Praise and a Side of Curry

A confession: I spend an embarrassing amount of time every day reading about food, mainly on Twitter and on blogs. I’m not going to give you an exact number, because if I write it down, I will be forced take my laptop and throw it off my fourth-floor balcony onto the footpath below my building. And I don’t want to kill some poor, innocent pedestrian because I can’t cope with my internet habit.

But anyway. With the sheer volume of food-related information being produced on the web these days, sometimes it’s a little hard to get excited about the latest hamburger joint in Soho or the best pizza in Queens. But there are a few blogs where I always perk up when I see a new post. One of them is Eat Like a Girl, written by Niamh Shields.

Eat Like a Girl is largely a recipe blog, with restaurant reviews and travel writing mixed in here and there. The prose is evocative without being florid, and she writes recipes clearly and logically. She also has similar tastes to me – big flavours and influences from around the world. And even though she has an undying love for all things piggy, I can still read those recipes and appreciate her joy in experimenting with new combinations, even if I can’t partake in the results. I’m booked on to a class with her to learn to make different kinds of candy, and I’m sure I will come away with both good understanding and some very tasty treats!

So I was sold on her butternut squash-chickpea-spinach curry before I even made it. Butternut squash is a special favourite of mine at this time of year – it’s just so sweet and tender and ORANGE. It also takes especially well to spicy, bold flavours, which this curry has in spades. The cumin and coriander seeds especially give it serious oomph. The method is straightforward as for all relatives of stew and soup: sauté aromatics, add solids, add liquids, simmer until reduced and/or tender. And as with stew, it’s better after some aging time in the fridge.

The end result! And a bonus hand.

My only change this time around was to use a red chili in place of green, because that’s what my greengrocer had. It’s milder with a red chili, but you lose that herbal, citrusy note that green ones give. Next time I also might tinker with the spices and try it with some fennel or brown mustard seeds.

(You can find the recipe on Eat Like a Girl. Niamh also has a terrific cookbook called Comfort and Spice, which you should also check out!)

Slowdown

One of the few pleasures of unemployment is always having time. Time to read. Time to go for very long walks, dallying in front of shop windows, meandering down untrodden paths. And if you’re me, time to cook a Bolognese sauce that takes over four hours, start to finish.

Now, I can see some of you furrowing your brows, with a fairly distant memory poking up its head. Yes, I’ve already got a recipe for spag bol in this blog. A mighty fine one it is, too. But I was feeling the urge to make something long and labour-intensive, and I had a copy of Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking languishing on my shelf.  And why not try the be-all and end-all recipe for something which is a standard in any cook’s repertoire?

And so I went off on a long walk, down the market, along the canal, through Victoria Park. I dawdled on the park’s paths, inhaling the autumn aromas of earth and smoke, watched the magpies and wood pigeons dig in the ground. When I got to south Hackney, I bought mince from the Ginger Pig, wine from Bottle Apostle, carrots and onion from the greengrocer, proper Italian tinned tomatoes from the posh deli.

When I got home, I put on some opera and set about my vegetables. Twenty minutes later (yes, I’m slow, but how quickly can you chop three sticks of celery and four carrots into small pieces?), they and the mince fried in the pan, then simmered with white wine, milk, and a little nutmeg . The tomatoes joined them shortly afterwards, and they all settled down for their three-hour simmer. I added water every 30 minutes to keep everything buoyant.  

And the result? It was good, and I imagine it’ll be even better after a day or two in the fridge. But was it worth all the effort? I’m not sure. It’s possible I’m so used to lashings of herbs and garlic in my food that I can’t appreciate something more subtle. But I also think that if I ever take three hours over pasta sauce again, I’ll use a cut of beef that benefits more from slower cooking, like shin.  The mince on its own doesn’t give enough depth – there’s a reason I put beef stock into my faster recipe.  I’d also cut the vegetables smaller than I did, as even after three hours of cooking they remained a little al dente.

But despite my mixed feelings, I did learn some new tricks for my own recipe. I preferred the white wine in the sauce over the red I’d used before, and simmering the meat and vegetables in milk first did a lot to balance the acidity from the tomatoes and wine.

