As a species, we seem to be inexorably drawn to finding a nice, neat way of explaining our environment; our universe; as to why we're here at all. Almost as much as our recent increase in national debt (but obviously not quite that much) has been spent on a giant electro-magnet in Switzerland known as CERN which, when the egg-heads get it to work properly, will tell us what the universe is made of. Once and for all. In a simple, easily understandable way. Maybe.
These type of experiments (and long may they continue) suggest that it's as if we desperately need to sum up our lives and existence with a simple answer and, all too often, a single phrase. Life's full of them: a stitch in time saves nine (whatever that means), one swallow doesn't make a summer and, closer to home for me, too many cooks spoil the broth. Really? Sometimes we could do with a lot more cooks and too few cooks might mean the broth doesn't get made.
Talking to a few of our chefs recently, I did a little survey by asking each one: how important is good eating to you? Their response was swift. Of course good eating's important. They spend many hard-working hours in hot kitchens ensuring that our customers leave happy. But that's not what I meant.
Over the years I've worked with many chefs who never eat what they cook professionally. The food they cooked at home, if they cooked at all, was nothing like that in their restaurants. In fact, at one stage, I came to believe that a British chef's staple diet consisted of bacon sandwiches interspersed with the occasional kebab.
That's why I was asking them about the importance of eating because it occurs to me that there's little point in looking at the recipes I write, or of flicking through cook books, if the objective is to actually appreciate food. The enjoyment of eating and the appreciation of good food doesn't necessarily need to be accompanied by an ability to cook. It might help but there are many gourmets who can't cook - and that includes many restaurant critics. One doesn't need to be able to act well to appreciate good theatre. But one really does have to understand eating to cook well.
Understanding that eating is an enjoyment in itself is what's necessary. And opening the mind to what's on offer, pushing prejudices aside and appreciating what others like. Then, if you really want to cook well, you'll know what you're looking for.
I admit that I've argued for years that there's an almost criminal lack of education in our schools when it comes to cooking and I still believe that to be true. But that has to be accompanied by an understanding of how to enjoy eating the result for it really to be useful.
It's not about understanding how to cook but how to enjoy eating. Then recipes can help one understand how to cook in order to attain the level of eating one aspires to. It's about identifying the objective then sorting out the method of achieving it. Then one can become a good cook.
Wow! This is nearly as complicated as finding a universe-unifying theory. But I don't need a subterranean laboratory to identify it. It can be summed up in a simple phrase, one much loved by dictators and despots alike throughout history. When it comes to becoming a good cook it's essential that one appreciates eating. And therefore you need only five words: the end justifies the means.
Saturday 24 April 2010
Friday 16 April 2010
Rhubarb trifle
Used as a fruit but actually a vegetable, it means I nearly always go to the wrong part of the wholesale market to try and get rhubarb. You may have a rhubarb plant and not be convinced that it’s the season yet. Well, after the recent cold winter, you may be right. But we’ve a tradition in this country of forcing rhubarb; that is, covering it to make it come early. And it’s the resulting pale and interesting stems that can give us one of the first fruity tastes of summer – even though it’s still not a fruit.
Unless you have a palate for things very tart, it’ll always need at least a little sweetening. Used here in our trifle, that’s done with the sugar and lemonade. The recipe calls for a homemade custard but, if you were short of time, there’s no reason why you couldn’t use a tin of readymade custard with a little vanilla essence added.
400g rhubarb
140g castor sugar
One vanilla pod
150ml lemonade
550ml double cream
275ml milk
Three leafs of gelatine
Eight egg yolks
One pack of sponge fingers
One trifle bowl
Chop the rhubarb into 1 inch pieces, put into a non-aluminium pan with the lemonade and 100g of the castor sugar and cook gently until the rhubarb has broken down.
Meanwhile, soak the gelatine leaves in cold water and, when soft, remove from the water and squeeze out the excess before mixing it into the cooked rhubarb until dissolved.
Cover the base of the trifle bowl with the sponge fingers, breaking them if necessary, and then spoon the rhubarb mixture over the top. Refrigerate for an hour or two until set.
Meanwhile, make the custard by putting half the cream and all the milk into a pan and gently bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place a pan containing an inch or so of water on to heat to come to a simmer. Split the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape out the seeds. Place them into a bowl along with the egg yolks and 30g of the remaining sugar. Whisk them together a little and, when the cream and milk comes to the boil, pour over the egg yolk mix, whisking all the time. Place the bowl on top of the pan of simmering water and stir continuously until the custard starts to thicken and coat the back of the spoon. Remove the bowl from the pan, allow the custard to cool and then spoon over the rhubarb jelly before returning it to the fridge to set.
To serve, whisk the remainder of the cream and sugar until it forms soft peaks and spoon this over the custard. Then maybe sprinkle over some grated chocolate or almonds or both or anything you can think of.
Unless you have a palate for things very tart, it’ll always need at least a little sweetening. Used here in our trifle, that’s done with the sugar and lemonade. The recipe calls for a homemade custard but, if you were short of time, there’s no reason why you couldn’t use a tin of readymade custard with a little vanilla essence added.
400g rhubarb
140g castor sugar
One vanilla pod
150ml lemonade
550ml double cream
275ml milk
Three leafs of gelatine
Eight egg yolks
One pack of sponge fingers
One trifle bowl
Chop the rhubarb into 1 inch pieces, put into a non-aluminium pan with the lemonade and 100g of the castor sugar and cook gently until the rhubarb has broken down.
Meanwhile, soak the gelatine leaves in cold water and, when soft, remove from the water and squeeze out the excess before mixing it into the cooked rhubarb until dissolved.
Cover the base of the trifle bowl with the sponge fingers, breaking them if necessary, and then spoon the rhubarb mixture over the top. Refrigerate for an hour or two until set.
Meanwhile, make the custard by putting half the cream and all the milk into a pan and gently bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place a pan containing an inch or so of water on to heat to come to a simmer. Split the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape out the seeds. Place them into a bowl along with the egg yolks and 30g of the remaining sugar. Whisk them together a little and, when the cream and milk comes to the boil, pour over the egg yolk mix, whisking all the time. Place the bowl on top of the pan of simmering water and stir continuously until the custard starts to thicken and coat the back of the spoon. Remove the bowl from the pan, allow the custard to cool and then spoon over the rhubarb jelly before returning it to the fridge to set.
To serve, whisk the remainder of the cream and sugar until it forms soft peaks and spoon this over the custard. Then maybe sprinkle over some grated chocolate or almonds or both or anything you can think of.
Clothes maketh a man
Because I’m a man, I can only shop for clothes in two sorts of ways. There’s the best way where I walk with deliberation into the shop, ignore all the offers of help from the assistants, stride up to the requisite rail or shelf, find my size, go straight to the till, pay and leave; all within two minutes of arriving. Or there’s the other way, where I prevaricate for ages, ask the opinion of the shop assistant, the cleaner, my wife and the people coming out of the changing rooms. Then go to another three shops, considering what others might think, before deciding on what I want to buy. And it was probably in the first shop, and I’m definitely not going to wear it more than once, if that, because I got it wrong, it doesn’t fit and I hate it.
I know I should never go shopping in any way other than the first.. But, sadly, I do. At least I don’t spend a large proportion of my life feeling clothes on rails, picking them up, putting them back, picking them up again, holding them against me, holding them up to the light and then putting them down again. And then picking them up again and . . . you know who you are darling. But maybe I should; if only to avoid half a wardrobe of hardly-worn horrible clothes.
I’m better when I go into a bar. I always know what I want long before I get there. And if they don’t have it, I always have a reliable substitute ready. This is different from how others I know do it; those of a different gender to me represented by my wife who, when we get to the bar, always looks surprised when I ask her what she wants. Not because she doesn’t expect me to buy her a drink; far from it. Rather, it appears that she forgets that bars serve drinks. It’s a common ailment.
And then there’s ordering food at a restaurant. “Oh I wish I’d ordered that. Mind if we swap; maybe half way through?” Yes, I do actually because I’ve just spent a good ten minutes taking the carefully-prepared menu very seriously and made my decision with respectful care. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with your disappointment. It’s your own fault, after all. Oh, go on then. I’ll finish off your tofu burger while you tuck into the remainder of this venison casserole that I’d been saving ‘til last because it contains the best bits. I hope you realise how lucky you are.
It’s obvious that I’m a lot better at considering a menu than I am at the consideration phase of buying clothes. And, when I’ve made my choice, I’m honourable enough to stick with my decision and not try and make my dining companion feel guilty. I know this sounds as if I’m bitter. Actually I’m not. I’m used to the idea as I’ve been married a very long time and it’s something I’ve learnt to put up with. Like backache.
It’s the others I feel sorry for. I watch them in our restaurants. He’s using the meal as a way of softening her up in the hope that food and wine may just be the way to her heart and other places. So what should he do when she looks longingly at the dish that he’s chosen so carefully and is longing to eat almost as much as he’s longing for his charms to work on her? Well if he knows what’s good for him he should swap dishes. That’s what I do and it’s why I’m still married. Now if only my wife would buy me my clothes.
