the imaginatively named food blog

the one with all the gin

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Fri, 01 Aug 2014 12:47:00 +0000

The keener-eyed amongst you might notice the glaringly large gap between entries of late; I ought just to skate over this with a flippant 'I've been busy,' but I think perhaps something as indulgent as a food blog allows me enough leg room to fill you in. It has indeed been a busy nine months, within which I finally mustered the guts to abandon waitressing, in spite of its lucrative and flexible nature. The fact is, as any hospitality worker will doubtless tell you, waiting tables is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, if you're good at it you'll be substantially richer than most of your twenty-to-thirty-something compatriots, live unbridled by the monotony of the average 9-5 gig, and you'll spend most of your working life drunk.

There you were thinking a 'Waiter's Friend'
was a bottle opener... No, it's gin. It's
always been gin.

The working environment is (for the most part...) more fun than you can ever imagine, and you'll make friendships that will last a lifetime, forged in sleep-deprived, break-deprived, illicitly obtained gin-fuelled chaos. But the other side? It's harder work that you can ever imagine, too. Stick the average desk-bound jobsworth in a 200-cover restaurant on a Saturday night when the door have fucked up, the bartender is too drunk to cope and all of the teaspoons have mysteriously disappeared, and I doubt they'd last two minutes. The hours are long, hot and hard. Weekends? Nope. Job security? Reliable rotas? Think again. Hospitality is a line of work where you find yourself completely and utterly at the mercy of general public, and as it turns out, the general public are arseholes. The lack of structured working routine somehow manages to make the years slip by that little bit quicker than you'd like, and despite any protestations that you're really a writer/actor/ musician/entrepreneur waiting tables part-time, one day you'll wake up and realise that you've been telling politely interested customers that very same thing for six years. Between the 60-hour working weeks, the sore feet, the frazzled brain and an increasing apathy for human beings, your ambitions have somehow fallen by the wayside in a way that no amount of cash, fun or five-finger gin can compensate for.

"So that's a gluten-free,
dairy-free Caesar Salad, no anchovies, dressing
on the side... and 17 tap waters...Why, of
course you can split the bill...! No, madam,
service isn't mandatory, you're quite right..."

I'd like to point out that this isn't everybody's story. I know plenty of jobbing waiters that have the self-control to use it as a crutch to pay the bills, carving out successful paths in their own industry at the same time. Likewise, I know those who forge pretty lucrative careers within this very line of work, too. But last December, I knew the time was ripe to see out one last Christmas (because I'm a glutton for punishment...) before cutting and running. It had been planned for quite a while; the husband and I had long since ear-marked 2014 as the year to crack on with Important Grown-Up Things, like make a baby and open our own restaurant. Whilst they're not two life goals that might strike you as immediately compatible within such a short time frame, our line of thought seemed quite logical nine months ago: both are notoriously stressful affairs, so why not knock them both out in the same year? Admittedly, we hadn't intended for the two to come to fruition quite in unison (because let's face it- that is silly), but with two weeks to go until we- hopefully- get the all-clear from the meddlesome council folk AND baby's due date, it looks very much as though that's what's going to happen... and I wouldn't have it any other way. We have a network of family and friends so supportive it could choke me up (though that probably has as much to do with hormones as anything else), and a local community that seem pretty on board with the idea of something new appearing that isn't a Tesco Express.

This is Kyrgzstan. For those of
you who weren't entirely sure.

All of this brings me very neatly to the secondary purpose of this post, because I'm not content with just prattling on about myself. August 4th heralds the beginning of The Federation of Small Businesses' Keep Trade Local week- a challenge to, well... I'm sure you get the point. The delights of modern technology have allowed me to establish that despite a great deal of my blog traffic coming from this neck of the woods, a large chunk comes from slightly further afield. Whilst I'm still trying to figure out quite how I've managed to crop up on the radar of so many Kyrgyzstani food enthusiasts, I'll take what I'm given. Anyway, my point is thus: it doesn't matter where the hell you live- embracing the idea of shopping independently is something that translates to Wycombe, London and Bishkek. In fact, that's possibly the one remaining corner of this earth that Tesco et. al. haven't gotten their grubby little claws into yet. And so, whilst my own little affair isn't up and running yet, as a small, independent business owner I have a vested interest in trying to drum this very message into people's skulls. So- plan your meals. Visit your local fruit and veg man (or woman).Work out your town's market days, get to know those ropey-looking, chain-free side streets of your local area, and identify those tricky-to-procure items (like cat litter, make-up wipes and furniture polish) in advance. Buy them before, if you have genuine concerns about being able to track them down- that way, you can really feel smug at the end of the challenge when you haven't had to cave in to the glowing neon of your local 24 hour supermarket.

That's all I wanted to bother you about this week. I'll end with a shameless plug: this aforementioned little venture of mine- Tin Kitchen- will be up and running as soon as I've mastered the whole baby thing. So keep your eyes peeled for the first couple of weeks in September, if you're local (because who needs maternity leave, eh?) and make sure you're following us on facebook (here), twitter (@tinkitchen) and on this very blog. Because I'll be certain to batter you all across the head with updates when they come (of the cafe variety, not overtly graphic child-birth vein). And for those of you in Kyrgyzstan who can't make it to the grand opening, enjoy this. It's more accurate than you'd like to believe...

Happy local mooching.
mrs hunt.x

yes, yes- let's talk about the weather

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Fri, 25 Oct 2013 14:57:00 +0000

We're a hard bunch to please, aren't we? Five months ago, we were lamenting the coldest spring in history. Geese were migrating, it snowed in May, and we all began to wonder if the world was coming to an end. A great deal of us seriously considered moving hemisphere... a lot of us actually did (a worrying chunk of my newsfeed is now a constant stream of photos depicting an Instagramed Sydney Opera House, Bondi Beach and kangaroos). A month later, and we were smug, sunburnt, and yet again wondering if the world was indeed coming to an end, albeit less in a 'Day After Tomorrow' way, more just an 'Actual Global Warming' fashion. Which is arguably the better way to go, anyway. The delicate constitution of the average Brit simply wasn't designed to endure such scorching climes. We'd forgotten how to dress ourselves properly (if at all), and as a nation, our conversational prowess- already questionable- had all but disappeared. All we seemed able to do was feverishly spout Europe-wide weather comparisons: 'Did you hear? We're hotter than Alicante! ALICANTE!' We were whingeing* about air-con. We were whingeing about lack of air-con. And instead of whingeing about lack of employment, we had a whinge about having to work in 27 degree heat. Put simply, we're never bloody happy.

Tan lines

Well, I was. My house plants may have died,and my skin might have spent most of the summer bearing more resemblance to a corpulent whisky fiend , but I can honestly say that I loved it. All of it- the sweaty, sleepless nights, the long, hot days, and finally! The idea that, for once, we'd experienced a season easily discernible as summer. So when the colder, darker, altogether more miserable days start to draw in, I get a bit grumpy. Don't get me wrong- I bloody love Christmas. If it weren't for my infinitely more practical (read: spoilsport) husband, I'd have the tree up by mid-November. It's just the awkward, in-betweeny period I detest, where you're not sure whether tights are OK, and after ten minutes on the tube in a coat you feel just about ready to die. In fact, the only thing that really cheers me up is the food. Now there's a surprise ;)

The heavy stews, the richer soups, and the gnarly vegetables all make me think that autumn probably does serve a purpose after all. And my favourite of the bunch? Blackberries.They bridge the gap between summer days, and the first festive frosts of November (after which point I stop feeling miserable, because I'm in full Christmas swing... the cat's been forced into Yuletide head gear, and I'm wearing ridiculous knitwear again). Nothing really beats the unadulterated purity of a naked berry, but when you spend four months gorging on the things, it's nice to do something a bit more interesting with them eventually. Like this:

Blackberry, Cardamom & Tequila Panna Cottas

(You can make these as seasonal as you like by swapping the fruit, and trading the alcohol with whatever comes to hand. You could leave it out entirely, but where's the fun in that...?)

What You Need:

325ml full-fat milk
400ml double cream
75g caster sugar
2 vanilla pods, or good quality vanilla bean paste, which can be more economical given that vanilla pods seem to be astronomical these days. I use Taylor and Colledge, where one teaspoon of the paste is one whole vanilla bean. I daresay other products vary.
10g of leaf gelatine (approximately 6 sheets)
25ml decent quality white tequila. Not because it matters especially, just because life's too short to drink bad tequila- and there will be an awful lot left to drink.
250g Blackberries. I think it goes without saying that they should be British ones.
3 cardamom pods, lightly crushed.

What You Do:

1. Grab a medium-sized heavy-based pan, and pour in the milk, double cream, 50g of the caster sugar and your vanilla seeds (scraped from the pods) or paste. Place on a medium to high heat until JUST before it reaches boiling point, then turn off. Do not get distracted by your husband asking where his football kit is hiding, wander off for a few minutes and return to a half empty pan and a hob covered in burnt milk. Just saying.

I'm cream. I'm a bastard to get off a hob.

2. Soften your gelatine leaves in cold water for about five minutes, unsticking them from one another if need be. Squeeze out the water, and stir into your cream mixture.

Dinky

3. Fill a large mixing bowl with iced water, and transfer your cream into something that will sit comfortably in it without a) filling with aforementioned iced water, or b) floating on to its side and spilling everything. A jug with a handle that can hook over the edge is ideal, but just improvise. Cool your liquid for about an hour, stirring occasionally.

4.Pour into six fancy glasses. I like the dinky little Duralex affairs, personally. Leave a gap at the top (about two centimetres), and stick in the fridge to set. Overnight is ideal, but I've been known to finish these off in a blind panic at 3pm, in time for a dinner evening for 16 at 7.30. If they were shit, then everyone was polite enough not to mention it to me. But either way, leave a few hours- 5-6 at the least.

Pipe and cigar not required

5.Place your blackberries into a pan with the tequila, cardamom pods and last of the caster sugar. On a very low heat, poach the fruit until softened (but still a loose blackberry shape), and taste. It should be tart enough to cut through the richness of the cream, but not stroke-inducing. Cool in the fridge for an hour or so.

To serve, spoon your fruit mixture haphazardly over the set panna cottas. Try to remove the cardamom pods beforehand, though. They're not great for chewing on. If you have time, knock up a few shortbread thins on the side. If you don't, then just have them alone- they taste good enough.

Happy tequila-drinking,

mrs hunt.x

food, and the end of the world.

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Wed, 19 Jun 2013 14:07:00 +0000

Food is our most precious commodity. Sure- without petrol, we'd all have to do a bit more walking, and without crude oil we wouldn't have such fun waging war left right and centre. But without food (and water, of course), well- we just wouldn't get very much done at all. So given our overwhelming, unequivocal reliance on the stuff, it's tricky to understand why we chuck over one-third of all food produced globally in the bin. That's 1.3 billion tonnes, worth approximately US$ 1,000,000,000,000- one trillion dollars- and it looks like this:

The tiny little thing on the left is, one presumes, an average-sized man in a fetching red jumper.

5th June 2013 was World Environment Day, which this year chose to focus on the new UNEP and FAO campaign Think.Eat.Save. Reduce Your Foodprint. That this post comes a bit late is seemingly appropriate- hell, I might even pretend it was deliberate. Because the point is, reducing our food waste isn't something we should only be thinking about for one day a year: it should be ingrained in our very being. Not only is it careless, it's stupid. And if you're a miserly, penny-pinching kind of person (aren't we all these days?), then it's downright senseless- you're throwing your hard-earned money into the bin. Given the technology we have at our disposal (fridges, freezers, vacuum seals...), and the fact that we still seem to be in the midst of a rather stubborn recession, it all seems rather silly, doesn't it? Hence why the UNEP are hell-bent on highlighting the moral implications of food waste (from before a crop is even a seedling, and a calf is but a glint in its mother's eye, right through to its seemingly inevitable future in a landfill site somewhere...), in a world where 900 million people go hungry every day. Put into it's bluntest terms, we simply cannot continue to produce and consume food the way we do today for much longer.

Bad distribution...?

But why ever not? Whilst it may be true that our reserves are rather low (so if every grain farmer in the world were to suddenly down tools to pursue dreams of a music career/opening a B&B/joining a monastery, we'd be left with just enough globally to survive for a month and a half), there IS, as it stands, more than enough food for everybody. Distribution has always been a problem- it's a well parroted fact that 80% of the world's food is indeed consumed by a mere 20%. But if you look towards the (alarmingly not-so-distant) future, between the fisheries sector and common agricultural practices in food production, it's all going rather wrong.

I can think of no appropriate caption for this, besides: great shirt.

In 2008, you might have picked up on something called the global food crisis. I say this without a hint of sarcasm, because unless you're a fairly avid reader of newspapers, it could easily have passed you by. Unless of course you lived in Haiti, or Burkina Faso, or Mozambique, where food prices increased by up to 100%, alongside those in dozens of other developing countries. According to the veritable institution of the World Bank, food prices rose globally by 83% between 2005-2008. For some staple crops, such as wheat, this figure was as high as 130%.

Whilst it had immediate causes (such as drought in 2005 and 2006, high oil prices, and an increase in meat consumption per capita), many saw the crisis as an indication of just how fragile our food production systems are, and how easily it can all descend into anarchy. Whilst we've already established that globally, there is enough to feed us, it's clear that our production systems need to change to prevent such crises from re-occurring.

So, if the case isn't that there are just too many damn people in the world for the food resources we have available, then why is everyone harping on about food waste so much? Hasn't technology allowed us to increase crop yields globally? In some ways, it certainly sounds as though we'll be AOK to carry on stuffing our faces, air-freighting our food, and throwing it away when it bores us. But the fact of the matter is that modern agricultural production has, quite simply, screwed up our planet a treat.

The BBC: A less veritable institution, perhaps, but still
largely reliable.

I'm no real eco-warrior- at least in the traditional sense. I wash my clothes, brush my hair (sometimes), get driven around in a car, and take as many plane trips a year as I can afford. But as I've said before, I pick my battles- food just happens to be the one I care about most. So the idea of future generations struggling to feed themselves because we've pushed our global food systems to breaking point seems, frankly, unpalatable. There is nothing sustainable about the field- (or sea) to-fork practices we have in place, and before long it all looks set to go very, very wrong. Within what I would hope to be my lifetime (though given my gin consumption, perhaps not...), the world's population levels are set to hit 9.1 billion- perhaps as early as 2050. Working on our current numbers, we'd need to increase food production by about 50%. But owing to a combination of climate change (caused in no small part by our own evil doings), water scarcity, and additional damage to the environment, this looks set to fall by about 25% anyway. So in real terms, we'll actually need to increase our food production levels by 75% within forty years, just to provide enough food to stop the human race from going extinct. As much as it all sounds like the plot to Will Smith's next disaster movie (do 'shotgun' rules apply to screenplay rights...?), it's the reality we face.

Let's go back to a happier, marginally more abundant time. Biology lessons, age twelve or thereabouts. If you weren't too busy setting fire to rubbers with Bunsen burners or flicking ink at your teacher's lab coat, you might recall some of the key principles of our fragile ecological system. In short, all aspects of the food chain and surrounding environment (soil, water, climate and insects) need supporting. If one takes a hit, they all go tits up. And had my teacher put it the same way, I might have paid more attention. The rare species of tree that feeds the insect, that feeds the bird that helps cross-pollinate the crop that feeds the cow gets ploughed down to make room for a nice rice paddy. Yes- there would be more rice, but in the mean time everything around it is being gradually wiped out. And if my laymans explanation of complex ecological systems was lacking in any real detail, it's probably because I have a history degree, not a biology one- sorry. I'm sure that's about right, though. It's worth bearing in mind that this is all concerning what happens on land; terrifyingly, global fish stocks have reduced by a whopping 75% due to uncontrolled overfishing, and the destruction of marine habitat. Something to think about next time you fancy a tuna sandwich.

A lemming. You'll notice he's not actually jumping
off a cliff, because they don't do that. Apparently
that's just the game.

So that's it- we're buggered. We may as well have one last slap-up dinner of foie gras and sushi, before throwing half of it in the bin and jumping off the cliff like lemmings. Because what the hell else can we do? Good question. Short of going tuna-hugging, or chaining yourself to the nearest paddy-adjacent tree, it's hard to imagine anything making much of an impact. But luckily there are hundreds of things you can do, and most of them are more about adopting a change in ethos than they are about doing anything dramatic or exhausting. There are enough irritating trends out there that seem to have no trouble catching on, so let's make this the next one- let's make being frugal, imaginative or cunning with food the next Harlem Shake.

Eight things you can do to feel smug:

1. Don't ignore the contents of your fridge. It's all well and good deciding you fancy sausages for dinner- that's fine. Buy sausages. But take stock of what's on its last legs at the back of the fridge, too. That way, you can try to incorporate that stuff in as well. You don't have to be desperate about things: it's unlikely that the entire contents of your fridge will come together in Blumenthal-like grace and gastronomic harmony, but the chances are you'll be able to use something. Try challenging yourself- see how little you can get away with buying to get yourself a good meal. Again, I'm by no means suggesting you live off a reheated mix of Sunday's roast potatoes, Tuesday's salmon and some questionable yoghurt, because this isn't a punishment- just a thought-provoking challenge.

2. Don't shop on an empty stomach. It's silly, and expensive.

3. Pre-empt your leftovers. That way, you're probably less likely to throw them in the bin, or force them unpleasantly down your throat in a 'waste not, want not' kind of way. It also means you can buy what you need to eke them out for their mid-week reincarnation at the same time. For instance...