So it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Though these days, I have so much time that a mildly successful cooking project seems a valid way to spend it.

P.S. I just had the leftovers for lunch today, and it tasted so much better. So if you’re going to make this, I would suggest brewing it up a day or two ahead.

DIY Jam

After extended empirical study, I have determined that this recession has been very good for food. Frustrated by the lack of opportunities in more traditional careers, many people my age have turned to DIY food as an alternative option. You only have to walk around my neighborhood to see the results: Broadway Market on a Saturday is full of people making their own ice lollies (popsicles for my fellow Yanks) and hot chocolate mixes, and down the road from me is a bakery run by escaped academics which makes some of the best bread I’ve ever had.

Those of you awaiting my announcement that I’m about to start my own business will be disappointed for the moment. But I do find all of this foodie creativity really inspiring, and this past weekend I scratched the itch by making jam.

A crimson sea, or blackberry jam in progress.

Now, you’re probably wondering why anyone would bother standing over a hot stove cooking fruit and sugar when I could just walk around the corner and buy a really nice jar of conserve instead? Well, partially because the process is fun, especially when you do it with friends. Though you might end up sprawled out on the couch afterwards from all the sugar you’ve consumed.

Before the crash.

Also, homemade jam reaches levels of deliciousness of which store-bought stuff can only dream, especially when you’ve got fruit at its peak. Observe the below:

Blackberry on the left, strawberry on the right.

I mean, would you look at the color of that blackberry jam! That stuff is crimson. And the taste: sweet and rich, but with enough tanginess to keep you wanting more. Don’t get me wrong – blackberry jam from the store is perfectly nice, but this stuff is in another league entirely.

If I’ve convinced you and you want to start making your own jam, the best guide is the River Cottage Handbook on Preserves by Pam Corbin. All the recipes work exactly as they’re written, but she also gives plenty of information about technique so that you can wing it if you are so inclined.

Speaking of winging it, the proportions I tried made a jam that was very thick (though still fine for spreading). If you like a runnier jam, I’d suggest replacing 400g/14.5oz of the jam sugar with regular granulated sugar, and also performing the set test after only a minute or two at the rolling boil.

Result!

Berko Blackberry Jam (thanks to Sophie G for the name, and for hosting our jam-making afternoon)

Makes 3 454g/1lb jars

1kg/2.2lbs blackberries
1.15kg/2.5lbs jam sugar
120ml/ 0.5 cup fresh lemon juice

1. Rinse your berries, then in a big bowl thoroughly crush them to a pulp using a potato masher.

2. Using a spoon with a flat-ish bottom, push the blackberry pulp through a fine sieve into your jam pan. It’s best to do this in 3-4 goes, scraping the remaining seeds out of the sieve each time. (This may seem like a real faff, but if you leave the seeds in, the jam will be crunchier than a hippie eating granola.)

3. Put the jam pan over low heat on the hob until the blackberry puree comes to a gentle simmer. Add the jam sugar, and stir it into the blackberries until it dissolves completely.

4. Add the lemon juice, then whack the heat up to high and bring the mixture up to a rolling boil.

5. Leave to boil for 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and do the set test.*

6. Pour into sterilised jars, then put the lids on and leave to cool.

*Methods vary wildly for how to test when your jam is set. The best method I have found is the following:

1. When you’re starting to make your jam, put 3-4 saucers in the freezer to get really good and cold.

2.Once you’ve got your jam to a rolling boil and kept it there for 5 minutes, or however long your recipe suggests, grab one of the cold saucers, plop a little jam on it, then turn the heat off under the pan.

3. Stick the plate back in the freezer, count to 60, then take it out again. When you push it with your finger, it should form little bumps/crinkles.

4. If it doesn’t, crinkle put the plate aside, whack the heat back up to high under the jam, count to 60, then repeat with another cold saucer.

The Book of Chinese Chicken Salad

In the beginning…

There was nothing but darkness. Well, not quite darkness. But there were sullen grey clouds, that would drift across the sky and occasionally spit rain at inconvenient, umbrella-less moments.

And the Lord said, “I’m THIS CLOSE to cancelling summer entirely, unless you lazy, whiny people do something amazing to change my mind.”

