered the whole camper van thing today. This one had little curtains and more than a little rustic allure.
My last bargain at the Chattels was an antique Japanese parasol and a huge box of church candles (£5 the lot). It was huge fun bidding. The auctioneer is very kind with me. He remembers when I missed out on a huge box of Second World War ammunition. He seemed to sympathise at the time and made a few jokes about it and has been very nice ever since.
Going back to food, I think I would like to attempt to roast marshmallows over an open fire in my road movie. I’m assuming that you just thread them on a long silver skewer and put it in the fire. Is that correct…?
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