* If you're buying cream, get some fruit. Cobble together some panna cottas. (Future blog plug, because I happen to have two pints of cream languishing in the corner of my own fridge. Short of drinking the stuff, I could think of nothing better to do than make half a dozen panna cottas and photograph them endlessly for next week's post. Bet you can't wait, eh?)

* If you're making risotto ((old blog post plug #1), get some mozarella and try to save a little bread for breadcrumbs. Make arancini.

* Got meat? Save a potato. Make a patty. (old blog post plug #2)

I could go on, but I'm not here to provide you with an exhaustive compendium of leftover ideas- use your own head, and your own tastebuds. And, as always- a decent store cupboard (old blog post plug #3) will make things immeasurably easier.

4. IGNORE BEST BEFORE DATES because they're bollocks. Judging your food should be instinctive, not dictated to you by some off-the-cuff, back-covering, law-suit-avoiding 'BBE' casually stamped across a piece of cellophane. The 'Best Before' is no reflectionof how safe the food is, just a prediction by the supermarkets of when the goods, might, maybe, start declining in quality. In short, they scaremonger consumers into mistrusting their own judgement, throwing it away, and hopping off down to Tesco for its replacement. So here's a handy guide to determine the freshness and quality of your own food: if it has fur, is practically moving and smells like the inside of a post-Glastonbury tent, then you can bin it. Otherwise, it's probably OK.

Fresh.

5. Store things properly. Keep meat cold until a couple of hours before you cook it (allowing it to come to room temperature does help it cook more evenly though...), keep your veg and salads cool (NOT arctic), and keep your bread covered. Learn to use your freezer (though admittedly, this is a tad hypocritical of me: I own a beautiful but impractical fridge with an ice box just large enough for frozen stock and a bottle of vodka. Or it would be, had I not broken the door off and allowed the whole thing to freeze over entirely).

6. Master the art of jam, soup and chutney-making. For these are the holy trinity of imaginative leftovers, and no one knows (or cares) how ropey a strawberry/courgette/onion looked before it ws given a new lease of life in one of the above.

7. Eat local produce. Yes, I've whinged about it before, and I'll whinge about it again because I'm an ardent supporter of eating the stuff that grows here. It will help reduce your carbon footprint, it'll be seasonal, and it will be cheaper, owing to the lack of plane, train and automobile faffing involved in getting it here (unlike its Mexican/Peruvian/Kenyan alternative). Plus it will support your local economy. Try Pick Your Own (old blog post plug #4), and go for some of the gnarly stuff; we're far too shallow when it comes to our food. You can feel smug about restoring social justice to the asparagus world if you pick the 'special' looking one, and it'll taste just as good.

8. Sign a petition every once in a while. Preferably not one generated by the EDL, but something about bumblebees. Or palm oil. Or trout farming- anything that stirs your heart a little. It can't hurt.

There you go: eight easy steps to saving the world. Will Smith makes it look so damn hard...

And now, to really drive the point home, watch this:

I really must say thank you to Nick Nuttall, director of the UN Environment Programme, and an all-round helpful man. So, thank you Nick.

happy fridge-raiding,

mrs hunt.x

the fortune-telling asparagus (with a bit of béarnaise to boot)

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Fri, 17 May 2013 15:26:00 +0000

There are some things, like strawberries, that I can't stand the thought of eating out of season. I allow myself the occasional slip up where things like courgette and French beans are concerned, but the idea of eating pale, tasteless Guatemalan strawberries or worse- Peruvian asparagus, in the depths of December, makes me sad.

So, I wait.

I bide my time.

I save myself, just for asparagus.

London friends: this is a farm.

...
Which is more than I can say for my prom night. So when that happy time of year rolls around (asparagus season, not prom season), I like to indulge in some sense of ceremony. Not of the odd sacrificial variety, or even a party (though I have made a mental note to book tickets to this next year). I just thought I'd pick it myself this May. Asparagus is not a pretty grower, and it makes for a less than artistic set of photographs (though I've tried my best to Instagram-them to death, as you can see). There are plenty of Pick Your Own joints around in this neck of the woods (I'm finding an increasing number of perks to not living in central London- just let me revel in them, please...), but there's also one in Croydon, too. That is, I suppose, technically still London. It's also worth mentioning to Londoners that you probably won't spontaneously combust if you venture outside of the M25 in search of real farms. Give it a try.

The only way I could inject some colour into
a photograph of an otherwise brown asparagus
field was to wear a pair of ridiculous wellies.

But what to do with your first-of-the-season, freshly picked, still muddy bunch of asparagus? Well, I quickly realised I wasn't going to be able to do a kilo of the stuff justice (it's easy to get carried away when left to your own devices in a field), so after palming two-thirds of it off on my mother and in-laws, I decided I'd stick it with a slab of bloody meat, and a jug of homemade béarnaise.

Any occasional readers of my blog might now have grasped that I don't really 'do' recipes. The idea of having to follow cooking instructions (or any other instructions, for that matter) to the letter makes me want to do something radical to a recipe that could result in a discovery of culinary genius. Or it could just really bugger it up. But you don't know until you try. It probably goes some way to explaining why my own recipes are so frustratingly vague- sorry. Anyway, there are some times where you really do have to put your own inspired whims to one side, and just pay attention. Béarnaise (alongside all other classic, egg or roux-based sauces) is one of those occasions.

I've seen hollandaise (the base recipe for a béarnaise) fiddled about with numerous times. Some variations call for olive oil, others for créme fraíche. Both, in my eyes, are sacrilege. The whole point of a hollandaise is that it's a simple sauce of egg and butter, cut with lemon juice. Start fucking with it, and it stops being hollandaise. So, for a change, it's not my own recipe I'm using, it's Julia Child's. I could have gone down the Escoffier route (a man toted in France as 'the King of chefs, and the chef of Kings,'), but I rather liked the idea of taking heed from some 'crass' Yank who didn't learn to cook until she was 32. Besides which, I own several Julia Child books, and as yet, not one Escoffier one- so not only did this seem like a suitable compromise, it was far easier.

Julia Child's Béarnaise Sauce with One or Two Enlightening (and Superfluous) Comments from Me.

What You Need:

1/8th pint of wine vinegar (or 71ml. Or, even easier, 7 tablespoons). And I used cider vinegar, because it was closer to hand than the white wine vinegar. I told you I was crap at following recipes).
1/8th pint (see above...) of dry white vermouth. You can use dry white wine, but I happened to be making a wet gin martini at the time. Two birds...
1 tbsp chopped shallots (about 2-3 whole ones)
3 tbsp chopped, fresh tarragon- 1 tbsp for the 'essence' part, the rest to be stirred in at the end.
3-4 whole peppercorns, or lashings of freshly ground black pepper.
3 egg yolks from happy chickens. Use the whites to make a gin fizz, or very small meringues.
1oz of cold butter, diced.
4-5oz melted butter.
Salt, and more pepper- to taste.
Lemon, to taste.

Another photo of eggs. And I have plenty more in stock.

What You Do:

1.Boil your vinegar, shallots, vermouth (or white wine), one third of your tarragon, the peppercorns and a pinch of salt to create the 'essence.' Reduce until it's just over two tablespoons in volume, and then stick it in the fridge to chill it (if, like me, you are incredibly impatient. If you're not, and happy to potter around doing other things while it cools slowly, then please, by all means- do).

2. Beat your egg yolks for a couple of minutes with a handheld whisk until they've thickened slightly. Strain in your cooled vinegar mix (if it's still hot, it will scramble your egg yolks beyond repair) using a sieve and a spatula to force out the liquid, and beat.

Whisk

3. Add half of your cold butter cubes, and transfer your mixture into a small, thick bottomed saucepan. Thicken the sauce over an impossibly low heat, whisking gently. Beat in the other half of the cold butter.

4. Do NOT decide that you probably know better than Julia Child, crank the heat up a smidgeon, and allow yourself to be distracted by the cat for five seconds.

Julia Child. With some large poultry.

5. If you do, add a tablespoon or so of cold water, turn the heat down again (to where it should have been),and whisk furiously to try and salvage your béarnaise. Nine times out of ten, this will work- at any stage of the process after the butter cubes have been added. Thank God.

6.Beat in the melted butter, drop by drop. There is a limit to the amount of butter a single egg yolk can physically absorb (Child advises something around the 3oz mark per yolk). If you add too much, your sauce will curdle, so err on the side of caution and do it all very gradually.

Unless your egg yolks are quite sizeable, you're unlikely to need all of your melted butter. But trust your own judgement, and don't forget you can fix your sauce with a little water (or a swift squeeze of lemon juice) if you need to. This is best avoided, as it will thin it out eventually.

This is as photogenic
as it gets.

7. Check your seasoning (feel free to add a small squeeze of lemon juice if the wine isn't quite bringing the acidity you'd like), and stir through your chopped tarragon.

Allow the mixture to cool slightly before you serve it. Hollandaise, béarnaise and other such sauces should be served warm, not hot. If they become overheated, they'll split, thus taking on the appearance of oily, congealed snot. Escoffier will be turning in his grave (though Julia probably won't care much- she seemed a laid back enough character... it's the French you've got to worry about). If you want to make it in advance (and who would blame you? It's terrifying the first time you make it...), then just reheat it very, very gently.

Steak.

While it's cooling, stick your asparagus on a smoking hot griddle (or under a grill, or even better- on a barbecue), naked, with no adornements. You can start fussing with it later in the season, when you've nearly had your fill of the stuff. Cook until it's charred, but still firm. Throw a well-seasoned, oiled steak into a hot pan. Maybe make some chips- but it's worth planning these in advance. I'd casually committed to Heston's triple cooked-affairs, and then realised there was a three-and-a-half hour cooking time involved. So we got double-and-a-half-cooked chips instead.

And if you don't fancy eating your asparagus? Then just take a leaf out of this lady's book, and learn to predict the future with it.

Happy fortune telling,

mrs hunt.x

the chicken post #2- the one with the recipe

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 12:07:00 +0000

I was glad to see last week's impassioned (crazed...?) rant hit a nerve. It's not that I enjoy riling readers up (or ruining their dinners, as was the case with my auntie... sorry about that), more that I was pleased to hear that one or two people might pause to think about what they're buying in future. And I hope I don't come across as too smug when I say that- like my good friend Lucy remarked, none of my post came as any surprise, it's just that it's all so very easy to ignore what you already know. Unless you happen to be best mates with a chicken obsessed food blogger like me, that is. Lucky girl.

So now you know what chicken you should buy, what the hell do you do with a whole one? It's easy to see why people are so tempted by breasts (of the poultry variety, obviously). Anyway... Yes. Breasts. They're boneless, a fairly uniform shape, pale (I'm still flummoxed as to why some people find the dark, juicy parts of the chicken repulsive), and easy to dice. They're also, for the most part, dry and tasteless. Especially when cooked away from the rest of the bird. A whole chicken can seem daunting- there might be the lingering concern you're going to kill someone, and they can seem tricky to carve. But this recipe should convince you that a decent roast chicken is as easy as pie, and possibly tastier. Until I decide to do a pie post, that is.

Moo

As you could imagine, I'm going to tell you to buy a decent chicken. Mine was a Traditional Free Range bird, and cost me £16.50 for two kilos. It wasn't cheap, but it will feed five to six hungry people, with the possibility of a chicken sandwich or two the next day. If you can't justify spending that amount on a bit of poultry, then you can get a Free Range equivalent for around a tenner, or an RSPCA Freedom Food bird for £6.50 onwards. Any lower, and it starts getting mean. An RSPCA bird ensures you a guilt-free dinner.

On a completely unrelated note, I went to a local farm to grab some milk yesterday. It struck me as quite a fun place, and it was nice (and cheaper) to cut out the middle man, and buy all my milk, cream and eggs directly from the farmers themselves. It's not something I'll be able to do everyday, but I will be making a concerted effort to pop by once a week, if only to remind myself that there are some benefits to living outside London... Anyway, the upshot of this, is that there are a lots of farm, egg, and chicken related photos in this post, so I've tried to keep the recipe down to its bare bones for sake of brevity. So here it is:

The feather was there already- I didn't add it for aestheitics.

Butter Stuffed Chicken

Not as indulgent as it sounds, but then you know my thoughts on butter. If you don't, see here.

What You Need:

2kg high welfare chicken
1 leek, trimmed. Or, if there are still some around, perhaps some baby leeks.
2 unwaxed lemons
4-5 decent sized cloves of garlic
New potatoes, scrubbed and halved
A couple of shallots, finely chopped
A handful of mint leaves, roughly chopped
A handful of parsley
A sizeable knob of room-temperature butter (similar in proportions to a child's fist- that's the most apt description I can think of right this minute) for the chicken, and as much as you think you'll need to coat the potatoes.
Watercress and peashoots
A few stems of fresh tarragon
A small glass of white wine
Olive oil
Sea salt and black pepper

What You Do:

1. Remove your chicken from the fridge about an hour before you want to cook it. This allows the meat to reach a level temperature throughout, and means it will cook more evenly- just remember to keep it away from the cat. Preheat your oven to 240 degrees, or as hot as it will go.

2. Bash your garlic cloves (peeled) with the zest of two of your lemons and a hefty pinch of salt until it's a coarse paste. Add your finely chopped parsley, and beat furiously into your room temperature butter.

3. Remove all string from your bird, and score on the underside (see photo) so you can create 'pockets' between the skin and the flesh across the thighs, and on the topside underneath both breasts. Make these pockets carefully, ensuring you don't rip the skin if you can. If you do, it's no real biggie. It just means you'll lose the butter as it melts in the oven. Stuff with your butter mixture, smearing any excess across a couple of well placed gashes you might want to add on non-stuffed parts of the chicken.

Gashes on the underside of the bird...

4. Slice one of your zested lemons in half, and place inside the cavity of the birds with your tarragon. I've chosen this particular herb because it's fresh, clean, and faintly aniseed-y, so works beautifully when the sun's out. But you can stuff anything you like in here- bay, thyme, and onions all work equally well. Quarter your remaining lemon, and scatter across the bottom of a (very) snug-fitting oven tray.

5. Slice your leek lengthways, creating long ribbons about half an inch thick. Don't forget, the white part is the tastiest. Layer these around the lemons in your oven tray, and place your chicken on top. Drizzle the skin with olive oil and indecent amounts of salt and pepper.

Snug

6. Place your chicken in the middle of your oven, and cook at this temperature for twenty minutes. After which, turn down to 200 degrees, opening the door to speed up the process. Your chicken skin should have already turned an enticing golden-brown colour. Don't be tempted (like me) to poke it to see if it's crispy. It will be, and you will burn yourself.

7. Cook for a further hour and fifteen minutes, putting the kettle on for the potatoes after an hour. Get the water boiling, and pour into a pan with a handful (yes- and handful, NOT a pinch) of table salt. Boil your new potatoes until tender, and drain. Leave to steam dry in a sieve or a bowl somewhere while you return the pan to a low flame with a knob of butter, your shallots and your mint leaves. Soften and infuse gently, before adding your potatoes to coat thoroughly.

8. Remove your chicken from the oven, and transfer to a plate with a utensil big enough to handle it... two forks will not work. Pierce the fattest part of the breast with a sharp knife, and check the juices run clear. Skim the fat from the oven tray and remove the lemons without squeezing (the remaining juice will be quite bitter), and test for taste. Feel free to add and cook off a bit of wine, salt and pepper to taste. Pour into an attractive vessel.

9. Rest the bird for ten minutes or so, uncovered. If you cover it, the steam will soften the skin. If you rest it for much longer, it won't stay warm. Now for the carving: place your chicken on a board, and gently tug the legs away from the body. Carve along this fleshy part, and place onto an attractive serving platter of some sort. Now cut along the breastbone, one side or the other. Gently carve the breast away from the body- it should be moist and tender, not tough and dry.

Crackly

10. Dig your fingers in to strip the carcass of the rest of the meat. Fight over who gets the oysters (the slippery, most tender pieces at the back of the bird, above the thigh), and then sulk when you lose the wishbone-pulling. Pile onto your platter with heaps of watercress and peashoots, dressed with a little freshly-squeezed lemon juice, salt and pepper. Serve with your gravy-esque juice, and don't judge anyone who adds a dollop of Hellmans. Where there's a New Potato in sight, it simply has to be done.

Don't forget to keep hold of your carcass- chuck it into a pan of simmering water for a couple of hours with some herbs, a couple of carrots and an onion, and hey presto- stock. Freeze it into an ice cube tray, and pop it out as and when you need it.

The chicken sandwiches are on me,

mrs hunt.x

Bird

the chicken post

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 10:08:00 +0000

It's just occurred to me that the daily act of feeding myself has turned into an ethical minefield; the list of everyday commodities that come tainted by child-slavery, carcinogens or stomach-turning welfare standards is now as long as my arm, and short of going all Good Life on you (admittedly tricky to do, in a two bedroom flat with no garden...) I'm unlikely to get through the day unscathed. But, like good ol' Gwyneth Paltrow, who this week declared life was about finding a balance- somewhere 'between cigarettes and tofu'- I've decided to pick my battles. Which means that, theoretically, I'm OK to sip on a Diet Coke (courtesy of evil conglomerate Coca Cola, purveyor of aspartame-laden soft drinks, and an empire with a human rights record that would make the late Kim Jong Il blush), while I rant about the perils of chicken consumption without feeling like too much of a hypocrite.

Garden: obligatory.