And the people sent their athletes to compete on the water and in the velodrome and on the track, and won many victories over the other nations. And the people were simultaneously jubilant and incredulous. They said to each other “How is this happening? We never win ANYTHING! WOOHOO!”

And the Lord muttered, “Bunch of show-offs.”

And then said, “Well done! Let there be light!”

And there was light! And the people rejoiced, revealed their pasty flesh, and frolicked in the fields and on the pavements and on the beaches.

And this writer made chicken salad. Not just any chicken salad, though. No mayonnaise in this baby. Just shredded poached chicken, dressed with a mildly spicy, super-savoury Sichuanese dressing, and served over sliced cucumbers.

And she saw that it was good. Very, very good.

Cold Chicken with a Spicy Sichuanese Sauce (adapted from Fuchsia Dunlop’s Every Grain of Rice: Simple Chinese Home Cooking)

Serves 2 as a light dinner

300-350g/0.75 pounds cold, cooked chicken breast (I poached mine, but leftovers from a roast would work, too)
3 spring onions, thinly sliced on a diagonal
0.25 tsp salt
1 tbsp sesame seeds
2 tbsp light soy sauce
1.5 tsp Chinkiang vinegar
1.5 tsp caster sugar
1 tbsp chicken stock
4 tbsp Sichuanese chili oil, with 0.5 tbsp of the sediment from the bottom of the jar
0.5 tsp ground Sichuan pepper
15-20 1cm cucumber slices

1. Shred the cooked chicken, and put it in a big bowl with spring onions and salt. Toss to combine.

2. Toast the sesame seeds on a low heat on the hob until they go a few shades darker and smell nutty.

3. Combine the other ingredients in a small bowl.

4. When ready to eat, add the dressing and the sesame seeds to the chicken mixture, and toss to combine. Lay out the cucumber slices on two small plates, then divide the chicken between them. Serve, and enjoy.

Note: You can find the vinegar, chili oil, and peppercorns at any Chinese market. They will keep nearly indefinitely.

Seasonal Process

A step-by-step guide to make a plateful of summer:

1. After you’ve eaten breakfast, thinly slice some garlic and chop some basil into ribbons, and put them in a very big bowl with a hearty slug of good olive oil.

2. Go to work. Or, if you’re me, go to your nearest café/bakery and write more of this blog, then wander around random neighborhoods of London searching for more material for said blog and generally passing the time.

3. Return home after work/moseying. Your kitchen will smell like at Italian grandmother’s been cooking while you were out. After taking a deep whiff, chop up from two to four of the ripest, squidgiest tomatoes you can find and mix them with the garlic, basil, and oil.

4. Do whatever it is you do post-work; go the gym, run out to the supermarket, or watch the festival of minor sports currently appearing on most television channels.

5. When you’re good and hungry, boil some salted water and add a small fistful of spaghetti (not whole wheat – I normally love the chewy, nutty stuff, but it doesn’t work for this dish.)

6. While the spaghetti is cooking, cut a ball of mozzarella into cubes the size of your top thumb joint. When that’s done, run back and watch another five minutes of athletics.

7. Drain the pasta, then pour it on top of the tomato-garlic-basil mixture. Scatter the cheese over the spaghetti. Toss the spaghetti and cheese together first, then bring the tomatoes up from the bottom of the bowl.

8. Serve. Eat with lots of appreciative groaning. When you’ve finished with the pasta, pick up your plate and slurp the rest of the tomato-garlic dressing like a ten-year old drinking cereal milk.

9. Repeat for all of August and a chunk of September.

(Serves 2. For the less personalized version of this recipe, visit The Wednesday Chef.)

A New Taste of Home

Californians in search of Mexican food in the UK behave like addicts moved 3000 miles away from their fix. All through my time studying in Cambridge and Edinburgh, my fellow exchange students would furtively swap tips with each other; which restaurant grilled OK carne asada, or made guacamole almost as good as what you could get at home. But when all was said and eaten, these subpar examples just seemed to amplify their cravings, not satisfy them.