I know I should never go shopping in any way other than the first.. But, sadly, I do. At least I don’t spend a large proportion of my life feeling clothes on rails, picking them up, putting them back, picking them up again, holding them against me, holding them up to the light and then putting them down again. And then picking them up again and . . . you know who you are darling. But maybe I should; if only to avoid half a wardrobe of hardly-worn horrible clothes.
I’m better when I go into a bar. I always know what I want long before I get there. And if they don’t have it, I always have a reliable substitute ready. This is different from how others I know do it; those of a different gender to me represented by my wife who, when we get to the bar, always looks surprised when I ask her what she wants. Not because she doesn’t expect me to buy her a drink; far from it. Rather, it appears that she forgets that bars serve drinks. It’s a common ailment.
And then there’s ordering food at a restaurant. “Oh I wish I’d ordered that. Mind if we swap; maybe half way through?” Yes, I do actually because I’ve just spent a good ten minutes taking the carefully-prepared menu very seriously and made my decision with respectful care. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with your disappointment. It’s your own fault, after all. Oh, go on then. I’ll finish off your tofu burger while you tuck into the remainder of this venison casserole that I’d been saving ‘til last because it contains the best bits. I hope you realise how lucky you are.
It’s obvious that I’m a lot better at considering a menu than I am at the consideration phase of buying clothes. And, when I’ve made my choice, I’m honourable enough to stick with my decision and not try and make my dining companion feel guilty. I know this sounds as if I’m bitter. Actually I’m not. I’m used to the idea as I’ve been married a very long time and it’s something I’ve learnt to put up with. Like backache.
It’s the others I feel sorry for. I watch them in our restaurants. He’s using the meal as a way of softening her up in the hope that food and wine may just be the way to her heart and other places. So what should he do when she looks longingly at the dish that he’s chosen so carefully and is longing to eat almost as much as he’s longing for his charms to work on her? Well if he knows what’s good for him he should swap dishes. That’s what I do and it’s why I’m still married. Now if only my wife would buy me my clothes.
Who has the answers?
Isn’t Google brilliant?. It’s an amazingly life-enhancing tool and I love it. How many answers to searches does it provide each day? Zillions probably. And each search takes you to all sorts of amazing websites. But, unfortunately, that’s when the problems begin. Because the information contained therein is controlled by the owners of those sites and is therefore often wrong, or partially correct, but sometimes right. This confusion is not Google’s fault and a lot depends upon how you ask your question and then, of course, the interpretation is down to you too.
But the biggest problem is that too many people, and they tend to be the younger ones amongst us, automatically take whatever they read there to be gospel. I’m acutely aware that I’m beginning to sound like my parents, but in my day, going to the reference library took longer (and as a result often meant the quest was abandoned or guessed at) but there’s absolutely no doubt that the answer you got had a much greater chance of being correct. Sure, as time passed, there will always have been some erroneous answers, such as the world being flat and there only being six elements in the periodic table, but in general there wasn’t too much rubbish around.
But there is now. Just type the word “fat” into a search engine and it appears that there’s general agreement that more than a teaspoon a year of the stuff will kill you in two years. That’s if the sugar-filled dessert doesn’t get you first or three grains of salt make you explode from high blood pressure.
Those three substances alone have been demonised to such an extent that much information is available to tell us than none of them should pass our lips when the absolute facts are that all of them are necessary for life and all of them contribute to an increased quality of life.
To such an extent have we been persuaded that all correct information is immediately at our fingertips that we’re in danger of forgetting to question what we’re being told. And if other august sources of facts, such as radio, TV and the papers, start using unsubstantiated information, incorrect assumptions become absolute truth – with the devil fat being an obvious one.
I’m an addicted listener to BBC radio and the BBC is an institution in which I was brought up to have absolute faith. But I have to remind myself to dissect opinion from fact when they both deliberately occur in their news broadcasts. And then interpret fact from opinion when they actually wrongly present them as facts.
An obvious fact is climate change which, as it’s always been happening, nobody can deny. Compare that with the opinion that man is able to deliberately change the planet’s climate which, when you think about it, is definitely debatable. Should we really be so confidant as to think we can affect the world’s climate as we wish and cool things down? Or might we be better off preparing for inevitable change, buying a house on high ground, planting a vegetable garden, stocking up on factor 50 and investing in Tyne and Wear olives?
I recently heard a two year-old radio news reporter telling me that there was evidence that man used to be a cannibal. Sounds reasonable, particularly when you find that archaeologists have identified knife marks on bones that prove someone was after the marrow. Lovely, until she said that marrow used to be considered a delicacy. Used to be? If she wrote the story herself, perhaps she doesn’t realise that it still is a delicacy, along with brains and sweetbreads. And if she didn’t write the story herself, she’ll now obviously regard it as a matter of absolute fact, otherwise she wouldn’t have been allowed to read it out in a factual report.
We know that the internet’s a dangerous place in many respects but those with common sense recognise that its content should be treated with circumspection. But what hope is there if those sources of information that we traditionally respect and believe in, don’t necessarily understand the subject about which they’re reporting?
Believe me, bone marrow is still considered a delicacy. I read it on the internet. Just after searching to find out exactly how many answers Google does give each day. But upon doing my search – using Google – I got a multitude of conflicting answers. Not all of them can be right.
But the biggest problem is that too many people, and they tend to be the younger ones amongst us, automatically take whatever they read there to be gospel. I’m acutely aware that I’m beginning to sound like my parents, but in my day, going to the reference library took longer (and as a result often meant the quest was abandoned or guessed at) but there’s absolutely no doubt that the answer you got had a much greater chance of being correct. Sure, as time passed, there will always have been some erroneous answers, such as the world being flat and there only being six elements in the periodic table, but in general there wasn’t too much rubbish around.
But there is now. Just type the word “fat” into a search engine and it appears that there’s general agreement that more than a teaspoon a year of the stuff will kill you in two years. That’s if the sugar-filled dessert doesn’t get you first or three grains of salt make you explode from high blood pressure.
Those three substances alone have been demonised to such an extent that much information is available to tell us than none of them should pass our lips when the absolute facts are that all of them are necessary for life and all of them contribute to an increased quality of life.
To such an extent have we been persuaded that all correct information is immediately at our fingertips that we’re in danger of forgetting to question what we’re being told. And if other august sources of facts, such as radio, TV and the papers, start using unsubstantiated information, incorrect assumptions become absolute truth – with the devil fat being an obvious one.
I’m an addicted listener to BBC radio and the BBC is an institution in which I was brought up to have absolute faith. But I have to remind myself to dissect opinion from fact when they both deliberately occur in their news broadcasts. And then interpret fact from opinion when they actually wrongly present them as facts.
An obvious fact is climate change which, as it’s always been happening, nobody can deny. Compare that with the opinion that man is able to deliberately change the planet’s climate which, when you think about it, is definitely debatable. Should we really be so confidant as to think we can affect the world’s climate as we wish and cool things down? Or might we be better off preparing for inevitable change, buying a house on high ground, planting a vegetable garden, stocking up on factor 50 and investing in Tyne and Wear olives?
I recently heard a two year-old radio news reporter telling me that there was evidence that man used to be a cannibal. Sounds reasonable, particularly when you find that archaeologists have identified knife marks on bones that prove someone was after the marrow. Lovely, until she said that marrow used to be considered a delicacy. Used to be? If she wrote the story herself, perhaps she doesn’t realise that it still is a delicacy, along with brains and sweetbreads. And if she didn’t write the story herself, she’ll now obviously regard it as a matter of absolute fact, otherwise she wouldn’t have been allowed to read it out in a factual report.
We know that the internet’s a dangerous place in many respects but those with common sense recognise that its content should be treated with circumspection. But what hope is there if those sources of information that we traditionally respect and believe in, don’t necessarily understand the subject about which they’re reporting?
Believe me, bone marrow is still considered a delicacy. I read it on the internet. Just after searching to find out exactly how many answers Google does give each day. But upon doing my search – using Google – I got a multitude of conflicting answers. Not all of them can be right.
Fruit fool
Late summer's the time of plums, damsons and blackberries. But if you're lucky enough to have grown any of those in your garden, you've probably had to freeze some of them and now wonder what you can do rather than just pies and crumbles. When it comes to damsons I've been known to make damson gin and give it away for Christmas presents - as well as keeping some for the obligatory skiing hip flask.
But fruit fools are a quintessentially British pudding which are easy to make and very luxurious. You can use most common fruits, even apples and pears. They may need cooking for different lengths of time but it doesn't take much experience to work out how much and it's not particularly critical. It's worth having a go because, as you have to taste as you go along due to the differing sweetness of different fruits, the results are bound to be good.
You don't have to use the dessert wine but I saw the idea in a recipe recently and it does add that little extra.
Serves four
150g to 200g of fruit such as stoned and chopped plums, blackberries or damsons.