I have a love/hate relationship with chicken. In a restaurant, it's rarely anything other than a dry, overcooked bit of breast meat that's been thrown haphazardly into an unimaginative, bland-looking dish. I judge those who order chicken out quite harshly. I can't help it- I'm a bad person, who's screaming on the inside- 'BE. MORE. INTERESTING.' Which, I appreciate, is grossly unfair. Chicken at home however, is another matter. Given a bit of love, time and attention, it's juicy, flavoursome, and has the potential to be infinitely more interesting. Regardless- chicken has become part of our nation's staple diet- it's cheap, familiar, and versatile. But with its popularity comes a vague, gnawing unease- an awareness that the three quid chicken we find in our supermarket chiller cabinet probably has a more sinister past than we'd care to consider. How many of us have actually stopped to question how an animal can be reared, slaughtered and sold for £3 at a profit? It's an uncomfortable notion, because deep down, we know the deal... the only way this is economically viable is by employing the lowest welfare standards imaginable, and fiddling with the meat a bit along the way. Chickens, you see, are at an unfortunate evolutionary disadvantage: there are limits to how poorly you can treat a cow- how many you can squeeze into a single square foot (none, presumably), and how low the standards you adhere to can be before their meat becomes inedible. Chickens, on the other hand, are conveniently 'stackable', and the regard for their welfare seems to fall of the radar a little. Perhaps there's something fundamentally less 'human' about them that de-sensitizes us to their maltreatment?

However, I do like to think that the great British public are becoming more aware of their food provenance. Since the dawning realisation that a 99p box of burgers might contain one or two (hundred) things that aren't that good for you, there seems to have been a shift in attitudes to food- and it's well overdue. So I'm going to take full advantage, and hope that people will be a bit more receptive than they ordinarily would to the following:

Things You Probably Already Know About Chicken, But Are Choosing To Ignore

...something that may well come across as a deeply pious, occasionally smug rant about bad poultry.

First up, I feel I ought to clarify something. I am not rich. I do not have endless reserves of cash to fritter away on luxury ingredients for seven meals a week. I'm a 26 year old, trying to eke out a career in an unforgiving, over-worked and under-paid industry, who still has to rely on a part-time waitressing job to pay the bills (and for the food shop). So for anyone reading this that thinks having an ethical backbone, or buying quality ingredients to make better-tasting food is only the reserve of the financially secure, you're wrong. It's about making choices- I buy my meat from a butchers. It is, after all, what they're there for. Yes, it's probably more expensive, but I can look at it properly, and ask questions about where it's come from. And if I can avoid putting another penny in Tesco's pocket by doing so, then all the better. In short, if you're on a tight budget consider spending just a bit more on your cut of meat, and then use your leftovers more imaginativley (old blog post plug #1) or go vegetarian for a meal or two (old blog post plug #2).

Now that's out the way, let's get down to the first, and biggest, hurdle to buying decent chicken- the jargon. It's ridiculous. 'Free range'... 'organic'... 'welfare assured'... Which, if any, will leave you with a clear conscience? With a bit of (thoroughly depressing) research, I've cobbled together this- a glossary, of sorts, to help you decode your poultry.

1. Traditional Free-Range/ Total Freedom Chicken:

A happy chicken.

This is as reassuring as it sounds. The chicken breeds will have been chosen for their slow growth, and will only have been put away at night, because having your entire flock decimated by the neighbourhood fox clearly defeats the purpose. These chickens will have lived for at least 80 days before being slaughtered (more than twice as long as it takes intensively farmed chickens to reach market weight), have been in limited flock sizes, and will have been fed proper food. They will also have been dry plucked and hung to improve flavour (more on that in a minute).

2. Free Range:

A confusing term, and not necessarily as happy as it sounds. It's not as strong a guarantee of welfare as Traditional Free Range is, but birds must have been allowed to roam outside for at least half their life. They must have been fed grain, and will have reached at least 58 days in age, in limited flock sizes. So, not bad. There's worse to come.

3. Freedom Foods:

Established by the RSPCA, this label has three standards: free range, organic, and indoor. All are protected by rules that ensure a good diet, comfortable housing, freedom from pain, discomfort and mental suffering, and the ability to display natural behaviour. Like flapping.

4. Organic:

From 'organic' certified farms. This label is no guarantee of decent welfare standards, but sounds posh and considered enough to make you think it is.

Sad Chickens. No amount of Instagram-ing could make them
look happy.

5. Red Tractor:

90% of our chickens are Red Tractor certified. These birds have been subject to independent investigations, and they offer a degree of traceability. But that's as much reassurance as this friendly little logo can provide. Most of these, and all other intensively farmed birds, have never seen daylight- and certainly not outside the confines of their overcrowded 'barns.' I use the inverted commas because the very word 'barn' has the strange habit of conjuring up a delightfully quaint image- one that sadly has no place in this discussion. These birds are kept in flocks approaching 5000 in number (allowing them less than an A4 page of paper in room to manoeuvre) and their wings and beaks are clipped to prevent them from killing one another, as they are naturally inclined to do in such stressful, over-crowded conditions. They are fed on a diet of poor quality grain and antibiotics, and spent most of their time lying in their own excrement- unable to move because they are grossly overweight, and have deformed or broken legs. Besides which, there's not really anywhere for them to go. You know the brown splodges you see on chicken legs if you buy a bird whole? Yeah, they're ammonia burns.

6. Corn Fed:

Don't even get me started. The most that can be said for Corn Fed chickens is that they tend to be free range... but what good is that when you've been forced to eat so much grain that your legs have broken underneath you?

So, now you're suitably informed (not to mention disgusted, and possibly a little depressed...), what should you be looking for in a good bird?

Skin: Chicken skin should be dry, and a creamy yellow colour. This means the bird has been dry-plucked and hung. Slimy, wet skin indicates the bird has been wet-plucked- as have 95% of all British poultry. Feathers have been ripped from the body with jets of water, which then leave moisture-filled holes that are a haven for bacteria. This, in turn, means the bird cannot be hung, for fear of contamination. Dry-plucked, well-hung (snigger) birds mean crispy skin, and tasty, tender flesh.

Meat: The flesh should be a golden yellow colour (not the jaundiced, sickly yellow of a corn-fed bird, or the pink and wet of an intensively farmed chicken). It should be free from purple splodges, as these only occur when an animal has been traumatised and the blood capillaries burst. If you're OK with the idea of eating a terrified chicken so long as it tastes alright, then you should know that this results in a flesh that's as tough and chewy as old boots. There should also be a decent layer of fat under the skin.

Natural...?

Feet: These need to look well-worked (a good indication that they've actually ventured outside), and free from those delightful brown splodges we talked about.

Eggs: Because they come from chickens. Pale yellow yolks mean a sad chicken, with a miserable diet. Buy local, if you can.

Bones: These should be dense, not weak and splintery.

Size: Talking about breasts, specifically. If they're the size of dearly departed Lolo Ferrari's, we can be fairly certain something untoward has occurred- either gross over-feeding, added water or, most likely, both.

That's it- I'm done. This isn't supposed to be a one-woman crusade, and I'm under no illusions that I'm about to single-handedly alter the mindset of the chicken-eating masses. You'll notice I haven't included dozens of grisly, harrowing photographs; I'm not trying to scaremonger, just enlighten. And if you can't have a whinge on something as self-indulgent as your own food blog, when can you, eh? Besides, if my self-satisfied rantings get just one person to think twice the next time they pick up a 79p box of eggs, or a packet of slimy 'Economy' chicken breasts, then I'm enough of a martyr to say it's been worthwhile ;)

In a couple of days, I'll have a good roast chicken recipe for you, but in the meantime, here's your reward for staying with me on this one... Enjoy.

mrs hunt.x

a very british spring

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 21:01:00 +0000

So, the weather's shit.

Thanks to the combined efforts of both the Daily Mail and my Facebook news feed (along with the actual weather), this isn't something that's escaped my notice. And it seems we've all been left feeling rather cheated- I mean, we know the deal. Our grim, overcast little corner of the world is hardly famed for its balmy climes, but I think we collectively draw the line at freak April snow storms and sub-zero wind-chill factors. My own personal grievance with this disgusting excuse for a Spring resides more in the fact that 90% of my wardrobe is comprised of flimsy sun dresses that I'd probably be sectioned for wearing outside (only because of the temperature, not because a large number of them feature cats and polka dots quite heavily). But, every cloud has a silver lining- even these bastards. Mine just happens to be risotto.

Cats and Polka Dots

I like risotto. I don't love it- nine times out of ten, if I'm going for starch, I'll opt for pasta instead. I suppose I've always felt there's an inherent conflict at work within dishes like risotto: they pair magically with all of the fresh flavours we associate so heavily with Spring and Summer (courgettes, broad beans, asparagus...), but its very nature means that it's the last thing you'll find me craving on a warm day. If we ever bloody get one. But at times like this- when we're getting the first few Spring vegetables through (well, give it a couple of weeks), but the weather's still abysmal (or teasing us with blue skies, sunshine and two degree temperatures), it couldn't suit my mood better.

Luke- a man that spends too
much time on his hair, and
too little learning to cook
for himself.

Its seasonal suitability aside, my reasons for cobbling together a risotto were threefold. Firstly, the house was almost entirely bereft of food, and quite simply, I couldn't be arsed to venture out to buy more. It would have involved both getting dressed and braving the aforementioned rubbish weather conditions. Secondly, I had a jug of damn tasty chicken stock languishing in the fridge that was in danger of being either thrown out by my husband, or mistaken for soup. I figured I really ought to put it to some use. Finally, on the Monday, I received a particularly vitriolic and threatening message from my good friend Luke, that went something like this:

'So, your blog inspired me to make a risotto this evening, except I'm terrible at cooking risotto, which means you fucked up my dinner. You owe me one risotto. You have 24 hours to respond.'

I chose to ignore the fact that, at no point in the course of our friendship have I ever proffered any risotto-cooking advice that would then result in my culpability when it went tits up, but instead decided to use it as an opportunity to put this together:

A Fail Safe Guide To Risotto Cooking That Even Tools Like Luke Can't Cock Up

The beauty of this recipe is that it serves as a stodgy, starchy base for anything seasonal/to hand that you'd care to throw in. It goes without saying that some things work infinitely better than others, and I personally tend to keep my risottos vegetarian (with the occasional exception made for a decent shellfish version). I find that clumps of meat tend to screw with the otherwise uniform, velvety texture of the dish, and Italian cuisine has always been a dab hand at making you forget there's no meat involved. It was something British soldiers often remarked upon in Naples during WW2- the complexity of flavour in seemingly simple dishes such as this disguise the lack of protein, which is fortunate when the only protein you can get your hands on is rats and dogs, as was the case in heavily-rationed southern Italy. And we thought horse meat was bad.

A basic risotto won't cost you much cash, or need flash, hard-to-procure ingredients. All it takes is patience and decent seasoning. It's one of the easiest dishes in the world to concoct- unless, of course, you begin by boiling your risotto rice. Which, as it turns out, was where Luke was going wrong...

Risi e Bisi

... A Venetian-style risotto that you can tart up accordingly.

What You Need:

A rice that's almost too
prettily-packaged to merit using

180g Arborio risotto rice. Other varieties are available, but this is decent value, creamy, and less likely to overcook than some others (like Vialone Nano). Carnaroli is regarded as the best, if you're feeling purist.
2 tbsp olive oil
2 finely chopped shallots
1 finely chopped garlic clove
50g of butter, cubed and stored in the fridge until use.
750ml of hot chicken or vegetable stock
175ml-ish of white wine- whatever you have to hand (of semi-decent quality- no Lambrini, please...)
A small handful of mint leaves, 3/4 of them roughly chopped, but leaving a few to throw into your stock.
A slightly larger handful of parsely, roughly chopped (including stems)
1 lemon
A handful of Parmesan shavings
A handful of frozen peas, defrosted.
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

What You Do:

1. First, gently heat your stock, adding the intact portion of your mint leaves and a small squeeze of the lemon juice.

2. Heat your olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pan. Add your shallots, and proceed to soften at a painfully slow pace, adding your chopped garlic after five minutes or so. The two should remain pale (never golden), and turn opaque. The longer you can spare for this step, the sweeter and more beautiful they will taste- I'd say that fifteen minutes is the bare minimum you should have them frying away gently for. This bit's called soffrito, if you fancy learning a new word.

If you didn't know what garlic looked like, I daresay you
wouldn't be reading a pretentious foodie blog. But here's
a picture anyway.

3. Add your risotto rice of choice, and turn over with a spatula or wooden spoon a few times, coating thoroughly in the oil. Cook like this for a few minutes, stirring frequently, until they too turn faintly opaque.

4. Pour a small glass of white wine, and drink it absent mindedly whilst you carry out step three. Then replace it with the one you need to complete step four. Throw this one in the pan, and top up your glass once again.

5. Continue to cook very gently until the wine has been absorbed (the stuff in the risotto, that is. Not the stuff in your hand). Then, proceed with your stock- one ladle at a time, waiting patiently until each dose has been absorbed before adding another. Stir slowly but frequently throughout.

... the same probably goes for shallots.

...That should take at least 20 minutes (but potentially more, depending on the absorbency of your rice variety, the stirring, the day of the week, the lunar position of Mercury... anything). Go by instinct- just don't rush it, don't saturate it with stock, and don't leave it unattended to fiddle with your wine/telly/significant other.

6. Once it's all absorbed, turn off the heat, add your cold butter cubes, the peas, parmesan, mint, parsley and check for seasoning. Pop the lid back on. Now you can fiddle with your wine/telly/significant other, as your risotto needs a few moments for the 'mantecatura-ing.' That's the bit where it goes all creamy. It's also snazzy new Italian word #2- we're practically bilingual now.

7. Serve with a rocket salad, an optional squeeze of lemon juice, and more of that wine, if there's any left. This should do four as a starter, or two as a main meal.

Variations

Your possibilities are endless. But here are a handful to be getting along with:

Wild Mushroom: add in with the soffrito at the beginning, just after the garlic. Ceps, morels, and everyday chesnut work especially well- clean them with a dry brush first (not in water), and don't crowd the pan when cooking, and you'll be on to a winner.

Courgette ribbons. Not for present wrapping or hair-tying.
Just eating.

Beetroot: Turns vivid pink, and thereby looks amazing. Again, add your cubed, cooked (not pickled) beetroot just after the garlic.
Courgette and Broad Bean: For the height of summer. Prepare ribbons of courgette with a potato peeler, and cook oh-so briefly in butter, pepper and lemon zest for a minute- no more- just as you're ladling in your last dribble of stock. Add to the pan alongside your peas.
Butternut Squash: Roast cubes of squash in olive oil for 15-20 minutes, and mash half of them. Stir this puree through the risotto at the end, and then scatter the remaining lumps artistically over the top of the finished article.

Buon Apetito! (Thanks, Google Translate...)

mrs hunt.x

A risotto so heavily-garnished with salad., it's barely worth putting a
picture in. Sorry about that.

middle-class carb loading

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 15:43:00 +0000

Thirty days ago, I gave up bread and potato. Anyone fortunate enough to have endured five minutes in my company will have no doubt picked up on this; it's probably something to do with my constant, slightly smug lamentations that run something along the lines of 'Oh, gnocci! How I would love some gnocci right now...', or 'How I do miss freshly toasted sourdough.' I always had a sneaking suspicion I was irritatingly middle-class about my eating habits, and this has all but confirmed it... unsurprisingly, I am yet to crave a chip butty. If I'm honest, I don't even like bread and potato that much- I'd have been doing myself a bigger favour by giving up gin for Lent, but that's a bit like asking Frankie Boyle to give up the 'c' word- it's in no danger of happening any time soon, and life would be all the more boring for it.

I could have siezed the opportunity by transforming my body into a starch-free temple for forty days and nights, but there's little fun in that (well, Miley Cyrus seems pretty damn miserable these days...) and to put it bluntly, I just don't have the willpower. Instead, I tried to start thinking more imaginatively about the carbs I use to bulk up meals, and if you do the same, you'll probably realise that you too have been falling for the same handful (in one form or another) day in, day out. There's not necessarily anything wrong with the oldies- a potato has endless scope for reinvention, and you just can't mop up your roast lamb gravy with a yorkshire. It's wrong. So we use big hunks of doorstop bread instead. But for the sake of variety, let's mix things up a bit with:

Five Alternative Carbs that are Marginally More Interesting Than Your Average Potato

1. Polenta

POLPO- A Venetian Cookbook (Of Sorts)- is a posession of mine that is now so heavily coated in the grime, oil and unidentifiable, slightly crusted splashes that are the mark of any good cookbook, some recipes are barely legible. To borrow a quote from them (in the hope that I don't get sued- I still haven't gotten around to working out what copyright laws really entail...), polenta is 'a sort of savoury porrige, a bit like semolina, that can be served as a gloop, or set, sliced and grilled.' Which sounds 'rustic' at best, and 'hideous' if we choose to be more honest about things. Made from maize, it's cheap as chips, but- as promised- a bit more interesting. Though seeing as it was the staple foodstuff of European peasantry for a few centuries, it can hardly be described as middle-class. Its taste is hard to describe for the uninitiated- it lies somewhere between starchy cream and olive oil, which probably doesn't serve as a particularly appetising or illuminating description.

Polenta is also one of the few foodstuffs that have an easy-cook variety I feel I can happily advocate (aforementioned 'middle-class-ness' often prevents me from doing this with other alternatives, but this is no Pot Noodle). Polenta Svelta- the instant stuff- will save you a good forty minutes of dull clockwise-stirring (or anti-clockwise- just make sure you don't mix and match, or it'll be as lumpy as gruel- and this dish needs all the help it can get in the aesthetics department). Just follow the pack instructions- without skimping on the salt- and you'll have yourself wet polenta. Excellent with a few shavings of choice parmesan. If you fancy something more solid that perhaps appears more 'palatable', allow it to set in a well-oiled (or cling-filmed) dish so it's about an inch deep. In the fridge is fine. Then slice, place rough-side down first on a smoking hot griddle until it boasts some attractive striations, and warm through in the oven for 4-5 minutes.