I’d held myself above this fray in the past, not out of any when-in-Rome snobbery, but because I didn’t see what the fuss was about. The staples of my northern California childhood weren’t burritos and fajitas but sushi and chow mein. I don’t consider a visit to my parents in Cupertino complete without visits to Bay Sushi and Hong Fu. Mexican food by contrast seemed mostly heavy and uninteresting.

And why on earth would people go in search of something that they knew wouldn’t be as good as at home, when they were surrounded by various examples of the wonder that is Indian food in Britain? OK, so that’s a little snobbery, but when places like Tayyabs exist, can you really blame me?

But anyway, I was wandering around the back end of Notting Hill yesterday, a place which makes me question whether the whole financial crisis actually happened. But along with all the designer baby clothing and five-quid tomatoes, this neighborhood is home to a restaurant called Taqueria.

So I plunked myself down at a two-top and ordered some chilaquiles. Chilaquiles are a waste-not-want-not dish: stale corn tortillas are simmered in a fragrant chile sauce (red or green) until almost soft, then topped with a little queso fresco (kind of like ricotta). Taqueria served theirs with a pool of creamy black beans. My second thought after taking a bite of my green chilaquiles (after how delicious it was) was how homey it tasted. I hadn’t grown up eating it every week, but I knew this was the ultimate comfort food. Stewy, a little creamy, with enough flavour and texture to keep things interesting without being challenging.

Then I realised why I found it so comforting: it reminded me of my mother’s glop casserole. Glop is something which is much more than the sum of its parts: canned corn, kidney beans, and beef mince mixed with a lot of mild chili powder, then topped with shredded cheese and crushed Fritos (a corn chip like an ordinary tortilla chip on flavour steroids) and baked. Thinking back on it today, it was the mixture of crisp corn chips with the mince underneath that came to mind as I ate my chilaquiles.

So, for all you Californians (and other Americans, too) in London who are longing for that spicy taste of home, you now have a place to get your fix. I know that I’ll be going back for another soon!

P.S. I also bought a jar of chipotles in adobo sauce for a future experiment with chicken tinga tacos. Watch this space…

Taqueria
139-143 Westbourne Grove
London W11 2RS

Absence and Berry Cakes

(So, where on earth have I been for the past four months? Well, I was a food-related fundraising intern for a wonderful organisation called Action Against Hunger, working with restaurants to join a campaign which the charity runs in September and October. Interning full-time meant that blogging fell down my To Do list, but I hope to make up for that over the coming weeks. If I have any readers left, in the immortal words of Sam Cooke, bring it on home to me! Now, the main event…)

Unlike 99.99% of the world population, I do not believe that fresh raspberries and blueberries are a sign that the God of summer loves us and wants us to be happy. I don’t find them offensive, just squidgy and kind of bland. I do have fond memories of picking fresh blackberries at summer camp and eating them churned into vanilla ice cream, but that’s kind of it.

But it’s summer after all, so I decided to confront my own prejudice and bake with berries. First I made a batch of raspberry-rhubarb muffins from the Flour Bakery cookbook by Joanne Chang as a birthday present for my father. Second was a raspberry-blackberry Bundt cake, based on a recipe from the ever-excellent Smitten Kitchen. Apologies for the lack of photographs – both recipes turned out less-than-photogenic due to some serious pan-sticking issues, and I was on holiday and feeling lazy.

(Also, I find as I get older than I’m becoming more of a cook than a baker. A less generous person would attribute it to my shortening attention span, but I’d like to think that I’m becoming more relaxed and generally willing to go with the flow. But the simplest explanation is that I’m out of practice.)

Despite all the messiness, both recipes turned out delicious. They work on a similar principle: make a vanilla-scented cake batter (the muffins included lots of melted butter, eggs, crème fraiche, and whole milk), then stir through whatever berries tickle your fancy. When baked, the berries (and rhubarb) become jammy pockets of tartness that refresh you in the midst of rich, moist, very sweet cake. It’d make a perfect mid-morning snack with a cup of strong, milky coffee.

A cake so good I couldn’t resist taking a bite before photographing it.

So will you find me locked away scarfing carton after carton of raspberries, eyes gleaming with the fervor of the newly converted? Well, no. But berries and I are now on nodding terms, and that’s an improvement!