100g caster sugar (plus some more for adjustments)
Five tablespoonfuls of dessert wine
Juice of half a lemon
250ml of double cream
Place the fruit into a pan with about half the sugar and a couple of tablespoonfuls of water. Cook gently for ten minutes or so. Taste for sweetness and add more sugar if necessary. Then allow to cool.
In a large bowl, mix the remaining sugar with the lemon juice and dessert wine. Add the cream and whisk until it's at the soft peak stage. Don't make it too hard.
Gently fold the cooked fruit mixture into the whisked cream but don't worry about it being uniformly mixed. Changes in mixture only make it more interesting.
Spoon into wine glasses or suitable dessert bowls and chill for a couple of hours before serving - perhaps with a piece of shortbread. If you wished, when folding the fruit into the cream, you could keep some of it back in order to top your fool or even put a little in the glasses beforehand.
But fruit fools are a quintessentially British pudding which are easy to make and very luxurious. You can use most common fruits, even apples and pears. They may need cooking for different lengths of time but it doesn't take much experience to work out how much and it's not particularly critical. It's worth having a go because, as you have to taste as you go along due to the differing sweetness of different fruits, the results are bound to be good.
You don't have to use the dessert wine but I saw the idea in a recipe recently and it does add that little extra.
Serves four
150g to 200g of fruit such as stoned and chopped plums, blackberries or damsons.
100g caster sugar (plus some more for adjustments)
Five tablespoonfuls of dessert wine
Juice of half a lemon
250ml of double cream
Place the fruit into a pan with about half the sugar and a couple of tablespoonfuls of water. Cook gently for ten minutes or so. Taste for sweetness and add more sugar if necessary. Then allow to cool.
In a large bowl, mix the remaining sugar with the lemon juice and dessert wine. Add the cream and whisk until it's at the soft peak stage. Don't make it too hard.
Gently fold the cooked fruit mixture into the whisked cream but don't worry about it being uniformly mixed. Changes in mixture only make it more interesting.
Spoon into wine glasses or suitable dessert bowls and chill for a couple of hours before serving - perhaps with a piece of shortbread. If you wished, when folding the fruit into the cream, you could keep some of it back in order to top your fool or even put a little in the glasses beforehand.
Rabbit and black pudding casserole
When I was 17, I brought a girlfriend home to be fed by my mum. After she’d cleaned her plate she proclaimed that it was delicious and asked what it was. When Mum told her it was rabbit casserole she shoved her plate away, burst into tears and said she didn’t like rabbit. And over the years, I’ve found many who might not actually cry but really won’t entertain the idea of rabbit. Which is a shame because it’s plentiful, cheap, easy to cook and very tasty.
For a casserole such as this, the rabbit makes a great stock which, when flavoured with the black pudding, makes a superb gravy.
Rabbit is actually one of the animals that is often better farmed than wild. It’s usually more tender with a slightly higher fat content due to them not doing quite so often what rabbits in the wild spend much of their time doing – if you get my meaning.
Serves four
One rabbit – wild or farmed – left whole
A handful of pearl barley
300g of good quality black pudding – cut into chunks
One onion – finely chopped
Two carrots – peeled and roughly-chopped into 1cm lumps
Half a swede – peeled and roughly-chopped into 1cm lumps
A sprig of fresh thyme
Two bay leaves
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
In a casserole or pan large enough to take the rabbit, cover the rabbit with cold water and add the thyme and bay leaves and a little salt and pepper. Bring to the boil and then cover and reduce to a simmer or put into a pre-heated oven at 180°C, gas mark 4 for about 1½ hours or until the meat is falling off the bones.
Remove the meat and bones, pass the resultant stock through a fine strainer and return to the pan. Add the pearl barley, black pudding, onion, carrot and swede and bring back to a simmer for around 30 minutes until the vegetables are tender. Leave the lid off but watch that it doesn’t get too thick and add a little water if necessary.
Meanwhile, pick all the meat off the bones, watching out for any fine bones. When the vegetables are cooked, add the rabbit meat to the casserole, check the seasoning, reheat and serve with lots of creamy mashed potato.
For a casserole such as this, the rabbit makes a great stock which, when flavoured with the black pudding, makes a superb gravy.
Rabbit is actually one of the animals that is often better farmed than wild. It’s usually more tender with a slightly higher fat content due to them not doing quite so often what rabbits in the wild spend much of their time doing – if you get my meaning.
Serves four
One rabbit – wild or farmed – left whole
A handful of pearl barley
300g of good quality black pudding – cut into chunks
One onion – finely chopped
Two carrots – peeled and roughly-chopped into 1cm lumps
Half a swede – peeled and roughly-chopped into 1cm lumps
A sprig of fresh thyme
Two bay leaves
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
In a casserole or pan large enough to take the rabbit, cover the rabbit with cold water and add the thyme and bay leaves and a little salt and pepper. Bring to the boil and then cover and reduce to a simmer or put into a pre-heated oven at 180°C, gas mark 4 for about 1½ hours or until the meat is falling off the bones.
Remove the meat and bones, pass the resultant stock through a fine strainer and return to the pan. Add the pearl barley, black pudding, onion, carrot and swede and bring back to a simmer for around 30 minutes until the vegetables are tender. Leave the lid off but watch that it doesn’t get too thick and add a little water if necessary.
Meanwhile, pick all the meat off the bones, watching out for any fine bones. When the vegetables are cooked, add the rabbit meat to the casserole, check the seasoning, reheat and serve with lots of creamy mashed potato.
Eccles cake and ginger custard
I like Eccles cakes and have most of my life. My father-in-law picked up on this fact years ago and so every time I go to his house, even at his age of 88, he makes me a cup of tea and gives me an Eccles cake. And sometimes two. Lovely.
But not quite as lovely as making your own which I’d never done until recently. The following recipe is for what I think is the best dessert on our menu at the moment. And to think I thought they’d be difficult to make.
And the ginger custard is a lovely twist and, again, so easy.
Serves four
One sheet of frozen puff pastry – defrosted
500g raisins
100g sugar
150ml water
A pinch of cinnamon
One orange
One egg for egg wash
100ml double cream
100ml milk
Three egg yokes
Sugar to taste for the custard – around a tablespoonful
A thumb-sized piece of stem ginger – finely-chopped
Pre-heat the oven to 180ºC (gas mark 4)
Remove the zest from the orange and chop finely. Then squeeze the juice from the orange.
Place the water, chopped zest, orange juice, cinnamon and the 100g of sugar in a pan and bring to a simmer until the sugar’s dissolved. Remove from the heat, add the raisins and allow them to soak in the liquid for an hour to allow them plump up.
When they’re ready, roll out the puff pastry into a rectangle that’s about 5mm (¼”) thick. Drain the liquid off the raisins (it doesn’t need keeping) and spread the raisins evenly over the pastry before rolling it all together in the style of a Swiss roll.
Beat the single egg and then brush it over the pastry. Place the roll on a baking tray and place in the oven for 20 minutes or until crisp and golden. Remove and allow to cool (or you could serve it immediately hot if you’ve already made the custard).
To make the custard, put the milk and cream in a pan and bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place the eggs and sugar into a bowl and whisk until pale, adding the ginger towards the end. When the milk and cream is boiling, pour onto the egg mixture whisking all the time. Pour the custard back into the pan and put it over a very low heat, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon for five minutes or so until the custard thickens a little. Make sure that you stir everywhere, including into the corners so that the eggs don’t cook and scramble. While stirring, taste the custard and add a little more sugar if necessary but remember that the Eccles cake is already quite sweet.
To serve, either serve the Eccles cake cold or reheat in the oven if necessary, chop into serving sizes and pour the custard around.
But not quite as lovely as making your own which I’d never done until recently. The following recipe is for what I think is the best dessert on our menu at the moment. And to think I thought they’d be difficult to make.
And the ginger custard is a lovely twist and, again, so easy.
Serves four
One sheet of frozen puff pastry – defrosted
500g raisins
100g sugar
150ml water
A pinch of cinnamon
One orange
One egg for egg wash
100ml double cream
100ml milk
Three egg yokes
Sugar to taste for the custard – around a tablespoonful
A thumb-sized piece of stem ginger – finely-chopped
Pre-heat the oven to 180ºC (gas mark 4)
Remove the zest from the orange and chop finely. Then squeeze the juice from the orange.
Place the water, chopped zest, orange juice, cinnamon and the 100g of sugar in a pan and bring to a simmer until the sugar’s dissolved. Remove from the heat, add the raisins and allow them to soak in the liquid for an hour to allow them plump up.
When they’re ready, roll out the puff pastry into a rectangle that’s about 5mm (¼”) thick. Drain the liquid off the raisins (it doesn’t need keeping) and spread the raisins evenly over the pastry before rolling it all together in the style of a Swiss roll.
Beat the single egg and then brush it over the pastry. Place the roll on a baking tray and place in the oven for 20 minutes or until crisp and golden. Remove and allow to cool (or you could serve it immediately hot if you’ve already made the custard).