2. Roasted Butternut Squash

The sweet, fleshy interior of a butternut squash is a wonderful thing. It marries so well with a huge variety of flavours, and can bring a bit of balance to any salinous, spicy or sour dish in an instant. If you want the unadorned version, just heat some olive oil in an oven tray at 180 degrees while you peel your squash (and when I say carefully, I don't intend to sound patronising. It's simply because I've nearly lost fingers to these buggers...), and slice into something appealing. I like crescents, rough, mouth-sized cubes, or occasionally parsnip-shaped slivers. You can roast your squash with a bit of salt and pepper, or a well-thought out mix of... cumin, sesame seeds, dried chilli, harissa, paprika, almonds, apple, pancetta, cinnamon, ginger, rosemary, thyme, sage, honey, coriander seeds, pear, garlic, chorizo, or maple syrup... though not all at once. That would taste... confused.

But butternut squash is only in season from September through to late January, so you'll have to wait. Sorry.

3. Celeriac Mash

In season for just a few more weeks, celeriac is a good alternative to mashed potato. Or, you could mix the two if you happen to have a dodgy-looking potato languishing in a corner somewhere. Or perhaps a couple of gnarly old carrots. Because it's mash- it doesn't need to look pretty, and you can throw anything you like it.

Cover your celeriac with milk, chuck in a few peeled garlic cloves, and simmer until tender. Then drain the milk, keeping it handy somewhere. Whizz with a hand blender if you have one, or go old-school and do it with a manual masher- though the end result won't be as smooth unless you really commit to the job... At this point, you need to add in enough of the milk to get the consistency you want, enough butter to prompt a coronary by merely glancing at the stuff, and then some flavour. Salt and pepper, obviously- but you could add in a bit of grated nutmeg and powdered ginger if you fancy something spiced and warming, or wholegrain mustard- perhaps even a little apple chutney, if you're hankering after something a little less heady, but retaining that punch.

4. Interesting Rice

I think it goes without saying that I do not mean Uncle Ben's here. Try as it might, regardless of what exotic ingredients they're chucking in it's always going to have the bland, slightly metallic tang of microwaved rice. Learn to do it properly, on a hob, and you'll never look back. Maybe it's because I threw my microwave out years ago, vowing to never use one again, that I'm averse. Or maybe it's because it just tastes crap. Who knows.

Brown rice, with a gratuitous sugar mouse.

There's a trick with rice, and I don't mind admitting that it's something I've only really gotten to grips with in the last year... Rinse it first, thoroughly. This gets rid of any excess starch. Then bring it to the boil with twice the amount of HEAVILY SALTED water, or- even better- stock, and a few bits thrown in for good measure. Use your imagination- bay leaves, lime zest, peppercorns, cardammon pods- anything you think might compliment your protein. Stir ONCE, and leave it bubbling away on a medium to high heat. You'll need a snug-fitting lid, and a heavy based pan, and they'll ensure that you don't end up with stodgy, singed grains at the end of it all. It should take around 15-20 minutes, at which point just remove the lid, fluff up with a fork and check the liquid levels- there should be just a touch left. Replace the lid, and turn off the heat. Leave it to steam this way for another 5-10 minutes (but it will stay warm for another hour or so like this).

Try coconut rice- just replace half of your water or stock with coconut milk, and grate in some creamed coconut. Or make some fancy garnishes- fried garlic and shallots are always a winner, as are pistachio nuts, coriander, friend mint leaves, freshly fried chilli, sultanas and raisins. And think about the type of rice you're using too- I love brown rice, as it adds a nice nutty dimension to a meal.

So there you go- pimped up rice.

5. Beans

Beans, beans, good for the heart... We all know the rest. But it shouldn't put you off eating them, because they're so damn versatile. Cold and miserable? Have a Tuscan Sausage and Bean stew. Basking in the sun? Unlikely, but have a Borlotti, courgette and lemon salad with shaved Parmesan anyway. It'll make it feel more like summer, even when you're in the midst of a freak snow-storm, I promise.

I'm not going to bore you with endless bean recipes. For one, because I plan on sharing my aforementioned Tuscan Stew with you at some point anyway. If you want recipes now, I suggest buying POLPO's book. But primarily, it's because beans are something you can be instinctive with- follow your tastebuds, and you'll probably cobble together something just lovely.

Happy carb-loading,

mrs hunt.x

eating in the garden of england

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 19:21:00 +0000

Last weekend, the husband and I celebrated Ten Years Of Not Killing Each Other. For those of you that know either of us, you'll understand that this is no minor achievement- not because either of us are that way inclined in the general sense, just because we both know how to wind each other up (and happen to be rather good at it). To mark the occasion of what since our wedding has been called our 'fake' anniversary, he begrudgingly agreed to arrange something suitably romantic for us to do- on the strict understanding that from this year forward we would limit ourselves solely to the one 'proper' anniversary. I agreed, in the full knowledge that by this time next year I'll have badgered him into conceding another one.

The upshot of this is that we spent last weekend holed up at the Chapel Down Vineyard in Kent. We're both big fans of British wines, for obvious reasons. We're not xenephobic, it's just that people seem to forget that we Brits have been producing the stuff since the Norman conquest- most notably in this little corner of Kent. And we do it very well- the chalk that runs under the Champagne region also lies underneath south-east England's own vineyards, and our cool (cold) and moist (miserable) weather makes the growing conditions for whites and sparkling wines in particular, ideal. We consistently beat French and Italian counterparts in blind taste tests. Arguably in most cases (Chapel Down's Union Red being a notable exception) our reds leave a little to be desired, but this is a work in progress.

As it turns out, Kent isn't called 'the garden of England' for nothing- being happily (ish...) ensconced in leafy Buckinghamshire, I honestly thought Kent would look much the same. But it really is one of those places where you feel a warm, slightly patriotic glow inside- something I normally only experience perched in the shadow of Big Ben by one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, or else strolling along Embankment. Yes, it really is all rather pretty. It's also quite a trek; being a 25 year old (for another week or so, anyway) non-driver with a poor grasp of regional geography, means I remain resolutely under the impression that everywhere in the UK is but a short hop, skip or a jump away by car. Which, as it turns out, is not the case. So I write this in the full knowledge that most readers of this blog won't find a spare two days any time soon in which to squeeze in a Kent-and-back roadtrip, but if you do, I can heartily recommend it.

A horse. It's sad, because
it doesn't like lasagne.

So, nestled in the picturesque village of Tenterden, sits Chapel Down Vineyard- 23 acres of lush vines. Unless you visit in early March, in which case all you'll see is what appears to be field upon field of dead sticks. Nevertheless, the magic wasn't entirely lost on me. On the edge, sits The Swan English Restaurant.

At the risk of sounding xenephobiconce again, there just aren't enough of these. I love our cultural heritage and the impact it's had on our cuisine as much as (or perhaps more) than the next person- I just think we ought to be buying and eating more of our own local produce. It's not as easy as you'd believe... we live in a culture where it's simply too easy to pick up a couple of steaks, some courgettes and some carrots from our local supermarket, without thinking about their provenance. It's not until you bother checking that it emerges they're from Romania, Morocco and Spain respectively. Our supply chains are now so long that we no longer instinctively know what's in season, and we keep accidentally eating horse. For our wedding back in 2009, my husband and I painstakingly sourced every ingredient from within the UK, with only three exceptions- lemons, pepper and rum. Dear God, was it hard, but that's what we care about, so we did it. Similarly, all of the prime ingredients at The Swan are sourced from within a 25-mile radius- something more restaurants should by trying to do.

Enough of the soap box shenanigans, and more about this restaurant. Because I can almost positively declare it to be the best establishment I have eaten at within this country (or maybe joint first- the Hand and Flowers in Marlow really is rather good, too). Bold claims indeed, eh? Now my menu choices were hampered somewhat by my ridiculous self-imposed bread and potato-free Lent. You'd think the weight would be falling off me, but I seem to have replaced both banned substances with gin. I had to forgo the smoked mackerel with beetroot on the basis that it probably came with bread, and resisted the pan-seared Rye Bay scallops on the basis that my good friend (and talented chef) Billy cooks them for me an indecent amount, so I opted for the salad of poached native lobster with pomegranate vinaigrette. Which, as it turns out, also has potato in it. I exercised saintly levels self control and proceeded to pick through it with a fork, which was a shame as it a) looked rather pretty, and b) made me look like a complete arse. However, this did nothing to dampen my spirits. The sweet, barely-poached hunks of lobster came stacked atop a bed of nutty, ripe avocado and the aforementioned (but very nice, I'm sure...) potato, doused liberally with the refreshingly tart vinaigrette and a smattering of pomegranate seeds. It was so thoughtfully balanced, and visually stunning. Sadly I have no photographic evidence, as I'd dropped my phone in a glass (of water, not gin), two days before...

One of various stock images of Chapel Down, to make up
for the fact that I don't have any appropriate ones of my own.

Husband opted for the devilled lamb's kidneys on soda bread, which were stupendous. I'm a great lover of all things offal, so was tempted to order it myself in spite of the noted (and significant) bread content. Instead I decided to pout petulantly until I was afforded half of his. The kidneys were cooked to retain their rosy, velevety inner flesh, without veering on rubbery as they often can. The flavour of kidneys certainly packs a punch, and they aren't for everyone- I find devilling is the best way of dealing with them, as not much else will stand up to their earthiness otherwise. It was executed beautifully.

Seeing as I'd started with fish, I felt tempted by the honey-roast pork belly, smoked bacon white pudding and wholegrain mustard, but the crab mousse-stuffed Dover Sole with leek gratin was screaming at me from the page. The fish was so sweet, and so delicate, the leek gratin adding a welcome salty crunch and splash of colour to the dish. The Husband had wild-mushroom stuffed Guinea Fowl and creamed spinach- something I was dubious about, given that I'm yet to try a version of the bird in a restaurant that isn't dry as chaff. It wasn't- it was both rich and moist, and the gaminess of the flesh was complimented by the nuttiness of the mushroom stuffing. We probably didn't need to order two sides to accompany our meals, but we did anyway. Hell, we were celebrating! And what better way to do it than with braised red cabbage and lobster macaroni cheese. Yes, lobster. In mac and cheese. I don't mind admitting that until this moment, I was a macaroni virgin. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and I'm fairly certain I haven't missed out on much, because it probably doesn't taste like this anywhere else. So rich, so indulgent, and so very, very wrong-sounding. But I can tentatively say that this, washed down with a chilled glass of Chapel Down's Bacchus, could justify the 200 mile round trip on its own.

It's worth mentioning that the
restaurant interior is probably one
of the best I've seen. If you care.

And so, to the pudding- after a sizeable period of rest, during which I thought my heart might give up on me (it's worth bearing in mind that we were eating in a vineyard, and it's safe to say grossly irresponsible quantities of wine were consumed). We had the orange frangipane. It was good, Very good, in fact. The only problem is, when you also have a dark chocolate parfait with roasted peanuts, salted caramel and popping candy, all else pales in comparison. To put it quite simply, this pudding was the greatest I have ever consumed, and words simply won't do it justice. I care nothing for how 'faddy' or 'overdone' people might argue salted caramel now is, because to me it's nothing short of alchemical genius, and the best thing since sliced bread.

I'm sorry for the hefty post. I hadn't, until now, delved into the world of blogging reviews, and it seems glaringly obvious why- the lack of editorially-imposed word limit means it's rather easy to get carried away. But there you have it- that was The Swan at Chapel Down. I implore all of you to start considering buying British not just for your food (I think I got that message across already), but for your wine too. They're a friendly bunch in this corner of the world, and I'm sure they'd be glad to see you. However, if you don't feel like making quite such an arduous journey, their wines are now stocked at M&S and Waitrose.

Bottoms up,

mrs hunt.x

almost-spring cake

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 16:48:00 +0000

See? Sun. Photographic evidence of sun.

Yesterday, something peculiar happened: I went to post a letter. For me, that alone is rather unusual- I still have a stack of Christmas cards (addressed and stamped) languishing in a kitchen drawer, along with two lovingly-penned letters to a friend in Australia that are now so outdated that I'll have to write a third. Which I'll probably forget to post. But putting my own anecdotal scattiness aside, I went to post a letter, and it wasn't cold. Windy, certainly. Balmy? No. But it wasn't cold. I was in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms- inappropriate on several of levels- firstly, it was two o'clock. Secondly, they had sheep on. And I was wearing them in public. Thirdly, it was, and still is, February. I should have been cold. But it seems it's nearly spring... and we can all feel it; there's a contagious and palpable uplift in the national mood that gains momentum with every additional minute of daylight that's creeping in. However, judging by the ominous grey of today's sky (not to mention the return to near sub-zero temperatures this morning), I'd say we're not quite there yet. There's no spring lamb, no asparagus, and no new Game of Thrones on the telly- because what heralds the advent of Spring quite like the annual arrival of more bloodshed, pelts and dragons than you can shake a stick at?

So what am I eating? I'm bored of stews, and done with stodgy steamed puddings. And because I haven't given up cake for Lent (instead I opted for bread AND potatoes- what was I thinking??), I'm eating this. A lot.

Almond St Clements Cake

... or essentially a tarted-up Lemon Drizzle.

This recipe has come about after years of tweaking, adjusting, and screw-ups. A lemon Drizzle was the first of many things I learned to cook with my mum, and is quick, easy and relatively fuss-free to cobble together. It won't win any awards for gastronomic originality, but it might just pinch first place in a quaint rural bake sale of some sort. I can't say for sure, I've never tried.

What You Need:

4 oz (or 113.398g... this one works better in ounces, it seems) caster sugar
4 oz salted butter, at room temperature
3 oz self-raising flour
1 oz ground almonds (or for a nut-free version, just up the flour measurement to a full 4 oz)
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
2 eggs from happy chickens
3 unwaxed lemons- you're using them for the zest too, so unwaxed is infintely better
2 oranges
1 tbsp (or more) of milk or cream
3 tbsp (or more) of icing sugar
A sprinkling of poppy seeds

What You Do:

1. Preheat your oven to 160 degrees fan, or 180 degrees otherwise. It's just occurred to me that I never give a gas mark instruction- that's primarily because I've never used one, nor would I have a clue how to. Sorry.

2. Grease a 7" tin (with a removable base, or else you'll be gouging the finished cake out with your hands, which is never classy), and line with baking parchment or greaseproof paper. I find it helps if you grease the base, and then stick the paper on. It makes trimming easier.

Butter and zest. Lots of zest.

3. Cream your butter with the zest of two of your lemons, and one of your oranges. You'll need the rest for the 'drizzle' part. Beat for at least two minutes.

NB. I'm lucky enough to have a big shiny Kitchen Aid, which my husband bought me in lieu of paying the rent one month. No joke- they aren't cheap, but they make light work of exhausting tasks like this. Working on the assumption that most people don't own one, a handheld electric mixer (about a tenner from Argos) works well. Only resort to using a wooden spoon if you're either some kind of masochist, or looking to offset the calories from actually eating the cake itself.

Not a noteworthy picture, but just one to illustrate what
I mean when I say like yellow whipped cream. Because that
doesn't really paint a very nice picture.

4. Gradually add your caster sugar, and continue to beat. I really can't emphasise enough just how important this step is: it's the foundation of the entire cake. Do it carelessly or hastily, and your cake will be as solid and appetising as a breeze block. The process allows the sugar crystals to beat air bubbles into the fat, creating the light, airy sponge that's the mark of any good drizzle cake. Cream for at least five minutes- the mixture needs to be significantly paler, and almost have the appearance of a yellow whipped cream.

5. Add your eggs, one at a time. If your mixture looks as though it might split or curdle, add in a spoon of sifted flour between each egg.

6. Sift your self-raising flour (even if it says something along the lines of 'No Need To Sift!' on the front- it's always worthwhile), and add your bicarbonate of soda. This gives the cake an extra bit if oomph.

Lemons.

7. Fold in gently using a metal spoon or spatula (both minimise air-loss in the mixture, whereas a chunky wooden spoon is more likely to knock the bubbles out).

8. Add in your ground almonds, and fold in gently. Again, your aim is to retain as much air as possible, so do this lovingly.

9. Add a splash of milk or cream to your mixture- just enough to loosen it so that it falls from a spoon when nudged. Do this gradually-you can't take it away once it's in.

10. Place in the centre of your oven for 25-35 minutes. I appreciate that these timings are a bit vague, but it all depends on your oven, the mixture, your tin... I would suggest spending a fiver on an oven thermometer, because oven calibrations are nearly always wrong. Check it at the twenty-two minute mark- and not before! Opening the oven any earlier will cause the temperature to drop, your cake will sink, and you'll be the laughing stock of whichever provincial cake competition you've entered it into.

The cake is done once a skewer comes out without any wet batter clinging to it. Mine took twenty-seven minutes.

CAKE

11. While it's in the oven, crack on with your syrup and the icing. Squeeze the juice of two lemons and one orange into a bowl, and grate in the zest of one lemon and one orange. Add caster sugar- a teaspoonful at a time- until you get the desired level of sweetness. I like mine quite tart, because it has the sweet sponge and the icing sugar to contend with, but it's up to you. Stir to make sure the sugar crystals dissolve.

12. For the icing, place your icing sugar in a bowl, and squeeze the juice of you remaining lemon inside. Mix feverishly until a paste forms- it should be quite thick, and retain a bright white colour. Adjust as necessary with lemon juice or more sugar to get it just right.

13. Once your cake is out of the oven, prick it all over with a cocktail stick, and drizzle the... err... drizzle... over in stages. Wait for the first lot to soak in before continuing. How much you use is up to you- I love a sticky, wet cake, so I go all in. Leave your cake to cool for a few minutes until you can handle the tin safely, and remove the outer ring

MORE CAKE

14. Once the cake has cooled, drizzle your icing over in a way that strikes you as attractive. Top with a sprinkling of poppy seeds, and then try to refrain from eating it entirely. Saving a slice or two for the cat is always nice.

Happy Almost-Spring,

mrs hunt.x

an ode to butter

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 00:33:00 +0000

In case it had escaped your notice, this is not a diet blog. It's not even a healthy eating blog- it's just an eating blog. To me, food isn't just fuel- whatever 'healthy eating gurus' such as Gillian McKeith et al. say. It's worth pointing out that I also find the idea of taking nutritional advice from someone who looks so haggard and, frankly, miserable, absurd. Food is there to be enjoyed- there's nothing more satisfying than sharing a beautiful meal with people you care about, and the contentment that follows- a feeling that all is right with the world. A feeling, presumably, that you won't quite achieve from tucking into Quorn (other pretend mince is probably available...), washed down with a side of pallid, marge-coated bread.

Now seems as good an opportunity as any to embark on a bit of a rant. Not about chocolate this time- it's 'health foods' (note the inverted commas) that are in the firing line. By now, most faddy January diets are out the window. After three weeks surviving solely on maple syrup or fruit juice, people tend to slip all too easily back into the same food routines, and fall for the same old 'health' traps- time and time again. So with Lent beginning tomorrow, I figured I would use the chance to compile a guide to:

Things You Think You Should Be Eating That Are Actually Really Bad For You, And What You Should Probably Swap Them For

For the sake of credibility, I should mention these aren't just my musings; I haven't simply decided that since I happen to detest the taste of margarine, we should all avoid it. Steve Harrison, a very close friend of mine, (whose job title I've never actually managed to nail down- the Chandler Bing of the fitness/nutrition world, if you will...) has long been indulging me with lengthy rants about how us Brits in particular have food so very wrong. And having done a bit more research of my own, I'm inclined to agree. I don't just mean our capacity for over-cooking steaks, or our nationwide obsession with microwave meals- and all that's without even mentioning the horse meat. I'm talking about the so-called 'health-food' industry, something we spend millions of pounds on each year.

And so, here are just three things you could try giving up for Lent, if not permanently, and what you should be eating instead- alternatives that billions of pounds, and many years of marketing have gone into convincing you are bad for your health.

Fake Health Food #1:

Margarine

Can I put this here? Will I
get sued? We'll see, I suppose.

.. and other veg oils, for that matter. We've only had the technology to extract oils from crops (and thereby make margarine or other synthetic spreads) for 150 years. It's not something our bodies are well adapted to breaking down, and without sounding like a hypochondriac, can cause cell mutations, and clog arteries. It's also been linked to skin cancer. But more importantly- and something the foodie side of me is more preoccupied with than anything else- it tastes crap. It smells crap. It has none of the beauty or richness of butter, and will always be a pale substitute.

And What You Should Replace It With...

Well, BUTTER. Obviously.

It tastes... like butter. Which is the point, surely? It also contains Lecithin, antioxidants, vitamin A, vitamin E, Selenium (all good things- google them if you don't believe me), and cholesterol. Which is also good. Yes, good. Flora and the like may spend a great deal of time and money telling you otherwise, but it's all rubbish. See here, here and here, and spread the word.

Fake Health Food #2:

Soya/Tofu

Don't even get me started. Again, I have the foodie objection to proffer (it's tasteless, has the texture of a thirty year old rubber band, and looks about as appetising as one too...), but for me, it's far more complex an argument than just this.

I won't go into huge detail about the legal wranglings of Monsanto (a company that have patented 'soy' and sue anyone that tries to grow and sell it themselves), but it's well worth reading up on if you're interested- if only to hear about Oprah putting them in their place like only she could. For now, let's just focus on the nutritional side: The fermented stuff- the staple of Asian cuisine for thousands of years- is lovely. Go for it. Who doesn't love soul-soothing Miso every once in a while? But the processed, unfermented stuff that's used in cheap fake meat brands and other processed foods? No. Avoid it like the plague, because it interferes with digestion and pancreatic function, and contains high levels of aluminium, which is toxic to the nervous system and the kidneys. Since mine are pretty busy filtering copious amounts of gin from my system, I wouldn't want to add to the burden any further, even if the stuff did taste half decent. I don't know about anyone else.

And What You Should Replace It With...

Meat. Lots and lots of meat. Or fish. Just protein, really- it's all good for you, and if you genuinely do want to lose weight, what you should be basing your diet on. Ignore the Daily Mail's ramblings about steak leading to premature death/unemployment/the end of 'Great' Britain as we know it, because again, it seems to come down to some very successful indoctrination (not to mention bad journalism). Meat is good.

And if you're vegetarian? Well, just stick to the natural, unprocessed stuff.

Fake Health Food #3:

Cereal

Sticking a moderately attractive, skinny brunette in a nice red dress on the front does not a health food make. In fact, if there was to be an award for 'the most unhealthy product to have somehow permeated the mass market by pretending to be healthy' (it's catchy, give me that) then 'healthy' cereal brands would be neck and neck with margarine. I'm not saying they're worse than soy, I'm merely noting that both have been inordinately successful at convincing 99% of the British populace that they're good for us.

Surviving on a diet that is two-thirds grain based (if you're mental enough to try eating cereal for two of your three meals a day, as the marketing push of a popular brand would have you doing, that is), which in itself is 77% carbohydrate, and 1/4 sugar is clearly not going to do you any good. That much is obvious. We need to get our heads around the idea that whilst cereal isn't excessively bad for you- it does have vitamins and fibre- it's no health food, and should be regarded as a treat in much the same way sweets or crisps would be.

And What You Should Replace It With...

A fry-up. The works- egg, bacon, black pudding, sausage, mushroom, tomato... all cooked in butter or olive oil. Eggs are one of the best things you can be giving your body, and the fats here are all good. If you really feel like being healthy, forgo the toast and baked beans.

So I hope that brightens up your February- or at least assuages any lingering post Christmas/failed diet January guilt.

And if not, next week I'll be doing cake. That'll make everything better.

mrs hunt.x

pork: the trilogy

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 13:44:00 +0000

Red wine obligatory

All the best things come in threes...Coppola's The Godfather, Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, fun-sized 90's boyband 911 ('Bodyshaking' anyone?)... and my pork, which gave every indication of being never ending. But a trilogy it is- for this is my third and final austerity cook, pulled-pork recipe. You have my word. This recipe will finish off any of the leftovers, and can be stuck at the back of the freezer until you feel ready to face the remnants of your pork shoulder once more.

And so in a bid to see away the last of my meat, I turned to that reliable bastion of leftovers- the humble pie. You could, I suppose, just chuck a clump of leftover meat into a pie dish, cover with a layer of shortcrust, and I daresay it would still taste perfectly lovely. A lot of blood, sweat and (I admit...) tears went into that joint of pork, and its leftovers won't fail you. But what this blog might lack in imagination name-wise, it makes up for in its cooking- if I may say so myself, anyway.

So, I present to you all...

Swine-Herders Pie

Arguably not the most sophisticated sounding of dishes, but since it's essentially a bastardized shepherds pie with pork, it seemed fitting enough.

What You Need:

As you'd imagine, you'll be needing a pie dish. I used a 24cm stoneware Le Creuset one, as it distributes the heat nicely (so no scorched bottoms), and it looks pretty enough to serve at the table. Mine is purple, if you care to know.
Enough leftover pork to fill your pie dish 2/3 of the way to the brim.
Oil for cooking
3 juniper berries. It may not sound like much, but more and you'll feel like you've spiked the dish with bathtub gin. Which is no bad thing, I suppose.
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp chilli flakes
1/2 tsp bashed-up cloves
2 tsp cinnamon powder
2 diced shallots
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
200ml cider. Something slightly sweeter works well with this.
1 pint good quality beef stock
1 pinch of cayenne pepper
4 sweet potatoes
1 tbsp mango chutney
Soy sauce
Juice and zest of two limes
1 egg, beaten (optional, but nice- omit if egg intolerant, or you've forgotten to buy eggs)
Sesame seeds
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Coriander, to garnish

This looks like a fairly hefty list of ingredients for something that's just using up leftovers, but most of this should be in your store cupboard. If it isn't, put it there and I promise you'll use it up eventually.

What You Do:

Mash things. Except there's only one
lime there. You need two. Sorry.

1.Preheat your oven to 200 degrees fan-assisted, hotter if not. Whack in your sweet potatoes just as they are. Take them out an hour later, or once the skin starts to pucker, puff, and char slightly. Leave them to cool on the side, and turn your oven down to 190 degrees.

2. About an hour into the potato cooking time, heat a couple of tablespoons of oil (nothing too flavoursome- just olive, or plain old veg) in a large, heavy-bottomed pan, over a medium heat. Add your three juniper berries, the cumin seeds, chilli flakes and bashed-up cloves.

3. Give these a few minutes to infuse the oil, and then chuck in your chopped garlic and shallots. Turn the heat down, and stir fairly regularly to make sure they don't catch- you should know how I feel about burnt allium by now. Soften for a few minutes.

4. Now add your pork and stir to heat through, breaking up any big chunks with a wooden spoon. Once hot, add your cinnamon, cider, beef stock and cayenne. Allow to bubble away for at least twenty minutes on a low heat, stirring occasionally. You want the liquid to reduce enough that your pie has a decent gravy, but won't be swimming in it.

An unnecessary photo of a potato masher.

5. While that's simmering, start peeling your potatoes- you should be able just to rip the skin away. It really is worth waiting until they've cooled a bit before attempting this. Hot potatoes are hot. Pop them into a large bowl, and mash up with the mango chutney, lime juice and zest, soy sauce and lots of pepper. This is the Jamie Oliver version of sweet potato mash, and I've never looked back- it's amazing. Check whether the soy sauce has added enough salt- if not, use sea salt. You don't want your pie topping to look like mud, after all.

6. Check on your pork filling- tweak any spices to taste, and season. If you happen to have any leftover cooked veg hanging around the fridge, feel free to throw that in now. Take your pan off the heat, and allow to cool slightly.

7. Pour or ladle the filling into your pie dish of choice, and top with the mashed sweet potato. You want it to look nice and rustic- ploughed, almost. The peaks catch in the oven and give the whole dish a good bit of colour. Brush lightly all over with your beaten egg for a bit of a crust once it's cooked, and then sprinkle all with your sesame seeds and a last twist of salt and pepper.

8. Place in the middle of your oven, and cook for 35 minutes. You might hear a bit of hissing and spluttering as the gravy seeps up over the crust and inevitably trashes your oven, but don't be alarmed. Just coerce a grateful pie-recipient into cleaning it later. Once it's out, garnish lavishly with coriander leaves, and serve with salad, crusty bread, and a bottle of your favourite hot sauce.

For some post-pie viewing- enjoy this on me...

mrs hunt.x

eating madrid

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 13:43:00 +0000

I'm having a pork-hiatus. That is to say, the idea of a third consecutive pork-post is just too much to bear. And since it's a cold, snowy, depressingly English day, I thought I'd perk myself up with a post about Madrid, following a hedonistic, fun- (and food... and drink...) filled sojourn there last October. But never fear- the pork will return for its third and final re-incarnation next week.

Possibly the only image I possess from Madrid that isn't food or alcohol...

So… what can one do with sixty-eight hours in Madrid? A great deal, I imagine. Explore the Prado, perhaps, or enjoy a leisurely amble through the Retiro. Maybe even have a peek inside the Palacio Real. Well, I didn’t manage any of these. I visited Madrid on an Eating Holiday, and I was dedicated to the cause. I’d packed my stretchiest, most forgiving wardrobe, and there was a blanket ban on anything more active than the walk between tapas bars - unless you count a night spent Salsa dancing with geriatric Spanish couples (which I do). Until my arrival, all thoughts of the recession were far from my mind; my fabric softener is more expensive, and I probably won’t get a mortgage until my mid-thirties, but other than that, luckily I can say it’s had negligible impact on my day-to-day existence. Spain, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish; next to Greece, it’s had the roughest ride in Europe over the last five years. Don’t get me wrong- Madrid is a stunning city. Cleaner than London and more stylish than Paris (the children all look as though they’ve just stepped off a Petit-Filous advert…), there’s very little on the surface to suggest it’s still in the midst of the worst recession since the Wall Street Crash. If the Madrilenos are good at anything, it’s keeping up appearances. But if you strain your ears and prick your eyes, you’ll start to notice the signs: the queue for Spain’s National Lottery reaches over 300 feet, there are ten anti-austerity marches in the city centre every day, and there’s a notable increase in the number of both street performers and sex workers lining the boulevards, leaning casually against the trees. If you listen carefully to the hubbub in the bars and restaurants, all talk is of ‘la crisis.’ Well, that or Real Madrid. But what of the bars? Are they being shunned, in favour of saving a penny or two? Of course not- this is Madrid. Whether it’s another case of ‘keeping up appearances,’ or else just a means of drowning sorrows, the bars and restaurants are packed. And if you follow a savvy Madrileno, you’ll probably find the best food you’ll ever eat.

The grilled-foie. Guilt-laden, and good

Txirimiri on Calle del General Diaz (one of four across the city) is a tiny Basque tapas bar specialising in pintxos. It’s small, nothing special to look at, and some football match or other will inevitably be blaring from the wall-mounted television. But the food- oh, the food! Eating the grilled foie was like consuming tiny droplets of velvet that evaporated on my tongue. The solomillo had the texture of butter, and the rabo de toro (sandwiched oxtail stew) was cooked to perfection. I finished with a tatin de manza- and how something so inauspiciously named can taste so good is, frankly, beyond me. Cinnamon-stewed hunks of apple in a light sponge were dusted with icing sugar and almonds, and encased in a shortcrust party base of such daintiness that Mary Berry would be hanging up her apron in defeat, should she try it. After this, we made the (thankfully) short crawl over to Taberna Degusta, where we ate eggs. Now the Spanish are fond of an egg or two it seems, and Madrilenos in the know would argue that this is the place to get them. Try the huevos rotos de corral con trufa (or ‘broken eggs with truffle, to you and me) and huevos con iberico y salmonejo (eggs with iberico ham and gazpacho), and your dippy egg and soldiers will never taste the same again.

If Hemmingway truly frequented every bar that lays claim to his name, then it’s little wonder he had such a prolific drink problem. Nevertheless, if the state of the floor is anything to go by (and in Spain it is- the dirtier, the better) then Carvecierci Alemana is tapas gold. A bustling, well-known establishment, this isn’t exactly one of Madrid’s hidden gems, but it’s definitely worth a visit. Pop in for a chilled Tio Pepe, and fill up on the accompanying anchovies, Iberico and olives. Once you’re sated, start heading over to La Latina- (especially if it’s a Sunday, in which case hit the El Rastro flea market en route) then commence the eating, drinking and merry-making. Apparently, even if they do have a job to go to the next morning, sleep is of little concern to true Madrilenos, who party just as hard on a Sunday as any day of the week. At the top of cobbled and winding Costanilla San Andres sits La Gorda, a Peruvian bar and restaurant. This might seem an odd recommendation to make, but it forms part of a subtle change in Madrid’s attitude to food. No longer are all Spaniards staunchly xenophobic in their culinary approach; indeed, many cities (Madrid at the fore) are embracing their changing demographic. The upshot of this? Some bloody fantastic Peruvian resaturants. La Gorda- literally, ‘The Fat Woman,’ had me the moment I spotted shot glasses brimming with Bloody Mary adorning the bar top, which I pounced upon immediately (almost choking on the cockles hidden at the bottom in the process).We had every intention of popping in for a pisco sour and pintxo before moving on… needless to say, four hours, several piscos and a lot of ceviche later, we were still going strong. It’s also probably worth mentioning that the pisco was responsible for the mother-of-all hangovers the following morning- don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Bitesize Bloody Mary. Notice
you can't see the cockle...

Of course, I now have every excuse to make a return trip. After all, I can’t really say I’ve seen Madrid- I’ve just eaten it. So I’ll be back. I’ll have to pop into La Gorda, obviously. And check the tapa is still up to scratch in the Plaza Major. I daresay I’ll visit La Latina for some late-night revelry again, too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll squeeze in the Prado. We’ll see.

pork: the sequel

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 16:58:00 +0000

Fun Fact: every year, we Brits chuck away 18 million tons of edible food.

So, I lied. There was nothing particularly 'fun' about that fact, but it seemed worth mentioning. On a relatively serious note though, let's just try envisioning what 18 million tons of food actually looks like- it's ridiculous. And also a little bit sad, given the number of people who go to bed hungry every night.

Me again.

But let's not get too preachy, eh? I made a resolution this year- a new one. Because I daresay I won't have the time to learn Cantonese, and given the occupational hazards of being a food blogger, any weightloss ambitions are, sadly, unrealistic. So this year, I'm vowing to throw away less food, and be more inventive with my leftovers (and not just postpone their inevitable binning by chucking them into the cavernous depths of the freezer without another thought).