To make the custard, put the milk and cream in a pan and bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place the eggs and sugar into a bowl and whisk until pale, adding the ginger towards the end. When the milk and cream is boiling, pour onto the egg mixture whisking all the time. Pour the custard back into the pan and put it over a very low heat, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon for five minutes or so until the custard thickens a little. Make sure that you stir everywhere, including into the corners so that the eggs don’t cook and scramble. While stirring, taste the custard and add a little more sugar if necessary but remember that the Eccles cake is already quite sweet.
To serve, either serve the Eccles cake cold or reheat in the oven if necessary, chop into serving sizes and pour the custard around.
What's in a name?
I don’t think I’m a cruel man. I’ve never pulled the legs off spiders. Nor bullied anyone – intentionally. I may have given my younger sister a hard time, challenging her to games of rugby when I was nine and she was six but I know she found it character-building and secretly loved it. Despite the injuries.
But the more people I introduce to the various animals that we rear for food, the more often I’m asked how could I be so cruel. This hurts.
Because Oxford, Sandy and Blackie, the pigs we rear that are handled after the name of their breed, have a wonderful life while they’re with us. They’ve got an acre or two to run around in; some of it’s flat and full of tasty weeds, other parts are hilly and sandy and there are lots of trees to snuffle and root around. On top of this, they’ve got a lovely stone, dry stable with regularly-changed hay for them to snuggle up in, water in a Belfast sink that’s automatically replenished every 24 hours and the pleasure of my company at least once a day, bearing gifts of yummy grainy food plus exotic unwanted fruit and veg from the wholesale market.
It’s difficult to imagine how they could lead a more comfortable life short of inviting them into the house to lie in front of the fire or on the foot of the bed. Not that I haven’t considered bringing them in while my wife’s away to see how they’d respond. It could be a great laugh but the damage to the furniture might not be covered on the insurance.
Compare their existence to that of the commonly-produced over-crowded, kept-on-concrete, overfed and unloved, intensively-reared pigs and you’ll see it as different as that of our benign democracy is to an underdeveloped, third world dictatorship. It’s a different world.
So what’s this about me being cruel? I must stress that when anybody accuses me of cruelty in raising animals for food, it’s usually been part of a sentence that includes the phrase: “and you’ve named them!”.
So that’s it. It’s ok to eat a nameless animal but not one that you’ve given some sort of nomenclature. Well I’ve eaten potatoes that I’ve named. Not Robert or Peter but “That Third Clump In The Second Row”. Everything’s got a name and even if I called the animals Pig1, Pig 2 and Pig 3, they’d still have names.
So where’s the rationale?
We’re a funny lot us humans. We’re quite happy to proclaim that we’re the most intelligent creatures on the planet and stand at the top of the food chain while at the same time raising animals for food in the most appalling ways. But start raising them in a way approaching sensitivity and intelligence and we suddenly become squeamish.
Maybe it’s about time we took responsibility for our actions and made sure that we only eat animals that have been reared humanely or not at all. But if we do, unless we’re all to become vegetarians, it means that ultimately, we have to accept that we’ll be eating Oxford, Sandy or Blackie or Julian.
But the more people I introduce to the various animals that we rear for food, the more often I’m asked how could I be so cruel. This hurts.
Because Oxford, Sandy and Blackie, the pigs we rear that are handled after the name of their breed, have a wonderful life while they’re with us. They’ve got an acre or two to run around in; some of it’s flat and full of tasty weeds, other parts are hilly and sandy and there are lots of trees to snuffle and root around. On top of this, they’ve got a lovely stone, dry stable with regularly-changed hay for them to snuggle up in, water in a Belfast sink that’s automatically replenished every 24 hours and the pleasure of my company at least once a day, bearing gifts of yummy grainy food plus exotic unwanted fruit and veg from the wholesale market.
It’s difficult to imagine how they could lead a more comfortable life short of inviting them into the house to lie in front of the fire or on the foot of the bed. Not that I haven’t considered bringing them in while my wife’s away to see how they’d respond. It could be a great laugh but the damage to the furniture might not be covered on the insurance.
Compare their existence to that of the commonly-produced over-crowded, kept-on-concrete, overfed and unloved, intensively-reared pigs and you’ll see it as different as that of our benign democracy is to an underdeveloped, third world dictatorship. It’s a different world.
So what’s this about me being cruel? I must stress that when anybody accuses me of cruelty in raising animals for food, it’s usually been part of a sentence that includes the phrase: “and you’ve named them!”.
So that’s it. It’s ok to eat a nameless animal but not one that you’ve given some sort of nomenclature. Well I’ve eaten potatoes that I’ve named. Not Robert or Peter but “That Third Clump In The Second Row”. Everything’s got a name and even if I called the animals Pig1, Pig 2 and Pig 3, they’d still have names.
So where’s the rationale?
We’re a funny lot us humans. We’re quite happy to proclaim that we’re the most intelligent creatures on the planet and stand at the top of the food chain while at the same time raising animals for food in the most appalling ways. But start raising them in a way approaching sensitivity and intelligence and we suddenly become squeamish.
Maybe it’s about time we took responsibility for our actions and made sure that we only eat animals that have been reared humanely or not at all. But if we do, unless we’re all to become vegetarians, it means that ultimately, we have to accept that we’ll be eating Oxford, Sandy or Blackie or Julian.
Beetroot and Ox tongue with horseradish
Like ox heart described elsewhere on this site, ox tongue is one of the animal’s most-used muscles and is also one of the least-used cuts of meat. It really is worth a try and produces an inexpensive dish.
Also, this recipe uses whole, uncooked beetroot; in my opinion, one of the most under-rated vegetables available to us.
Beetroot should always be cooked whole. Don’t be tempted to top and tail it because, once you’ve broken the skin, the red leeches out into the cooking water which not only stains everything it touches, it impairs the flavour as well.
Serves four
One ox tongue
Two raw beetroot - washed
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
A couple of teaspoons of horseradish sauce
One white onion – peeled and thinly sliced
White wine vinegar
Rapeseed (or similar) oil
80g watercress – washed and drained
Place the tongue in a large pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and allow to simmer for one and a half to two hours or until tender. Drain off the water and allow the tongue to cool before peeling off the outer skin and discarding.
Meanwhile, while the tongue’s simmering, place the unpeeled beetroot into a pan of cold water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 45 minutes before cooling in cold water. Drain, peel the beetroot and cut into equal-sized cubes. Place in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and a splash of white wine vinegar.
Once cool and peeled, cut the tongue into slices and season with salt and pepper. Mix the horseradish sauce with a little rapeseed to loosen it.
Place the tongue, beetroot, onion and horseradish mix in a large bowl and toss together before piling onto serving plates or into a single serving dish.
Also, this recipe uses whole, uncooked beetroot; in my opinion, one of the most under-rated vegetables available to us.
Beetroot should always be cooked whole. Don’t be tempted to top and tail it because, once you’ve broken the skin, the red leeches out into the cooking water which not only stains everything it touches, it impairs the flavour as well.
Serves four
One ox tongue
Two raw beetroot - washed
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
A couple of teaspoons of horseradish sauce
One white onion – peeled and thinly sliced
White wine vinegar
Rapeseed (or similar) oil
80g watercress – washed and drained
Place the tongue in a large pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and allow to simmer for one and a half to two hours or until tender. Drain off the water and allow the tongue to cool before peeling off the outer skin and discarding.
Meanwhile, while the tongue’s simmering, place the unpeeled beetroot into a pan of cold water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 45 minutes before cooling in cold water. Drain, peel the beetroot and cut into equal-sized cubes. Place in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and a splash of white wine vinegar.
Once cool and peeled, cut the tongue into slices and season with salt and pepper. Mix the horseradish sauce with a little rapeseed to loosen it.
Place the tongue, beetroot, onion and horseradish mix in a large bowl and toss together before piling onto serving plates or into a single serving dish.
To the heart of the matter
It’s all right you laughing at the disgust, loathing and fear on the faces of those chosen to do the bush tucker trials in that I’m-someone-selfimportant-camping-in-the-so-woods-please-allow-me-to-make-gratuitous-amounts-of-money-again TV programme. Yes, the foods they are asked to eat may be different. But they are actually foods. And there are others in this world who treat the idea of eating such “novel” food as an everyday occurrence.
And you, after all, eat some really weird stuff. What’s a prawn if not an insect-like creature that just happens to live in water? And I understand that many Chinese find the idea of eating fermented cow’s milk, or in other words cheese (and some which is even allowed to go mouldy first), worse than you might of eating kangaroo’s testicles.
But in reality, our lack of education, experience and imagination means that we concentrate on a handful of dishes and foods when choosing what to eat. Hands up how many of us have a steak nearly every time we go out to eat. See? Yeah, ok, so you like a steak. But surely it’s not beyond the bounds of probability that if you like eating that bit of a cow, there’s a chance that you might like to eat most of the rest of the animal; or a pig, or a snake, or maybe a squirrel?
Nobody’s suggesting that you should be forced to eat something other than your lovely steak – and I do believe that sometimes, only a steak will do. But if someone else is getting a life-enhancing experience out of, perhaps, a little fried liver, aren’t they getting a little more out of life than you?
So when, the other day, during a cookery demonstration I was banging on about eating ox heart I’m sure I actually saw one or two faces in the audience turning green. I hadn’t even got one to demonstrate with – unfortunately. I just mentioned it in passing and received horrified looks from some of those I was meant to be impressing.
But let’s think about it. Meat is muscle. And therefore a lovely steak is either a muscle from somewhere along the animal’s back or perhaps a little further towards the rear. Whatever - before you got it, that piece of meat was doing it’s job, moving a cow around a field. Without it, the cow would have been stationary, or fallen over.
And what is heart if not probably the most important muscle in the body? So it’s not actually that much different from a steak in that respect.
Now, as most of us know, a fillet steak is the most tender, especially when compared with, say, a rump. That’s because the fillet muscle’s done little work in its lifetime whereas the latter’s done a good job of moving around the heavy end of the creature. But many, if not most, steak eaters agree that there’s considerably more taste in a rump compared with a fillet. So, how good is that muscle that works the hardest of all going to taste? And why should we begin to consider that the heart is something to make us feel squeamish?
As you’d expect, the harder a muscle’s worked the more cooking it can take. But conversely, you can buy an ox heart as big as your head, cut some of it into strips and, because it’s so lean, flash or stir-fry them in seconds. And a piece of meat that big, at least enough to feed a family of four, costs less than a couple of quid. In these money-conscious times, aren’t most of us missing something?
So, if that’s gone any distance to convince you that you should give something a little bit different a try, how about giving an ox tongue recipe a go? There's one on this site.
Or is that a muscle too far?
And you, after all, eat some really weird stuff. What’s a prawn if not an insect-like creature that just happens to live in water? And I understand that many Chinese find the idea of eating fermented cow’s milk, or in other words cheese (and some which is even allowed to go mouldy first), worse than you might of eating kangaroo’s testicles.
But in reality, our lack of education, experience and imagination means that we concentrate on a handful of dishes and foods when choosing what to eat. Hands up how many of us have a steak nearly every time we go out to eat. See? Yeah, ok, so you like a steak. But surely it’s not beyond the bounds of probability that if you like eating that bit of a cow, there’s a chance that you might like to eat most of the rest of the animal; or a pig, or a snake, or maybe a squirrel?
Nobody’s suggesting that you should be forced to eat something other than your lovely steak – and I do believe that sometimes, only a steak will do. But if someone else is getting a life-enhancing experience out of, perhaps, a little fried liver, aren’t they getting a little more out of life than you?
So when, the other day, during a cookery demonstration I was banging on about eating ox heart I’m sure I actually saw one or two faces in the audience turning green. I hadn’t even got one to demonstrate with – unfortunately. I just mentioned it in passing and received horrified looks from some of those I was meant to be impressing.
But let’s think about it. Meat is muscle. And therefore a lovely steak is either a muscle from somewhere along the animal’s back or perhaps a little further towards the rear. Whatever - before you got it, that piece of meat was doing it’s job, moving a cow around a field. Without it, the cow would have been stationary, or fallen over.
And what is heart if not probably the most important muscle in the body? So it’s not actually that much different from a steak in that respect.
Now, as most of us know, a fillet steak is the most tender, especially when compared with, say, a rump. That’s because the fillet muscle’s done little work in its lifetime whereas the latter’s done a good job of moving around the heavy end of the creature. But many, if not most, steak eaters agree that there’s considerably more taste in a rump compared with a fillet. So, how good is that muscle that works the hardest of all going to taste? And why should we begin to consider that the heart is something to make us feel squeamish?
As you’d expect, the harder a muscle’s worked the more cooking it can take. But conversely, you can buy an ox heart as big as your head, cut some of it into strips and, because it’s so lean, flash or stir-fry them in seconds. And a piece of meat that big, at least enough to feed a family of four, costs less than a couple of quid. In these money-conscious times, aren’t most of us missing something?
So, if that’s gone any distance to convince you that you should give something a little bit different a try, how about giving an ox tongue recipe a go? There's one on this site.
Or is that a muscle too far?
Monday 12 April 2010
Obese? You might not be able to count on it.
You may well understand it but I find it increasingly harder to make sense of the news fired at me every day. For obvious reasons my ears prick up at the mention of anything food-related that appears in the news and I have a file I keep on my desk where I keep printouts and cuttings of such stuff. Just looking at the top couple of pages I see that a survey has found that teenage girls in the UK eat more junk food than they’ve ever done before and that obesity is still the biggest threat to mankind (or womankind) in the UK. “The pattern of consumption suggests that many girls are being influenced by fashion models”, the article says.
Well before I move on to the second cutting, my confusion already starts to ferment as the only fashion models I’ve ever known, and I know a few, are more aware of their food consumption than anybody else I’ve known. I’m not saying they understand it because their diets are usually weird consisting of water and bean shoots and supplements. But they certainly go on and on about what they eat. And they smoke as well. And they are nearly all bonkers.
The second cutting tells me that in the obesity capital of the world, America, one in five of their households ran out of money to afford food at least once during 2009. Boy, they must have been budgeting badly. Maybe the burger chains should set up a pre-paid system like our teenagers use with mobile phones.
So, here’s the paradox: Americans, who are the richest people in the world, are running out of money to buy fattening food; and our teenage girls are emulating size zero models and becoming obese. Confused? There’s more.
Our government tells us that obesity is one of the biggest threats to us apart from climate change, terrorism and the Conservatives. But how many obese people do you know? I’ve carried out a detailed scientific survey in our restaurants in the last couple of days which involved glancing around and counting anybody I considered to be obese. And you know what? There hasn’t been one yet. In fact, the only definitely obese person, according to government-provided charts, I could find is my work colleague Peter who, because he’s very fit and plays lots of sport, has a body mass index so high that official guidelines suggest he’ll be dead by the end of next week.
I don’t know if it’s the social circles within which I operate, or the type of people that our restaurants attract, but the difference I see in people these days is not obesity but height – hence the primary school child in my next cutting who was recently reported as tall, slim and obese. Since the second world war, people have definitely been getting taller. In fact I’m thinking of putting a height restriction on our job application forms because I’m sick of 18 year old staff towering over me.
I asked a friend’s eleven year old daughter how many of her fellow pupils she considered to be fat, expecting her to regale me with tales of reinforced chairs and widened doorways. But she said that everybody was like her, slim and fit, apart from one who got chased around the playground at breaks for being different. Cruel, I know, but it suggests nothing’s changed in that way since the sixties.
Obesity’s not the problem. If it exists to any extent, it’s a symptom. The real problem is bad diet and that’s down to ignorance. Eating is one of the most important things in life to everyone. But we’re taught about it with a handful of silly simplistic phrases such as “five a day”. Imagine if we taught maths like that. None of our youngsters would be able to add up without a calculator.
What? They can’t?
Well before I move on to the second cutting, my confusion already starts to ferment as the only fashion models I’ve ever known, and I know a few, are more aware of their food consumption than anybody else I’ve known. I’m not saying they understand it because their diets are usually weird consisting of water and bean shoots and supplements. But they certainly go on and on about what they eat. And they smoke as well. And they are nearly all bonkers.
The second cutting tells me that in the obesity capital of the world, America, one in five of their households ran out of money to afford food at least once during 2009. Boy, they must have been budgeting badly. Maybe the burger chains should set up a pre-paid system like our teenagers use with mobile phones.
So, here’s the paradox: Americans, who are the richest people in the world, are running out of money to buy fattening food; and our teenage girls are emulating size zero models and becoming obese. Confused? There’s more.
Our government tells us that obesity is one of the biggest threats to us apart from climate change, terrorism and the Conservatives. But how many obese people do you know? I’ve carried out a detailed scientific survey in our restaurants in the last couple of days which involved glancing around and counting anybody I considered to be obese. And you know what? There hasn’t been one yet. In fact, the only definitely obese person, according to government-provided charts, I could find is my work colleague Peter who, because he’s very fit and plays lots of sport, has a body mass index so high that official guidelines suggest he’ll be dead by the end of next week.
I don’t know if it’s the social circles within which I operate, or the type of people that our restaurants attract, but the difference I see in people these days is not obesity but height – hence the primary school child in my next cutting who was recently reported as tall, slim and obese. Since the second world war, people have definitely been getting taller. In fact I’m thinking of putting a height restriction on our job application forms because I’m sick of 18 year old staff towering over me.
I asked a friend’s eleven year old daughter how many of her fellow pupils she considered to be fat, expecting her to regale me with tales of reinforced chairs and widened doorways. But she said that everybody was like her, slim and fit, apart from one who got chased around the playground at breaks for being different. Cruel, I know, but it suggests nothing’s changed in that way since the sixties.