Last week, I promised you I'd do something imaginative with your leftover pork. Now, when I saw just how much leftover pork that recipe... well, leftover, I don't mind admitting that I was intimidated. Had I just got a tad carried away in the fervour of festive eating, and bankrupted myself for a joint that I could NEVER FINISH? Were these delicious scraps of meat destined to languish in clingfilm until I gave in, and turned to the bin in defeat? Not on my watch. So here we have it- Pulled Pork Reincarnation #1:

Jerk Patties

It's imperative that you consider the flavours used in the original cook when conjuring up inspired leftovers, otherwise you risk ending up with something that tastes confused and jarring. Given the Jerk leanings of the slow cook recipe, I wanted to come up with a mid-week friendly, Caribbean-inspired patty. And here it is.

What You Need:

2 average-sized potatoes- whatever variety you have to hand.
Roughly half the volume of potato (once grated) in your leftover pork. Remove from the fridge an hour or so before you start your patty-making, if you can.
A handful of fresh coriander, chopped.
1-2 fresh red chillis depending, as always, on how hot you fancy.
1.5 tsp of fennel seeds
1.5 tsp of allspice
1.5 tsp of mixed spice
The zest of two limes, and juice of one.
A sprinkling of fresh thyme leaves (dry will do, in a pinch).
A thumb of fresh ginger, grated.
1 egg from a happy chicken
Plain flour. Enough of it.
Sea Salt
Black Pepper
Cayenne Pepper
Oil for cooking.

What Yo Do:

1. Peel and grate your potatoes, and squeeze them gently in your hands over some kitchen towel to dry them out a bit. Don't clench them to a pulp, but do try your best to get some of the excess moisture out, or your patty will disintegrate, and look rather woebegone.

2. Lightly bash your fennel seeds, chop your chilli and coriander, grate your ginger (having peeled it first, ideally), and give it all a decent mix with the allspice, cumin, mixed spice, lime zest, lime juice, salt and pepper. This isn't really the sort of thing you want to check by thrusting a finger in and licking it, so give it a good sniff (not too hard- ingesting chilli and allspice through your nose is, surprisingly enough, quite unpleasant). It should smell sweet, earthy, and zingy, with no one ingredient dominating. If it does, tweak. Trust your nose.

3. Now tackle your pork. Getting it out of the fridge in advance should make it easier to handle, as you need to shred it a little more finely than you probably did originally. It should be roughly the same cut as your potato. Some excess fat will have congealed during refrigeration, so try to pick off any obvious-looking lumps, and don't worry about the rest.

Melge

4. In a big bowl, mix your potato, pork and spices. Crack an egg into a small glass or bowl, and whisk very lightly with a fork. Add this to the mix gradually until it all starts to melge* together- too much and it will turn out soggy, not to mention distinctly egg-flavoured.

5. In a shallow dish, pour in some plain flour, and season enthusiastically with sea salt, fresh black pepper and a good pinch of cayenne.

6. Start shaping your patties, but first- decide what you're using them for. They make good party nibbles (and sure beat a prawn ring or pallid frozen 'tikka bite'...), so think along the flattened golf-ball lines for that. For a solid main dish, think generic fish-cake size, and for a nice little starter, somewhere in between the two. Give them a good final squeeze as you're doing this, just to triple-check they aren't still oozing water. Dust them lightly but thoroughly in the flour, and set aside.

... and dust

7. If you want to freeze these for Credit Card Statement Day (or any other occasion you find yourself in need of a cheap dinner), then place them onto a clingfilmed baking sheet, and pop them in. Once they're hard, transfer them into something more practical (I heart Tupperware). Defrost thoroughly for at least twelve hours before heating. If you're cooking them there and then, leave them in the fridge for an hour or so to firm them up, if you have time.

8. To cook, heat some oil in a non-stick pan over a medium heat. The 'non-stick' element is quite important here- you risk skinning your patties in the pan if it's some dodgy old thing, which is always a bummer. You may notice Le Creuset cookware features a lot in my blog photos, and it's because everything they produce is amazing, and well worth every penny... so you've got a whole year to behave, and bag some from Santa for next Christmas. Anyway- once the oil is hot, place them in carefully using a spatula or some kind of burger-flipping-device. Cook dinner-sized ones for about four minutes each side, and the smaller ones for 2-3 minutes each side. Please do check they are piping hot all the way through- I still don't have the legalities of blogging quite figured out yet. I'd be awfully miffed if I got sued...

It's worth nothing that, seeing as your pork is already a couple of days old, you should either cook or freeze your patties on the day.

Serve with salad, and obligatory hot sauce.

Granny-plate optional

Don't fret- Pulled Pork Reincarnation #2 will follow soon. God, I hope you like pork...

mrs hunt.x

* I though 'melge' was a real word- it turns out that's not the case. I'm sure we understand one another.

austerity cooking

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Sat, 29 Dec 2012 15:31:00 +0000

Ah, Christmas. A time for ill-advised knitwear, lying to children, and dodgy office parties. Oh, and shameless gluttony of course. It's as though December provides the perfect black hole for calories and cash- it's Christmas, so it would be rude not to buy/eat/drink everything in sight, even if we know all too well that feeling of dread and self loathing that hits us once January rolls around. But for now, it's December, and the festive season is in full swing. So without further ado, lets talk about food.

My own ill-advised knitwear. Well- it is Christmas...

For all you Christmas purists out there, there's turkey, 'nuff said. Luckily, due to a combination of a great mother and mother-in-law, I've managed to escape the delights of this dry, over priced and over-rated bird for most of my festive dinners. Frankly, I just don't understand why people invest so much time and effort in what is essentially an oversized chicken on Christmas Day. But, I'm not here to court controversy; instead I'm here to share a recipe that's perfect for the POST Christmas period- you know, those iffy few days between the Big Day itself and New Years. Or, it's great as a relatively fuss-free New Year's Day dinner, and it's a meal that can stretch to as many distant relatives as may deign to rock up on your doorstep over the festive season, providing brilliantly versatile leftovers that I will follow up on with not one, but TWO recipes over the coming week. Which is where the 'austerity' part of this cooking comes in- the cut, due in part to it's size, isn't exactly cheap, but remember- it is Christmas. And the reincarnated leftover dishes freeze perfectly, which will be a relief come January's credit card bill...

I'm not afraid to admit that this is a bastardized Jamie Oliver recipe. Now that's not to say there was anything wrong with the original, it's just that I do enjoy tinkering with things. I also believe that with any recipe, there's always the opportunity to put your own stamp on something- so long as you're not screwing with any basic chemistry at work (so no tampering with Mary Berry's sponge, please).

It's also worth mentioning that this takes a Very. Long. Time. But, it's worth it, and you can prattle around the house while it's cooking- maybe take the time to pair up all those nice new socks you seem to have acquired...

Jerk-Roasted Pulled Pork For The Masses

What You Need:

5kg boned and rolled pork shoulder, but ask your butcher nicely if they still have the bone hanging around. I also bought a nice little rack of ribs for the meat to rest on while it's cooking- the meat's delicious after a few hours in the oven.
1 x bottle of good quality cider- I really like the slightly medicinal taste of Hecks in this dish. You are, of course, permitted a cheeky swig for yourself every once in a while...
1 x can of Coca Cola (other 'cola' brands are available, but let's face it- they're shit. So just buy the real stuff)
A handful of fresh thyme, leaves ripped off
1 tbsp ground cumin
1 tbsp fennel seeds, lightly bashed with anything solid you have to hand
A liberal grating of fresh nutmeg
Maldon Sea Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil
3 x scotch bonnet chillis. More if you like it really hot, less if you're a bit of a whimp.
2 tbsp dark muscavado sugar
A large knob of fresh ginger, grated
1/2 tbsp allspice
1/2 tbsp cloves
5-6 cloves of garlic, mashed with salt in a pestle and mortar
Juice and zest of three limes
A bunch of healthy-looking coriander

What You Do:

MEAT

1. Preheat your oven to its hottest setting- I was quite impressed to discover that ours manages 260 degrees. If your butcher hasn't already, score the skin of your pork and rub all over with the fresh thyme, ground cumin, fennel seeds, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Do this dry at first, and then follow with a hefty glug of olive oil to lubricate things nicely.

2. Pop your joint into a snug-fitting oven tray, resting on the bones. Pour half of the cider and half of the coke into the BOTTOM of the tray, taking care to leave the skin completely dry. If it gets even the tiniest bit soggy, your crackling will be abysmal (and we all know legendary crackling is the benchmark of all good pork). Place in the middle of your swelteringly hot oven for half an hour.

3. After the 30-minute mark, turn the oven down to 130 degrees, and add the rest of the cider and coke to the oven tray. You're afforded a bit of faffing-time doing this, as you'll need to have the door open for a moment to cool the oven down anyway.

4. Set your timer for three and a half hours. Commence sock organising.

5. Once it's up, cover your joint with a layer of foil. Set the timer for a further three and a half hours. Write a short play, or learn a language.

6. And, we're done! Well, nearly. Once your timer has sounded, pull the joint carefully out of the oven. Move to a large plate, and leave to rest with the foil on. Skim the fat from the top of the oven tray (do not chuck this carelessly down your sink. Not only will it probably bugger up your drain, it's also a shameful waste of excellent fat that would much rather be used on a potato one day), and pour all the remaining juices into your favourite bowl.

7. Finely chop your scotch bonnets, and avoid all eye-scratching, tooth-picking and baby-cuddling pursuits until you've thoroughly washed your hands. In your nice bowl, start concocting what is essentially a Jerk seasoning-mix the sugar, grated ginger, ginger powder, allspice, cloves, mashed garlic, lime juice and zest. Don't worry too much about being exact with the quantities, tweak according to your own palate. It needs to taste a lot stronger than you'd think, as it has a rather large heap of meat to cover.

8. Remove the layer of crackling from the pork. If it isn't quite up to scratch, pop it under a hot grill for a few minutes. Scrape off the white, flobbery layer of fat from underneath, and discard. Now, start the shredding- the meat should fall 'aaahhh-' inducingly apart- in slow motion, just like a Marks and Spencer advert. Pull it all apart with two forks, and then toss in the jerk seasoning.

Pile onto your favourite serving plate, and let everyone dig in. It's best served with something that can mop up the juices adequately, so I tend to do mine with sweet potato mash and lots of hot greens. As I mentioned, unless you really are feeding the five thousand there should be a fair bit of meat leftover. Just cover this up and stick it in the fridge to await further instructions...!

Merry Christmas/Happy Hannukah/Jolly New Year and all that malarkey...

mrs hunt.x

the not-so tough cookie

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 16:07:00 +0000

This post could be considered a bit of a follow-on from last week's chocolate prattlings- but no rants this time, just recipes. Or one, at least- my gruff, manly chocolate cookie recipe. Cookies might not be the most gastronomically exciting foodstuff, but there's something quite comforting about baking a batch every once in a while. These ones have a 'hero' ingredient- Green and Blacks Mayan Chocolate. It can be substituted for any other interesting variety of chocolate you might prefer (it works well with the chilli-infused stuff too) but the orange zest and spices in this particular bar are fairly distinctive, and fittingly festive to boot.

As you might have picked up from last week's post (which had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I'm sure), I'm brazenly snobbish when it comes to chocolate. Now I know Green and Black's can hardly be considered 'artisan' anymore, but it's bloody nice, and a reasonable price for its calibre. Some purists would argue that its dark varieties aren't, strictly speaking, 'dark', since they list milk solids amongst the ingredients. However, after a bit of nosing, I gather this is for allergy reasons and nothing else; they do not use milk solids in the recipe, if you cared. Plus, they're Fair Trade, which is nice.

So, without further ado, my recipe for...

Vaguely Festive Chocolate Cookies:

What You Need:

125g dark chocolate
150g plain flour
30g cocoa, sifted
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp ground allspice
1tsp cinnamon
A grating of nutmeg- enough that you can taste it, not so much that you start hallucinating.
125g butter (see below...)
1/2 tsp salt (or use salted butter), at room temeperature if possible.
100g light brown sugar
25g muscavado sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract (NOT essence. Horrible stuff)
1 free-range egg- cold from the fridge.
200g Green & Blacks Maya Gold chocolate, chipped.

What You Do:

1. Preheat your oven to 150 degrees if you're using a fan oven. Crank it up to 170 degrees if you're not. Pop an inch (no more) of water into a pan, and place on a low heat. Break up your dark chocolate, and melt it in a snug-fitting bowl over the barely simmering water. If the bowl gets too hot, or the water touches the bottom, your chocolate will suddenly transform into a grainy mess that you'll be forced to eat while you try again.

2.Place the flour, bicarbonate of soda, cocoa, allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg and, if you're using it, the salt, into a large bowl and mix well.

3.In another bowl (or electric mixer, if you have one), beat the butter until it pales. Add the two sugars, and continue to beat for a few minutes until fluffy. Try not to forget about your melting chocolate in the mean time, and once it's smooth and glossy pour this in and stir through.

4. Beat in the vanilla extract, and crack in the egg. Mix in your dry ingredients.

5. Finally, stir in your Mayan chocolate chips. This is also a good time to start eating your batter.

6. Scoop out enough mix to create a cookie-ball in a size that strikes you as appropriate- this recipe makes 12 decent-sized biscuits, depending on how much of the batter you've managed to consume by this point. Place them on a lined baking sheet, about 2-3" apart. Any closer and you'll end up with a cookie sheet, which I suppose is no disaster. But if you're going for the traditional cookie form, then strategic spacing is advisable. DO NOT PAT DOWN! You might have to do a couple of batches, depending on the size of your baking tray.

7. Bake in the middle of your oven for about 18 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean from the middle, not wet with batter. They might still seem very soft, but don't panic. Leave them to firm up on the baking tray for five minutes or so, and then transfer them to a wire rack.

I like my cookies still warm, served with a bit of creme fraiche and orange zest. If they last long enough to merit it worthy, stick them in an airtight container and they should last a couple of days.

Happy cookie-munching.

mrs hunt x

chocolate: an education

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 16:39:00 +0000

A coffee worth the 60-mile round-trip.
But then, I wasn't driving.

Good coffee is notoriously tricky to find outside of the M25 * (and if any of you are even tempted to mention Starbucks, please, just- don't) and so as ludicrous as it sounds, the Husband and I quite often trek over to DunneFrankowski's Protein in Shoreditch for a decent one. This might seem a bit OTT, but a) we're both unashamedly snobbish when it comes to coffee, and b) we're good friends with Rob (Dunne) and Vic (Frankowski), so the 30-mile mission isn't quite as ridiculous as it might first appear. I've always considered these two to be crusaders of a sort- essentially, they're on a mission to get people drinking proper coffee (not low-fat, toffee nut soya lattes), and I suppose they realised that chocolate suffered the same break- people have long since forgotten what it actually is, how to make it, and how to eat it. And so after chatting to Michael Lowe from chocolatier Paul A Young over a coffee, they asked him to arrange a chocolate tasting (read: re-education) one Sunday. I'm not one to say 'no' to chocolate for breakfast, so that's where we found ourselves.

Sure beats coco pops...

I've already confessed my gender-driven compulsion for shopping, and yes, I do enjoy a crap rom-com every once in a while (especially if Jennifer Anniston pops up somewhere), but really I think it goes without saying that, like most girls, I'm quite fond of a good bit of chocolate. Whilst I'm just as snobbish about it as I am my coffee, I have to admit I'd never given the stuff much thought beyond 'well this stuff's obviously better- it's twice the price, and in nice paper...' which is arguably the same yardstick I apply to a lot of my purchases. I know the American stuff is shit, the Belgian stuff is good, and Cadburys... well, they're a bit like Starbucks. But that was the extent of my chocolate expertees, so I was quite keen to learn more.

Cocoa nibs. An acquired taste...

Chocolate is the only edible substance to contain more aromatics than coffee. If I'm honest, I thought 'aromatic' was just a flowery term used to describe wine, Thai food or candles, but as it turns out, it's a bona fide scientific measurement of certain compounds. On average, coffee has about 850 aromatics compared to chocolate's 1600- hence why Rob and Vic were so interested in the first place. The similarities between coffee and chocolate don't end there- both are grown in a relatively limited geographical region, both are roasted, and, importantly, both are hugely misunderstood everyday commodities. Paul A Young are one of only three chocolate producers in the UK to buy and roast their own cocoa beans (though admittedly this is no guarantee of quality, as Cadbury are one of the others), and they make everything on site, and by hand, the old-school way. So if this makes for a good chocolate, what makes a bad one? Plenty, apparently. Cocoa beans are fermented and roasted to develop flavour; the levels of each required to get the perfect taste vary hugely bean-by-bean, but if you're a mass-producing chocolate conglomerate, then it's tricky, time consuming and expensive to get a consistent product at the end of the process. Unless, that is, you under-ferment and over-roast your beans. This way everything tastes bad, but at least it tastes consistently bad. And it's OK, because you have emulsifiers, sugar, veg oil and artificial flavourings handy anyway.

Every bean is about 45% cocoa butter, and it's this that is actually the costly part of the bean. A lot of the 'crap' chocolate manufacturers remove the majority of this, sell it (to The BodyShop, presumably...) and replace it with milk solids and veg oil- normally Palm oil. This, in turn, hurts Orangutangs. And trees. Plus, I really feel that if you are extracting the essence of the bean from your chocolate, then it isn't really chocolate. It's fake chocolate.

So let's talk about good chocolate- this is where my breakfast comes in. I tried a few, but I'll run you through three...

The Venezuelan 72%

First up was a Madagascan 50% cocoa. Yes, a milk chocolate, but Galaxy it aint. Creamy just doesn't do it justice- it melted in the mouth, and had none of that chalky texture of the cheap stuff. Then, just to liven up my tastebuds a bit, I nibbled on some cocoa nibs (also referred to as pate or chocolate liquor). This was 100% raw, hand picked, hand dried cocoa from Madagascar. Having not been fermented or roasted, and containing no sugar, it's unsurprisingly pretty bitter. However, it's smoother than you'd expect, and oddly cooling on your tongue. It's also strangely addictive, and apparently great for baking with. However, my favourite of the half a dozen or so I tried was the Venezuelan 72%. Now without sounding like too much of a ponce, it managed to taste floral and earthy at the same time, and wasn't as bitter as many chocolates I've eaten with a lower cocoa content. It's supposed to be quite good for tempering, too.

There we go. I do hope this doesn't all seem like too much of a rant. Yes, good chocolate is more expensive than shit chocolate- if you want to gorge on an entire bar of the stuff in front of X-Factor, then cool- stick to the Cadburys. But if you like real chocolate- the stuff you can still taste two hours later, and has actually seen a cocoa bean, then I'd say it's worth shelling out the extra pennies. The Orangutangs will thank you for it.

* So to make it easier, I'll tell you where to go: any Wyombeites reading this need to visit to The Pantry (@thenewpantry). It's proper coffee, and they pay their tax bill.

mrs hunt.x

An Orangutang. He's happy.

autumn leaves, salad leaves

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 15:18:00 +0000

The leaves are golden, the Coca Cola ad has been sighted, and leaving the house in fewer than four layers is, frankly, silly. What better way to celebrate the onset of the chillier months than a warming, hearty... salad. Yes, stews are comforting, stodgy, and arguably more seasonally appropriate, but if you eat hotpot for dinner every night, you'll have a coronary by Christmas. Besides which, this is a very seasonal salad, and because it's healthy you can follow it up with a sticky toffee pudding (or three) and sleep soundly.

A Winter Salad with Beetroot-Roasted Chicken:

What You Need:

4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, from happy chickens.
Raspberry vinegar. I use Womersley because I'm a sucker for a nice-looking bottle, and it's the best tasting I've found.
Cooked baby beetroot
Chilli flakes
A squeeze of lemon juice
Decent quality olive oil
Sea salt
Freshly ground back pepper

1 red onion
Balsamic vinegar
1 Apple (I used Pink Lady for a crisper taste than most others)
A handful of walnuts, lightly crushed
1 medium-soft British goat cheese round, sliced
Salad leaves (I used baby spinach and rocket)
Flat leaf parsely, to garnish

What You Do:

1. Preheat the oven to 180 degrees if it's fan assisted, 200 degrees otherwise. In a pestle and mortar (or something to that effect), bash up the beetroot with a hefty pinch of salt, lots of pepper, and chilli flakes. Do so carefully- the beetroot are slippery little buggers.

2. Once mashed to a pulp, add a good glug of olive oil, a touch of raspberry vinegar, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Don't go too crazy with either, since the pickled beetroot will already be quite acidic. The consistency should still be fairly thick, and it should taste sweet, tangy, with a noticeable kick from the chilli.

3. Dice up your chicken thighs. I use this cut because the darker meat is naturally a lot juicier, and develops a stronger taste from being so close to the bone. Breast meat is comparatively bland, dries out very quickly, and is more expensive. Aim for bitesize pieces- it's always nice to have a salad you can eat with just a fork; it feels more refined, somehow. Place these in an ovenproof dish, and rub all over with your beetroot mix. Use gloves if you'd like your hands to remain the colour they are.

4. Give your chicken a final sprinkling of salt and pepper, and pop in the middle of your oven for 20-25 minutes. The meat turns a glorious pink colour, which looks lovely but can disguise undercooked chicken. Check the centre of your largest piece at the 20 minute mark, but don't just panic and cremate the whole thing regardless.

5. While the chicken is in the oven, halve your red onion and slice thinly into slivers. Put a generous knob of butter into a non-stick pan, and cook the onion on the lowest heat possible, stirring regularly and watching like a hawk to ensure it doesn't catch. While you're doing this, put your salad leaves into a nice-looking bowl, crunch your walnut halves, and slice up the apple as thinly as you can manage. Don't do this too early, as it will start to go brown.

6. Slice your goat's cheese, and arrange on a baking tray lined with greaseproof paper. Drizzle with olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and sprinkle over a few more chilli flakes if you enjoy a bit more spice. This only needs about three minutes in the oven, so check on your chicken first.

7. Add a generous splash of balsamic vinegar to your onions, and crank up the heat. They should turn sticky and slightly crisped after a minute or so, but do make sure they're not burning.

8. Once the goat's cheese has melted slightly, remove from the oven with the chicken. Dress your salad with some olive oil, a touch of the raspberry vinegar and seasoning, and toss with the apple and walnuts. Then arrange your chicken, and place the melting goat's cheese slice on top. Spoon over the red onion, and garnish with parsley.

This can be served with whatever you fancy- toasted sourdough bread and butter is always nice, as are sweet potato chips. This served two of us, but with a bit of tweaking could stretch as far as you like.

And don't forget the sticky toffee puddings, eh?

mrs hunt.x

two small aubergines

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 14:55:00 +0000

So as always, I'm a bit late: October the 8th-14th was National Curry Week. But seeing as a good curry is as close to our hearts as queuing and roast dinners, I don't suppose I need an excuse to bring it up. With the 'Birmingham Balti' currently fighting for protected status, and the roots of the humble (if arguably terrible...) Chicken Tikka Masala allegedly lying somewhere in central Glasgow, the curry is about as close to our national dish as one could get. We all know that for every good one out there there are a hundred or more bad ones, but that's done little to dampen our love affair. In reality, most of the dishes to be found on your average 'Bombay Dreams' or 'Taj Mahal' menus are so far removed from their cultural and geographical roots that you'd be hard pushed to call them Indian, Bangladeshi or anything other than inherently British.

Fortunately, I've been pretty lucky where curries are concerned: my Dad spent the bulk of his childhood living in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and India, travelling with my Grandad while he lectured physics. The upshot of this? My Nan cooks a mean curry. And we're not talking that Uncle Ben's crap here, either. We're talking two solid days preparing and simmering half a dozen brightly coloured dishes, served with fragrant and authentic sundries to a twenty-strong horde of hungry family members. Personally, I think the key to a memorable curry is keeping it seasonal, and close to its roots: Indian cuisine, for instance, has as many regional influences as Italy does. The following curry has its roots in my kitchen, in October. I can't vouch for its authenticity, but let's face it- this is what we Brits do. We take something foreign and- for better or worse- we put our stamp all over it. Hopefully, this was for better. At least, I enjoyed it.

A winging it, made-up lamb shoulder curry:

750g good quality lamb shoulder, boneless and trimmed

For the marinade:

2 tbsp tumeric
2 tbsp ground coriander
2 tbsp ground ginger
2 tbsp Garam Masala
5 cloves of garlic, mashed
Mild oil

For the cooking oil:

2 tsp Kalonji (black onion seeds)
1 tsp cloves
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds

And for the rest...

5 banana shallots, diced
1 large Spanish onion, diced (sweeter than a normal one, but either works)
2-3 green chillis, according to taste.
2 tins of plum tomatoes
1 tbsp tomato puree
Coriander leaves, to garnish
Sea salt and ground black pepper, to taste

1) Dice the lamb shoulder into 3/4" chunks, and place in a bowl with the tumeric, ground coriander, ground ginger, Garam Masala and mashed garlic. Add enough oil to get the meat covered, and 'massage' it for a couple of minutes. As feeble as it may sound, rubber cloves are heavily advised; tumeric has a knack for transforming your fingers into those of a 60-a-day smoker. Not hot. Set aside to marinate- the longer the better. If you have time for an overnight session then pop it in the fridge, taking it out two hours before you cook it off so it has time to come slowly to room temperature.

A large, non-stick heavy bottomed saucepan. Something
EVERYONE should own.

2) Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large, non-stick heavy bottomed saucepan, on a medium heat. The non-stick part is quite important- nothing pervades the taste of a dish quite as successfully as burnt onions. Add the onion seeds, cloves, and cumin and coriander seeds.

3) Once they start to pop and sizzle, add the chilli, onion and banana shallots. Make sure there's enough room in the pan, and add splashes of water if you feel anything is starting to catch. Cook until soft, translucent and smelling sweet.

4) Add the lamb with all the marinade ingredients, and turn up the heat to brown it nicely. Again, there needs to be plenty of room, otherwise it will sweat when you want to be sealing in the moisture, not boiling it out.

5) Once it reaches a lovely golden brown colour (and not before), add the tomato puree, the tinned tomatoes, and plenty of seasoning. Leave to simmer gently over a medium heat for an hour and a half, stirring now and then to make sure nothing catches. Serve garnished with heaps of fresh coriander.

When I cooked this a couple of weeks ago, I served it alongside some oven-roasted butternut squash, aubergine and pumpkin cubes that I'd tossed in some ground cumin, chilli flakes and oil, which I popped in the oven at 180 degrees for just under an hour. It made the meal taste deliciously autumnal, with the added bonus of bulking it up to feed six of us with the pilau rice, chapatis and salad. Another thing to note- sliced banana with curry is really very nice. Try it.

Happy (belated) curry week!

mrs hunt.x

words and (food) pictures

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 12:57:00 +0000

A photo of meatballs

And so, as if I didn't need reminding that I'm no longer gorging myself silly in Sicily, it's just started raining again. We now find ourselves unmistakably and unequivocally in Autumn- one of my favourite seasons food-wise, most definitely not weather-wise. Whilst the rapidly shortening days and plummeting mercury herald the arrival of some pretty indulgent, tasty comfort foods, for the time being I'm going to stick my head in the sand and fondly reminisce about the glut of pasta, seafood and litre carafes of wine (litre! Italians sell wine by the litre!) that helped contribute to the extra half a stone that's stubbornly hanging around.

Since my last post reached almost epic proportions, I'm going to allow the pictures to do most of the talking for this one. It would be a shame to let them go unseen, seeing as they were the cause of several marital disputes abroad (Husband: 'Seriously? It's a meatball. Stop taking photos of a meatball and talk to me. You look like a tourist.') Well, readers, I was a tourist, and unashamedly papped a few hundred photos of my favourite meals and markets. And cats too, but I'll spare you those...

Grilled mystery fish. It could have been bream. Who knows.

These didn't last long...

Now if our glowing white pallor didn't immediately give us away as Brits, then my blustering attempts at Italian certainly did. Needless to say, we did eventually end up with an assortment of traditional Sicilian anitpasti at our first restaurant that went down rather well. Caponata, found in abundance across Sicily, would most aptly be described as an aubergine, caper and celery relish- that is if if you want to be very British about things and completely strip it of any allure. It's generally a given that most things sound infintely more tempting in Italian. We guzzled that down alongside some arancinette (deep-fried risotto balls flavoured with saffron) and polpette di sarde. Now it took my exhausted, Ryanair-flight frazzled brain a while to translate this into sardine meatball, when intitally I had been convincing myself it was something to do with octopus ('polpo', if anyone cares...). But sardine meatball it was, and 'delicious' doesn't quite do it justice. Paired with mint, pinenuts and just the tiniest hint of aniseed, it's a far more summery alternative to the standard pork or lamb variety.

Sicillian culture has been subject to
countless influences over the centuries, owing largely to its indefensible position bang in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. However, it seems being conquered time and time again by hordes of knife-wielding men from boats can do funny things to a country, and in the case of Sardinia- Italy's largest island- it's resulted in quite an inherent mistrust of anything that comes from the sea. Like fish. Luckily, Sicilians are far more laid back, and embrace anything they can catch. Sicillian sea urchins are harvested in 'cooler' weather, so I was a bit late (or early, I suppose) for linguine di riccio. Needless to say, there was an abundance of seafood around, and the Sicilians adore a simply grilled fish (see above left- but don't ask me what fish it was, since to this day I can't tell you). And then there's the shellfish: mussels are everywhere. A packed-out backstreet trattoria served me an amazing zuppa di cozze- a glass bowl of huge mussels in a translucent broth. Unlike the richer Belgian or French moules frites, this was an incredibly simple starter dish- just fish stock, lemon, more pepper than you would ever dare to use yourself, and the tiniest sniff of garlic. Perfect for when you're planning on a marathon six course dinner.

Despite not being native to Italy, tomatoes
have done a darn good job of cementing
themselves firmly in Italian cuisine.

Letting me loose in Ballaro Market, Palermo's biggest outdoor food market, proved very much akin to allowing a child free reign in Hamleys at Christmas- I demonstrated a complete lack of regard for money, practicality or personal welfare, and had to be reminded on several occasions that marrows were unlikely to survive Ryanair's draconian excess baggage policy, and a lot of the spices on offer would look incredibly suspicious under x-ray scrutiny. Regardless, I still saw fit to purchase a kilo of ripe nectarines, and ate them all more out of spite than hunger. But when you experience a market like this- where everything is so fresh, cheap and seasonal, you can see why Tesco are yet to try extending their reach into mainland Europe. The idea of polypropene containers, Peruvian asparagus and Birdseye fish fingers is quite laughable when you see the local fare on offer.

It was like Christmas had come early...

A vivid display of some seasonal Sicillian veg-
and I didn't even need to use Instagram.

Now I would be remiss in waxing lyrical about the wonders of Italian produce if I failed to mention street food. Sadly, we live in a country where street food is synonymous with overpriced, cremated sausages bought in a state of utter inebriation, somewhere along Oxford street at 3am, or else scraps of indefinable grey-coloured meat that does little justice to the middle-eastern kebab. But in Sicily, street food is a way of life; at around 9pm, families come out into squares in their hordes, and mill around food stands and plastic tables with arancini, panelle (deep-fried chickpea fritters) and guasteddi. Now, I'm fairly brazen with my eating, and am yet to come across a food I won't sample. That said, I was a little dubious about devouring what is essentially a role filled with calf spleen, lungs and lard. But I did, and it was good, if a rather interesting texture.

Guasteddi- tastes good,
looks... well... not good.

Genovesi Ericine

I suppose the reason I get so giddy in Italy is because I feel very safe in the knowledge that I can be reckless with my food choices- you know that chances are, you're going to get something damn good, even if it does come under the dubious heading of 'chef's meat special.' A restaurant that looks as ropey as hell from the outside is just as (or perhaps even more) likely to serve you the best meal of your life as the one with the linen napkins and 120EU bill. Good coffee is ubiquitous (no skinny decaff soya lattes or Nescafe here, thank you very much), and one of the best things I put into my mouth came from a dodgy-looking food stand in a train station. Genovesi Ericine- sugar dusted, lemon custard filled Sicillian pastries-served up warm with a cup of strong espresso, made our three-train, two-bus trip to the airport bearable.

But now, back to reality. It's still cold, it's still raining, and I'm definitely in need of some comfort food. So I'm off to make some pumpkin soup, and dream of the sunshine....

mrs hunt.x

a very small book addiction

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 19:12:00 +0000

I'm a girl. That I should enjoy shopping will be of little surprise, no doubt (though you would think Husband would have gotten over it by now... sadly not). Whilst I seem to have little problem earnestly declaring a brand new dress to have 'been in my wardrobe for aaaaages', and getting away with it, he seems a little more adept at identifying new cook books. This is unfortunate, seeing as I appear to trot home with a new one every week. Despite rapidly decreasing shelf space, I really can't help myself- as I've said, I love cooking and writing in roughly equal measure, and so naturally letting me into Foyles is like letting Pete Doherty loose in a chemists.

In my experience there are three kinds of cook, at least as far as cookery literature goes:

Category One: This type of cook holds recipe books in much the same regard as a bomb disposal team would their 'how-to' guide; that is to say, there is no veering away from any given recipe, at any given point. Ingredients are painstakingly measured out, and their trust in the narrator is absolute. If Jane Asher tells them their sponge needs 20 minutes at 180 degrees, then no way on God's earth is it coming out early- even if there is a suspiciously acrid smell emanating from the cooker, and the smoke alarm is screaming at them.

Category Two: Cookery books, magazines and websites serve more as a form of inspiration than instruction, and recipes are adapted according to season, quantity, or mood. These cooks have faith in their own senses and intuition- or at least they pretend to. Their food can be imaginative, daring, and occasionally disastrous.

Category Three: Now I mean no offence, but from what I can ascertain this category is dominated largely by men. This can be seen as both good and bad, I suppose: I'm fairly certain Heston never felt the need to stay safe within the realms of Mrs Beeton et. al., and without his flagrant disregard for the 'rules' of cooking, we'd exist in a snail-porridge free world, which would be very sad indeed. That said, I've lost count of the number of times I've come home to a decimated kitchen, a husband coated in flour (amongst other less-identifiable substances), sheepishly announcing that his tequila bread has 'gone a bit wrong.' Apparently tequila and yeast are quite volatile when mixed. In short, category three cooks have failed to cast a glance at a cookery book. Ever.

Now seeing as I find myself firmly entrenched in category two territory (if more of its 'disastrous' side, perhaps...), I hereby present my own cookery book shortlist. As it seems this entry is in danger of reaching 'Silver Spoon' proportions (keep reading, if you don't know what I'm talking about), I shall divide the books into two lots. Hopefully this will keep you all tantalised- or, at the very least, minimise the chances of you nodding off. The first lot (below) will include more well known, 'iconic' publications. The second (to come...) category consists of books that, whilst not obscure, are arguably a bit less recognised. All of the books I'm including have been read cover to cover by me- even the really long ones- and are indispensable, well-thumbed resources.
And so, in no particular order...