Obesity’s not the problem. If it exists to any extent, it’s a symptom. The real problem is bad diet and that’s down to ignorance. Eating is one of the most important things in life to everyone. But we’re taught about it with a handful of silly simplistic phrases such as “five a day”. Imagine if we taught maths like that. None of our youngsters would be able to add up without a calculator.
What? They can’t?
Fish stew with tomato and fennel
Here’s a light dish to remind us that spring is arriving and, being a fish dish, is just so quick to cook.
All sorts of fish can be used but I’d avoid the oily ones for this such as mackerel. So salmon, monkfish, ling, gurnard and so on; fish that can hold together when simmered a little. Just make sure it’s all boned and skinned. Also, any shellfish is great such as mussels, cockles, prawns and crab claws. Just be careful not to overcook shellfish and if it’s already cooked, just add it at the end for 30 seconds or so to heat through.
The main flavouring is bulb fennel which, similarly to dill with its light aniseed taste, is a perfect complement to fish.
Serves two
300g mixed fish – boned and skinned and cut into bite-sized pieces
One bulb of fennel – roughly chopped
One onion – peeled and chopped
One clove of garlic – peeled and crushed
One tin of tomatoes
Extra virgin rapeseed or olive oil
Sea salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley to garnish
Place a tablespoon of oil in a large saucepan and gently sweat half of the fennel along with the onion. After a few minutes, add the garlic and continue until the vegetables are soft but not coloured. Add the tomatoes along with their juice and simmer for ten minutes or so. Remove from the heat and blend in a liquidiser or food processor or with a stick blender and then, if you wish, pass through a sieve.
While the vegetables are sweating, heat another pan, add a little oil and sauté the other half of the fennel until it’s a little coloured. Remove from the pan and add to the blended tomato mixture. Bring this to the boil, reduce to a simmer and add the fish for three or four minutes until cooked, adding any cooked shellfish at the end. Taste and add salt and pepper as necessary. Pour into warmed serving bowls, scatter over a little chopped parsley and a sprinkling of oil. Great served with crusty bread. Don’t try to tell me that cooking’s not easy.
All sorts of fish can be used but I’d avoid the oily ones for this such as mackerel. So salmon, monkfish, ling, gurnard and so on; fish that can hold together when simmered a little. Just make sure it’s all boned and skinned. Also, any shellfish is great such as mussels, cockles, prawns and crab claws. Just be careful not to overcook shellfish and if it’s already cooked, just add it at the end for 30 seconds or so to heat through.
The main flavouring is bulb fennel which, similarly to dill with its light aniseed taste, is a perfect complement to fish.
Serves two
300g mixed fish – boned and skinned and cut into bite-sized pieces
One bulb of fennel – roughly chopped
One onion – peeled and chopped
One clove of garlic – peeled and crushed
One tin of tomatoes
Extra virgin rapeseed or olive oil
Sea salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley to garnish
Place a tablespoon of oil in a large saucepan and gently sweat half of the fennel along with the onion. After a few minutes, add the garlic and continue until the vegetables are soft but not coloured. Add the tomatoes along with their juice and simmer for ten minutes or so. Remove from the heat and blend in a liquidiser or food processor or with a stick blender and then, if you wish, pass through a sieve.
While the vegetables are sweating, heat another pan, add a little oil and sauté the other half of the fennel until it’s a little coloured. Remove from the pan and add to the blended tomato mixture. Bring this to the boil, reduce to a simmer and add the fish for three or four minutes until cooked, adding any cooked shellfish at the end. Taste and add salt and pepper as necessary. Pour into warmed serving bowls, scatter over a little chopped parsley and a sprinkling of oil. Great served with crusty bread. Don’t try to tell me that cooking’s not easy.
Alien diet
As a child I went through a period of being obsessed by what would happen to me after death. Not in a religious way; Sunday school and RE lessons had sorted that one out – at least until I hit the argumentative stage. No, it was to do with the bit they burnt or buried; the vehicle that carried me around; in short, my body.
I’m don’t intend to upset anybody with this but I quickly realised that it was a fact of life that one day I wouldn’t have any more use for the organic bit of me. And it seemed such a waste just to throw it away when at least the calorific energy contained within it could have been recovered from the chimney of the crematorium to heat nearby homes or, and I hesitate to say this, it could have been used for food.
Now I must point out that I’m not advocating eating people and age and experience has taught me that this probably wasn’t such a good idea. But as a youngster, solutions to problems seemed simpler and, what with my granny always reminding me about the starving children in Africa, letting the worms get me appeared to be such a waste.
However, it does occur to me that if, for some reason, you think that we as humans may be in danger of being eaten by someone – by whom I’m not clear but maybe some greater intelligence which I guess would have to be aliens – you stand a better chance of surviving if you can point out to them that you’re not a vegetarian. Why? Because, if you think about it, we don’t actually eat many carnivores and only the occasional omnivore.
This came about because I’d previously written about the delights of grey squirrel casserole and this prompted our head chef at Durham, Anthony Taylor, and me to talk about what other slightly unusual foods might be available to us. It’s at that point that we realised that just about all the animals that we omnivores eat are vegetarian. Or, we wondered, is it just that we only feed them vegetarian food? And the more we talked about it, the more it became a can or worms, so to speak.
Starting with the obvious, ruminants such as cows and sheep are naturally veggies. But pigs? Well it seems they’re fed a vegetarian diet even though while rooting around they must get a few bugs and the occasional worm but that could be more by mistake; a bit like swallowing a fly while out on your bike. I don’t think squirrels eat meat and rabbits eat my plants so they fit the theory.
Before the law banned it, we used to eat songbirds and the Europeans still do. We know that they eat insects on the wing – the songbirds not the Europeans that is who, particularly the French, it seems eat anything that moves. We can possibly blame the church for the demise of rook from our diet and I’m told that seagulls taste disgusting. However I’m particularly partial to pigeon and I know that in Trafalgar Square at least they eat seeds. And I also know that ducks eat sliced bread because I’ve seen it in the park.
Fish often eat fish that’s true. But so do a lot of “vegetarians” including one of my sisters so that opens up a whole new argument.
I guess that we eat mainly vegetarian-fed animals because it’s cheaper to feed them that way. If it’s farmed, it’s vegetarian. Game, fish and other wild animals may differ. After all, some people eat alligator and they don’t look very vegetarian to me.
But just in case there is something in this sentient-beings-only-eating-herbivores thing, a word of advice: it may not be relevant but if you see an alien spaceship coming into land, remember that they’ll have been away from home quite some time and will probably be hungry. So, if you are a vegetarian, if I were you, I’d make myself scarce. Otherwise the aliens might do it for you.
I’m don’t intend to upset anybody with this but I quickly realised that it was a fact of life that one day I wouldn’t have any more use for the organic bit of me. And it seemed such a waste just to throw it away when at least the calorific energy contained within it could have been recovered from the chimney of the crematorium to heat nearby homes or, and I hesitate to say this, it could have been used for food.
Now I must point out that I’m not advocating eating people and age and experience has taught me that this probably wasn’t such a good idea. But as a youngster, solutions to problems seemed simpler and, what with my granny always reminding me about the starving children in Africa, letting the worms get me appeared to be such a waste.
However, it does occur to me that if, for some reason, you think that we as humans may be in danger of being eaten by someone – by whom I’m not clear but maybe some greater intelligence which I guess would have to be aliens – you stand a better chance of surviving if you can point out to them that you’re not a vegetarian. Why? Because, if you think about it, we don’t actually eat many carnivores and only the occasional omnivore.
This came about because I’d previously written about the delights of grey squirrel casserole and this prompted our head chef at Durham, Anthony Taylor, and me to talk about what other slightly unusual foods might be available to us. It’s at that point that we realised that just about all the animals that we omnivores eat are vegetarian. Or, we wondered, is it just that we only feed them vegetarian food? And the more we talked about it, the more it became a can or worms, so to speak.
Starting with the obvious, ruminants such as cows and sheep are naturally veggies. But pigs? Well it seems they’re fed a vegetarian diet even though while rooting around they must get a few bugs and the occasional worm but that could be more by mistake; a bit like swallowing a fly while out on your bike. I don’t think squirrels eat meat and rabbits eat my plants so they fit the theory.
Before the law banned it, we used to eat songbirds and the Europeans still do. We know that they eat insects on the wing – the songbirds not the Europeans that is who, particularly the French, it seems eat anything that moves. We can possibly blame the church for the demise of rook from our diet and I’m told that seagulls taste disgusting. However I’m particularly partial to pigeon and I know that in Trafalgar Square at least they eat seeds. And I also know that ducks eat sliced bread because I’ve seen it in the park.
Fish often eat fish that’s true. But so do a lot of “vegetarians” including one of my sisters so that opens up a whole new argument.
I guess that we eat mainly vegetarian-fed animals because it’s cheaper to feed them that way. If it’s farmed, it’s vegetarian. Game, fish and other wild animals may differ. After all, some people eat alligator and they don’t look very vegetarian to me.
But just in case there is something in this sentient-beings-only-eating-herbivores thing, a word of advice: it may not be relevant but if you see an alien spaceship coming into land, remember that they’ll have been away from home quite some time and will probably be hungry. So, if you are a vegetarian, if I were you, I’d make myself scarce. Otherwise the aliens might do it for you.
Pork shoulder with butter beans, tomato and sage
Pork shoulder is my favourite cut of pork and benefits from slow cooking. I prefer to cook it on the bone but you can get it boned and rolled. It is worth sourcing good pork because there’s a world of difference between intensively-farmed pork and that which has been reared with care and respect. Good butchers, farm shops and farmers’ markets will also often have rare-breed pork available from such breeds as Gloucester Old Spot and Saddleback. If you try them, it’s unlikely you’d be disappointed.
Serves four to six
1kg to 1½kg pork shoulder
One tin butter beans
One tin chopped tomatoes
One onion – peeled and diced
A stick of celery - diced
Two carrots – peeled and diced
100g fresh sage leaves
Extra virgin rapeseed oil
Salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
Pre-heat the oven to 200°C (gas mark 6)
Place the pork in a roasting dish with a little salt and pepper and a wineglass of water. Place in the oven and, after about twenty minutes, turn it down to 150°C (gas mark 2). Leave for a total cooking time of about four hours, pouring a little more water in every now and then if it runs dry. When it’s cooked, you should be able to almost scoop the meat apart with a couple of spoons.
While it’s cooking, put a little oil in a saucepan and sweat the onion, celery and carrot over a low heat until soft, making sure they don’t brown. Then add the tinned tomatoes and butter beans along with the sage leaves. Cook over a low heat for a further ten minutes or so and adjust the seasoning with little salt and pepper.
To serve, reheat the bean stew if necessary. Roughly divide the meat into portions, spoon the stew into warmed serving bowls, place the meat on top, scatter a little rapeseed oil over and around accompanied by a little black pepper.
Serves four to six
1kg to 1½kg pork shoulder
One tin butter beans
One tin chopped tomatoes
One onion – peeled and diced
A stick of celery - diced
Two carrots – peeled and diced
100g fresh sage leaves
Extra virgin rapeseed oil
Salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
Pre-heat the oven to 200°C (gas mark 6)
Place the pork in a roasting dish with a little salt and pepper and a wineglass of water. Place in the oven and, after about twenty minutes, turn it down to 150°C (gas mark 2). Leave for a total cooking time of about four hours, pouring a little more water in every now and then if it runs dry. When it’s cooked, you should be able to almost scoop the meat apart with a couple of spoons.
While it’s cooking, put a little oil in a saucepan and sweat the onion, celery and carrot over a low heat until soft, making sure they don’t brown. Then add the tinned tomatoes and butter beans along with the sage leaves. Cook over a low heat for a further ten minutes or so and adjust the seasoning with little salt and pepper.
To serve, reheat the bean stew if necessary. Roughly divide the meat into portions, spoon the stew into warmed serving bowls, place the meat on top, scatter a little rapeseed oil over and around accompanied by a little black pepper.
Potty!
I’ve got a lump on my head. It’s not my fault. I was coming down the stairs this morning and, because the laces on my shoes weren’t tied, I stood with one shoe on the lace of the other and found that my foot was anchored to the floor. As I was already leaning forward in a completely unbalanced state and, at the same time, as my hands were occupied carrying two cases, I of course toppled forward and one of the first bits of me to make contact with that floor was my head. Hence the lump.
If only someone had taught me to tie my shoelaces. I know I should be able to do it because I’ve seen others with their laces tied and, unless they still live with their mothers, they’re likely tying them themselves.
It’s the same with my tie. I’d love to wear one of those proper ones that go all around my neck but, because no one’s ever shown me how, I have to make do with one of those you clip on. Useful in the event of a fight, of course, and I know the fashion’s for open necks these days but it’d be nice to have the choice.
Whether you believe these things or not, luckily I was taught by my mum how to cook otherwise I’d have been as ignorant as I’ve just described and, as a result, have to live on ready food and the occasional meal out. Without a doubt my life would have been that much poorer.
In a poll last year, carried by that august body, the Potato Council, it was found that out of over 2,000 people surveyed, four-fifths of mothers said they rarely or never taught their children to cook. And I guess that goes for the fathers as well.
My daughters, both in their twenties and now flown their nests, continue to call, text and email with questions about how to cook this bit of fish or that dessert and to tell me about the various dishes they’ve cooked. And I believe, or at least hope, that they have similar memories to me of seeing pans from head-height, watching their parent gain a great deal of satisfaction from deliberating over steaming aromas, and being allowed to sample the occasional spoonful of delight. And later, as the years progressed, of being shown how to cook, and encouraged to participate in the preparation of, meals for themselves and others.
Of those in the survey, only half of the mothers questioned thought they were good cooks compared with three-quarters of grandmothers. What of the next generation? Only a quarter confident of turning out an acceptable meal? And then what for subsequent ones? And where will we get our chefs from if parents don’t interest their children?
And when people are asked why they don’t cook, the most common reason given doesn’t seem to include the most obvious: plain ignorance. Rather they think that they’re too busy which it’s all to easy to prove is usually just untrue. It seems we’re in danger of becoming like that overweight, unemployed and unenlightened family in the news not long ago that reckoned they didn’t have time to diet.
It’s obvious really. We all need to be taught the basics in life and, to many extents, we are. But we seem to be ignoring one of life’s fundamentals; one of the things that we have to experience every day – eating - and the preparation of the food we eat. Thanks to my mum I learnt to cook and, as a result, my life is of a higher quality than it would have been otherwise. And, while we’re on the subject, thank goodness she bothered to take me through the business of potty training.
If only someone had taught me to tie my shoelaces. I know I should be able to do it because I’ve seen others with their laces tied and, unless they still live with their mothers, they’re likely tying them themselves.
It’s the same with my tie. I’d love to wear one of those proper ones that go all around my neck but, because no one’s ever shown me how, I have to make do with one of those you clip on. Useful in the event of a fight, of course, and I know the fashion’s for open necks these days but it’d be nice to have the choice.
Whether you believe these things or not, luckily I was taught by my mum how to cook otherwise I’d have been as ignorant as I’ve just described and, as a result, have to live on ready food and the occasional meal out. Without a doubt my life would have been that much poorer.
In a poll last year, carried by that august body, the Potato Council, it was found that out of over 2,000 people surveyed, four-fifths of mothers said they rarely or never taught their children to cook. And I guess that goes for the fathers as well.
My daughters, both in their twenties and now flown their nests, continue to call, text and email with questions about how to cook this bit of fish or that dessert and to tell me about the various dishes they’ve cooked. And I believe, or at least hope, that they have similar memories to me of seeing pans from head-height, watching their parent gain a great deal of satisfaction from deliberating over steaming aromas, and being allowed to sample the occasional spoonful of delight. And later, as the years progressed, of being shown how to cook, and encouraged to participate in the preparation of, meals for themselves and others.
Of those in the survey, only half of the mothers questioned thought they were good cooks compared with three-quarters of grandmothers. What of the next generation? Only a quarter confident of turning out an acceptable meal? And then what for subsequent ones? And where will we get our chefs from if parents don’t interest their children?
And when people are asked why they don’t cook, the most common reason given doesn’t seem to include the most obvious: plain ignorance. Rather they think that they’re too busy which it’s all to easy to prove is usually just untrue. It seems we’re in danger of becoming like that overweight, unemployed and unenlightened family in the news not long ago that reckoned they didn’t have time to diet.
It’s obvious really. We all need to be taught the basics in life and, to many extents, we are. But we seem to be ignoring one of life’s fundamentals; one of the things that we have to experience every day – eating - and the preparation of the food we eat. Thanks to my mum I learnt to cook and, as a result, my life is of a higher quality than it would have been otherwise. And, while we’re on the subject, thank goodness she bothered to take me through the business of potty training.
Boiled bacon and pork sausage
If you’re the type that really needs the names of your dishes to appear exotic, comprising superlatives with vivid descriptions, rather than something straight and honest where you depend on quality of the ingredients, then this dish may not be for you, and you may not choose it from our menu. However, if you love good food and have the confidence to let the ingredients do the talking, this is really worth it.
Because it’s so simple, it really is important to get good bacon and sausage. Go to a good butcher and pay for the best. The bacon loin needs to be in a chunk rather than sliced and there’s no need to get highly spiced or flavoured sausages - just the best quality pork sausage. But why would you want anything else?
Although it doesn’t effect the taste, some people like the sausage to have some colour rather than staying pink. And if that’s you, heat a grill or frying pan and brown the sausages for a few minutes first. Otherwise, just poach them in the liquor as in the recipe.
You’ll notice there’s no salt in the ingredients list and it’s unlikely you’ll need it as the bacon is fairly salty in the first place and this flavours the resulting liquor.