1. The Silver Spoon, Phaidon Publishing:
The Silver Spoon is widely toted as 'the bible of Italian cooking', and with over 2,000 recipes it's certainly long enough to justify the reputation. First published as 'Il Cucchiaio d'Argento' in 1950, it's been tweaked and translated numerous times, and I will say that despite this, it's definitely worth still baring its original context in mind. It features very traditional Italian fare with a hint of post-war austerity still clinging to its recipes, which regularly feature cheap, easily obtainable produce like perch, tench and offal. However, this is something inherent in Italian cuisine- it does rural peasant food famously well, and The Silver Spoon provides mouth-watering, solid and reliable recipes in abundance. In terms of value for money, the book is fantastic: half encyclopaedia, it will teach you almost everything you need to know about food and how to cook it, and the recipes themselves have aged well- every serious cook should give it at least a cursory flick-through. And you know what? Simple Italian works well, and that's why The Silver Spoon still sells.

2. Je Sais Cuisiner ('I Know How To Cook'), Ginette Mathiot:
Another hefty tome, Mathiot's guide to French cooking is regarded as the Gallic equivalent to The Silver Spoon. Both feature as much in the way of ingredient advice, cooking techniques and seasonal guides as they do actual recipes. Published much earlier, in 1932, Mathiot is very much present in the book's narrative- the bossy (or confident, I suppose you could say) and succinct instructions proffered by the French matriarch give the book a rather amusing dimension, and make it very readable. The recipes themselves are far less intimidating than you might come to expect from a compendium on French cooking, but just as sophisticated.

3. Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child, Louisette Berthole and Simone Beck:
Another French one, but where Je Sais Cuisiner is rather like being lectured on cooking by your stern maiden aunt (in a good way), Mastering the Art of French Cooking is like being let loose with the fun auntie who buys you age-inappropriate presents, and lets you lick the bowl. All within the context of 1950s France, of course. The recipes in themselves are classic staples, but it's the tone of the book I love so much. As the lead writer, Child's clamouring to prove herself equal to the rigours of French cooking (borne of being a Yank in France) is palpable. The work essentially serves to demystify much of French cuisine, and it does so in a thoroughly charming way. The narrator is immediately likeable, which is important given the book's teeny-weeny print and lack of pictures.

4. Great British Recipes, Jamie Oliver:
Sorry, who? Exactly. Love him or hate him, you do know him- and he's certainly a man on a mission. This hyperactive, cheery celebrity chef has waged an assault on our country's eating habits which, let's be honest, were probably in need of a bit of attention. I'm a patriotic person- I love local produce, and I love quintessentially English food. However I've found that of late, many chefs and restaurants have been too concerned with appearing stubbornly British and have turned a tad, well, xenophobic. And that's why I bloody love Jamie. I do. I'd wear a Jamie Oliver badge if I could find one. Yes, he can be irritating. Especially when you're hungover and struggling to muster enough energy to cook baked beans on toast- the last thing you want to see and hear is Mr. Oliver telling you that in seven minutes you can concoct a fantastic meal for a family of thirty-six. Or something like that. But I love his attitude to food; YES, buy local produce. YES, avoid supermarkets (we'll ignore the fact that he's the Sainsbury's poster boy- in his books and magazines, he rarely advocates supermarket shopping,) but embrace our HUGE cultural heritage!

Great British Recipes is a fantastic source of ideas that embody all of Britain's cultural influences, and is a great tool of inspiration in the kitchen. Its recipes are easy to read, easy to cook, and even easier to eat. It is not, however, 30-Minute meals: there are a lot of over-night marinades and slow cooks. In fact, my favourite recipe is the slow roast pork belly, which I've tweaked endlessly to suit whatever occasion I pull it out the bag for, as it really is very adaptable. However, it does take a good nine-hours of love and attention. I had to sleep in half hour stints the first time I attempted it- I soon learnt it is not a Sunday lunch dish- early evening at the very least.... But then sometimes a little bit of sleep deprivation can be worth it.

So there you go- the first four. I do hope you're all still awake...

mrs hunt.x

please sir, can I have some more?

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 19:10:00 +0000

I'm a bit odd, and will happily slurp down a chilled, decidedly 'summery' soup in the depths of December. And since December is all-too rapidly approaching, I thought I'd hark back to those early days of summer: for me, there is nothing more mood lifting than celebrating the mercury hitting twenty degrees (since let's face it- we are British...) with a super-cool soup.

When most people think 'cold soup,' their minds understandably jump to Gazpacho, in one of its numerous regional variations. Now call me a cheat, but I rarely bother making my own; the reality is that most decent delicatessens stock fantastic stuff in cartons, saving a huge amount of time and effort on your part. Balancing the seasoning and acidity of a Gazpacho is notoriously difficult, so if you find a brand you like, don't see buying it as a cop-out.

Amongst others, there is also the Vichyssoise vein of cold soupage, but it's not my favourite. For me, the best soup to usher in those early summer days, and one that will see you through to mid-September, is anything bright green and with a healthy amount of gin. Now, when I first started putting gin into soup, I'm fairly certain my husband suspected me of having some kind of borderline alcohol dependency; admittedly, if the gin wasn't going into my food, it would be going into my tonic. Or both, for that matter. But my logic is very convincing: the botanicals found in most gins match perfectly with all those foods we associate best with summer- think cucumber and lemon, for example- so it gives a green summer soup a perfectly innocent kick.

What You Need:

2 sticks of celery (hold on to the leaves)
A large handful of borage, if available. Failing that, 2/3 of a cucumber.
1 courgette
1 average-sized bag of watercress
A couple of slices of decent quality white bread, crusts off.
Juice of 3 unwaxed lemons, and the zest of 2 (reserve half for the the garnish)
100g of soft British goat's cheese, or feta.
100g frozen peas
1 handful of applemint (or ordinary if you can't find any)
50ml Hendricks gin (as it has a more pronounced cucumber flavour, but any gin works well)
A good slug of cider vinegar
1 cup of crushed ice
Tabasco/generic hot sauce to serve (optional)

Plus: a blender.

Try to allow some degree of flexibility with your ingredients: asparagus works well if you throw in a couple of stalks, but it is worth bearing in mind that its season is very short (just a couple of months from the end of May, depending on weather.) Obviously you could use asparagus imported from Israel or some other far-flung country, but it kind of defeats the object here. This soup is amazing because you could probably source everything within a twenty mile radius, if you tried hard enough- depending on how many local goats are hanging around. Essentially, if you have anything non-toxic and of the right hue hanging around your garden, just chuck it in. Lettuce, broad beans and chives can all be subbed-in as necessary, depending on your mood. Just be creative.

What You Do:

Seeing as this soup is raw, there's not much scope for screwing it up. That is unless (like me) you feel the urge to stick a wooden spoon into your blender halfway through the blending process. Large chunks of wood are an optional extra.

1. Chop up your celery, keeping a few of the leaves for a fancy garnish. Throw it in the blender with the roughly chopped borage/cucumber and courgette.

2. Pulse a couple of times to achieve a lumpy, thick-ish base, and then tear up your bread, adding this on top. Follow this with the rest of the veg, and then the cheese. Feel free to keep some back if you want to crumble it on top with the rest of your garnish. Blend it.

3. At this point, the jug will probably need a bit of a jig to ensure everything is getting mushed. But like I said, don't use a wooden spoon.

4. Add the gin, lemon juice and cider vinegar, followed by the zest of one of your lemons. If you are using the unwaxed variety, you'll notice that the scent and oils are a lot stronger than in its waxed variety. I'm sure I don't need to explain why.

5. Season like there's no tomorrow- this can take it. In the unlikely event that you do go over the top, it's easy enough to counter balance with a bit more gin, lemon juice, cucumber... anything. Whizz it all up until you get a smooth-ish consistency, and then heap on the crushed ice. Bash it all up again, and then check for seasoning. This really is quite a personal soup, and you can add as much or as little of the ingredients as you like to suit your taste.

6.Serve chilled, with a few pretty bits and pieces of anything that went in there initially adorning the top. I get incredibly excited by the contrast between cucumber and chilli on my tongue, so I'm not shy with the Tabasco, but it's always up to you.

So, before it's too late, try to squeeze in one more summery soup. Before you know, it'll be leek and lentil all round...

mrs hunt.x

the ultimate store-cupboard

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 16:12:00 +0000

Even if it does take me
twenty minutes to locate
what I'm looking for,
it's MY store cupboard,
and I love it.

I'm one of those people that has the habit of buying one of the following items on every shopping trip, in the full knowledge that I have at least three in back-up at home. But still, for the most part these are non-perishable- so space permitting, go crazy...

Anchovies- On toast. Melted into sauces. Clumsily yanked out of the jar when you're drunk, hungry, and in need of a juicy little salt-kick. Or maybe that's just me.

Capers- Another glorious multi-tasker, these are perfect for adding texture and balance to any dish that might otherwise be a bit on the rich side. Or, chuck a load over any kind of cured fish, put a dollop of creme fraiche on the side with a heaping of peppery rocket, and hey presto. A pretentious-looking lunch.

Olives- With the first two store cupboard essentials, these form a Holy Trinity of sorts. Just ask any passing Neopolitan, if you can find one.

Goose/Duck Fat- pricey, but ESSENTIAL for any roast potato worth its salt. Lard and vegetable oil don't even come close. If you don't fancy paying four quid for the tinned stuff, just pop round to your local butchers. Give them a cheeky little smile, ask very politley, and I'm sure they'll oblige with a good lump of tasty fat for far less than Mr. Tesco would ask of you.

Parmesan/Gran Padano/Parmigiano Regiano etc - Now, when I say Parmesan etc, I mean etc. Any kind of hard, piquant, peppery cheese is a must-have, in my house at least. Swap for manchego (derived from ewe's milk instead of cow's) or anything else you fancy. It's probably also worth mentioning that most hard cheeses of this nature freeze excellently- just pull out a nugget, and grate/shave/whatever, and it defrosts instantly. Pop it back in, and it'll keep for ages. My mother-in-law taught me that. Useful, eh?

Chilli- I'm a heat-fiend. I love anything with a kick- the hotter, the better- and I am yet to be trounced in any variety of hot sauce shooting contest. So needless to say, there's rarely a shortage of scoville-providing goodies in my kitchen. It is worth baring in mind that you never really know what you're getting heat wise until you test a chilli- some of the varieties considered 'medium' in heat can often turn out to be disappointingly mild. I always like to have a tiny little nibble first, just to gauge how much I should be using. That said, I wouldn't suggest trying this for any of the super spicy varieties. Scotch Bonnets burn. And, as always, WASH YOUR HANDS AFTER. I won't divulge any of the more intimate nasty experiences I've had after failing to do this, but be warned.

Oh, and chillis both dry and freeze quite nicely.

Lemons/Limes- Perhaps it has something to do with being wife to a mixologist. Or maybe it's because I'm overly fond of a nice G&T. Either way, lemons and limes are essential. You can even cook with them, if you must.

Garlic- Need I really justify this? No? Thought not.

Cheap Red/White Wine- Now nothing so good that you'll be tempted to drink it, but nothing so crap it'll turn a hearty chilli into a vinegary mess. Whilst wine can be used at the iffy point where you wouldn't really mind drinking it- you know, if you were desperate, don't be mistaken into thinking anything with a decent ABV will do. If you have a couple of bottles knocking around somewhere, you're only a few steps away from whipping up a decent pasta sauce or wintery stew.

Palm Sugar- Found pretty easily in ethnic food shops, markets, or even some bigger supermarkets (if you must), palm sugar is fantastic for anything Asian or Carribbean-inspired. With a bit of lime, chilli and oil, you have a beautiful little dressing for a Thai beef salad. Obviously you can just use normal sugar, but where's the fun in that?

'Tipo 00'- the strong stuff

Caster Sugar- Just for those impromptu baking whims. Don't fool yourself by thinking any sugar will suffice- granulated won't dissolve properly in most cakes, biscuits or sweet pastries, and whereas anything dark might compliment a ginger or chocolate cake, it will just overpower Grandma's Victoria Sponge. So if in doubt, opt for caster.

Flours- Plain and self raising are, of course, store cupboard staples, but I always like to mix things up with a Spelt or Buckwheat. Both are really good for savoury recipes (galettes with goats cheese and chorizo are a personal favourite), but are also suitable for anyone with a gluten intolerance. Happy days.

Eggs- Please, forgive the rant. It will be a short one, because I'm planning an entire post dedicated to whinging about the awareness of food provenance (it's something us Brits in particular are double-crap at...) So- eggs. PLEASE please please, DO NOT ever buy from caged or battery farmed hens. Aside from the fact that the conditions these chickens are kept in are unbearably cruel, the resulting eggs are pale, tasteless little lumps of horribleness. Just shell out the extra- what? 30p?? And get some from hens that are free to roam around and be happy. Or better still, get them from a farm. Or a farm shop. Or my dad- he has loads of hens, and the eggs are big, juicy, with tasty golden yolks.

Result: you get nice eggs, keep a clear conscience, and people power will help destroy a cruel industry that's mean to chickens.

NB. Don't bother putting eggs in the fridge. They are almost always better off cooked from room temperature, and cold egg whites are a lot harder to fluff up. They'll keep just as long, promise.

Maldon Sea Salt- It has no preservatives (so none of that weird bitter taste some cheap cooking salts have), looks pretty, and is fun to smash up. It also has the added bonus of being British, which is always nice.

Virgin and Extra-Virgin Olive Oil- Don't just stick to what you know with oils. Virgin is best for cooking (don't waste the good extra-virgin stuff- the taste just disappears as soon as it heats up), but extra-virgin is where you can have fun experimenting. Different countries and regions can have a huge impact on the taste of the oil that's being produced. For instance, as a rule, Cypriot olive oils tend to be grassier, and the Italians more fruity and mellow. But shop around, and don't be afraid of spending a bit more on a nice bottle, because it's definitely worth it. Remember to keep in a cool, dark-ish cupboard (or else in a tinted bottle) to stop it going dodge.

Rapeseed Oil- It's British, it's a nice colour, and it tastes lovely.

I wouldn't recommend eating Daffodils.

Paprika- Buy the smoked stuff in the pretty tins, and sprinkle it over anything for a bit of warmth and spice- it really is very versatile, and can save any casserole or chicken dish from blandness. Nutmeg and cinnamon can be used to a similar end, in a pinch. Neither have the same smoky heat, but both will help create some warmth. Personally, I like my paprika over griddled asparagus with olive oil and lemon zest.

Cumin (Ground and Seeds)- Essential for any kind of Indian or Middle-Eastern cooking. It has such a distinct taste, and it can really help to transform a meal in a jiffy. Seeds can be bashed up and fried lightly in oil to give an aromatic base to anything else you want to throw into the pan. Cumin and root veg- especially carrots or parsnips- are a match made in heaven, and it goes just as well with lamb and (perhaps surprisingly) shellfish.

Fennel Seeds- Use with lamb, fish, chicken, pork, or anything that reminds you of the sunshine.

Mustard Seeds- Black or yellow, these are great at imparting flavour into oil before you chuck your meat in, and help add a bit of heat and pepperiness into Indian cooking. You can also get creative and make your own mustards, if you feel inclined.

Chicken Stock- I really do believe that people don't poach chicken enough, and here's why it should be done more: 1) it keeps it so moist and lovely, whereas most other forms of cooking tend to dry it out, 2) it's a super laid back way of cooking, but really helps saturate the chicken with the flavour of whatever it is you're sticking in the water with it, 3) you get a nice big pan of stock at the end of it. Stick in a freezer bag, and use in soups, risottos, and sauces. I don't care what Marco Pierre White says, I seriously doubt he'd pick a bloody Knorr cube over home made stock any day.

Rices- Long grain, arborio risotto rice, and basmati. Cook it up in your chicken stock, and don't use the microwave stuff. Yes, it's quicker to turn to Uncle Ben, but it's also expensive and, let's face it, crap.

Now this is by no means a definitive list of the world's most useful ingredients, and it certainly isn't going to see you through any kind of nuclear holocaust (though I'm fairly certain I could survive off anchovies alone for a year or so...) That said, everything in here will help to provide a pretty solid basis to some decent meals. So what more can I say? Happy shopping!

mrs hunt.x

the imaginatively titled first-post

noreply@blogger.com (mrs hunt) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 18:59:00 +0000

Hmm. This feels like a momentous occasion: I have finally ceased colour-tweaking, and actually started blogging. Which was, after all, the idea.

the idea:

I like to write, and I like to cook. Asking me which I prefer is like asking a parent to admit to having a favourite child- they secretly know, but will never let on. So why on earth have I decided to chuck my food-based musings (and rants- I'm sure there will be rants) into the abyss that is food blogging? Partially, I suppose, because if I spend nearly every spare waking moment cooking, I really ought to give more people the opportunity for ridicule; it just wouldn't be fair otherwise. Equally, with most of the remaining non-cooking moments spent eating, I always think it's rather nice to let people in on some of those unexpected gems that crop up in the way of places to get fed.

Now, I say this with every intention of avoiding sappiness, but I suppose all of this (*nods towards the sea of notes, recipe clippings and reviews I've scribbled over the years swamping both myself and the cat on the sofa*) boils down to having a passion for anything I can put in my mouth (Ahem. Food-wise. This is not one of THOSE websites. Sorry to disappoint), and it all comes from a girl who recently spent her last fiver on ceramic baking balls instead of actual food, for either myself, husband, or aforementioned cat. But then the satisfaction of having a beautifully blind-baked tart case surely overshadows the grim reality of having nothing to fill it with. It might be worth mentioning that Husband failed to see where I was coming from on this particular whim.

That said, my ramblings are not necessarily intended for those as obsessed (or financially reckless) as myself. To enjoy my blog, I hope all anyone needs is a modicum of interest in good food, where it comes from, and the fun you can have when you start to mix things up a bit. And, as always, enthusiasm is far more important than actual talent. Enjoy.

mrs hunt.x