Serves two
350g bacon loin in one piece
A bay leaf
A sprig of fresh thyme
One onion – peeled and finely sliced
Three carrots – peeled and cut into chunks
¼ swede – peeled and cut into chunks
Four good quality pork sausages
Freshly-ground black pepper
A handful of fresh parsley – chopped
Place the bacon loin in a large pan, add the bay leaf and thyme and add enough cold water to cover. Bring to the boil and simmer for two hours, skimming the surface if any scum appears and topping up the water if it falls below the top of the meat. With a slotted spoon, remove the bacon and put to one side.
Add the sliced onion and chopped carrot and swede to the liquor and simmer for ten minutes before adding the sausages with a little black pepper and simmering for a further 10 to 15 minutes – depending on whether you’ve part-cooked the sausages first to brown them.
To serve, roughly slice the bacon and add to the liquor to reheat and then add the chopped parsley.
Because it’s so simple, it really is important to get good bacon and sausage. Go to a good butcher and pay for the best. The bacon loin needs to be in a chunk rather than sliced and there’s no need to get highly spiced or flavoured sausages - just the best quality pork sausage. But why would you want anything else?
Although it doesn’t effect the taste, some people like the sausage to have some colour rather than staying pink. And if that’s you, heat a grill or frying pan and brown the sausages for a few minutes first. Otherwise, just poach them in the liquor as in the recipe.
You’ll notice there’s no salt in the ingredients list and it’s unlikely you’ll need it as the bacon is fairly salty in the first place and this flavours the resulting liquor.
Serves two
350g bacon loin in one piece
A bay leaf
A sprig of fresh thyme
One onion – peeled and finely sliced
Three carrots – peeled and cut into chunks
¼ swede – peeled and cut into chunks
Four good quality pork sausages
Freshly-ground black pepper
A handful of fresh parsley – chopped
Place the bacon loin in a large pan, add the bay leaf and thyme and add enough cold water to cover. Bring to the boil and simmer for two hours, skimming the surface if any scum appears and topping up the water if it falls below the top of the meat. With a slotted spoon, remove the bacon and put to one side.
Add the sliced onion and chopped carrot and swede to the liquor and simmer for ten minutes before adding the sausages with a little black pepper and simmering for a further 10 to 15 minutes – depending on whether you’ve part-cooked the sausages first to brown them.
To serve, roughly slice the bacon and add to the liquor to reheat and then add the chopped parsley.
Ham shank and peas pudding
Moving up from the South some decades ago, my love of the North East started with a girl but quickly embraced peas pudding. However, if you’d seen it on a restaurant menu all those years ago, you’d have done a pretty quick body swerve.
Now though, we serve it in Oldfields at lunch as a starter and it flies out of the kitchen. And while it takes a little time on the cooker, there’s little effort involved. It’s well worth the wait.
Serves four as a light lunch, starter or supper
One ham shank
250g yellow split peas
One onion – peeled and chopped
One sprig of thyme
Two bay leaves
One carrot – peeled
Two sticks of celery – roughly chopped
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley or a few chopped chives to finish
Place the ham shank in a large pan along with the carrot, celery, bay leaves and thyme. Cover with cold water, bring to the boil and simmer gently for around a couple of hours or until the meat is falling from the bone.
When cooked, remove the meat and bone from the liquid and allow to cool on a plate. Strain the liquid through a sieve into a clean pan and add the chopped onion and split peas. Bring to the boil and simmer gently for 60 to 90 minutes or until the peas are completely broken down. Pour the lot into a food processor or similar and blend until smooth; adjusting the seasoning with salt and pepper as necessary. Allow to cool.
Remove and discard the fat from the now cool ham shank and tear the meat from the bone into coarse pieces.
To serve, place a dollop of peas pudding on a plate with a handful of ham alongside. Give a couple of twists of pepper, sprinkle chopped parsley or chives over the top and serve with buttered crusty bread.
Now though, we serve it in Oldfields at lunch as a starter and it flies out of the kitchen. And while it takes a little time on the cooker, there’s little effort involved. It’s well worth the wait.
Serves four as a light lunch, starter or supper
One ham shank
250g yellow split peas
One onion – peeled and chopped
One sprig of thyme
Two bay leaves
One carrot – peeled
Two sticks of celery – roughly chopped
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley or a few chopped chives to finish
Place the ham shank in a large pan along with the carrot, celery, bay leaves and thyme. Cover with cold water, bring to the boil and simmer gently for around a couple of hours or until the meat is falling from the bone.
When cooked, remove the meat and bone from the liquid and allow to cool on a plate. Strain the liquid through a sieve into a clean pan and add the chopped onion and split peas. Bring to the boil and simmer gently for 60 to 90 minutes or until the peas are completely broken down. Pour the lot into a food processor or similar and blend until smooth; adjusting the seasoning with salt and pepper as necessary. Allow to cool.
Remove and discard the fat from the now cool ham shank and tear the meat from the bone into coarse pieces.
To serve, place a dollop of peas pudding on a plate with a handful of ham alongside. Give a couple of twists of pepper, sprinkle chopped parsley or chives over the top and serve with buttered crusty bread.
Local - but it's got to be quality
I love where I live. I live in Teesdale, not far from Barnard Castle and I’m lucky that I’m just a few minutes from the A1 and a main rail station, yet I’m also in the depths of some of the best countryside in the UK. And I’m surrounded by it.
Then Teesdale’s in the North East. Not necessarily the most fashionably-regarded region in the country but that’s because most people, southerners mainly, just don’t realise what they’re missing. I made the decision to live here some 30 years ago which while it may not come as a shock to you, it certainly does to me seeming like only ten years. That means I’m older than I think. Or act.
But anyway, while I frequently wax lyrical to all those friends I left behind in the South, it doesn’t mean that the place is perfect.
I love the people but sometimes wish I could see more aspiration. I love the countryside but it is scarred by some pretty dreadful architecture; and some dodgy tractor driving. There’re some great pubs but, with my latent southern proclivities, I do like my beer slightly warmer than is common around here.
So while I couldn’t think of a better place in the UK to live, it’s not perfect. Especially the temperature of the beer.
So I have an issue when it comes to the “buy local” campaigns that I, and the Journal along with other influential bodies, are promoted to such effect. Oh yes, I’m a great fan of buying local, but only if it’s good enough.
I’m old enough, just, to recall the Buy British campaign back in the sixties. I think it was an initiative of Barbara Castle and it resulted in great use of the union jack. I remember images of carrier bags being swung by mini-skirted beauties with the flag on one side and the Buy British slogan on the other; the bags not the girls that is.
But I don’t remember it actually being a great success in its prime objective which was to get us to buy stuff made here. Why? Because you could get better stuff from elsewhere, that’s why.
And just because you have an enormous frozen food factory on your doorstep doesn’t mean that everything to come out of it is worthwhile, despite it benefitting the local economy by employing local people.
So I’ve trained myself to think “quality” if possible. And if I can buy it produced in our region, then great. But just to buy it because it’s local alone could be to encourage mediocrity and that doesn’t feel right to me.
However, when it comes to food, just knowing it comes from a local farm or someone’s kitchen down the road has a way of making it taste better anyway. Let’s just make sure that we encourage our producers to offer us the best they’ve got. They can send the rest of the stuff down south.
Then Teesdale’s in the North East. Not necessarily the most fashionably-regarded region in the country but that’s because most people, southerners mainly, just don’t realise what they’re missing. I made the decision to live here some 30 years ago which while it may not come as a shock to you, it certainly does to me seeming like only ten years. That means I’m older than I think. Or act.
But anyway, while I frequently wax lyrical to all those friends I left behind in the South, it doesn’t mean that the place is perfect.
I love the people but sometimes wish I could see more aspiration. I love the countryside but it is scarred by some pretty dreadful architecture; and some dodgy tractor driving. There’re some great pubs but, with my latent southern proclivities, I do like my beer slightly warmer than is common around here.
So while I couldn’t think of a better place in the UK to live, it’s not perfect. Especially the temperature of the beer.
So I have an issue when it comes to the “buy local” campaigns that I, and the Journal along with other influential bodies, are promoted to such effect. Oh yes, I’m a great fan of buying local, but only if it’s good enough.
I’m old enough, just, to recall the Buy British campaign back in the sixties. I think it was an initiative of Barbara Castle and it resulted in great use of the union jack. I remember images of carrier bags being swung by mini-skirted beauties with the flag on one side and the Buy British slogan on the other; the bags not the girls that is.
But I don’t remember it actually being a great success in its prime objective which was to get us to buy stuff made here. Why? Because you could get better stuff from elsewhere, that’s why.
And just because you have an enormous frozen food factory on your doorstep doesn’t mean that everything to come out of it is worthwhile, despite it benefitting the local economy by employing local people.
So I’ve trained myself to think “quality” if possible. And if I can buy it produced in our region, then great. But just to buy it because it’s local alone could be to encourage mediocrity and that doesn’t feel right to me.
However, when it comes to food, just knowing it comes from a local farm or someone’s kitchen down the road has a way of making it taste better anyway. Let’s just make sure that we encourage our producers to offer us the best they’ve got. They can send the rest of the stuff down south.
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