I was in a rush for dinner last night, as I spent too long lounging around in the park in the afternoon and then had to head across town for a drink in the evening. This was the outcome of my cooking under time pressure, and I thought I'd share it with you as it was actually remarkably tasty. I sliced some new potatoes quite thinly, so they would cook quickly, and fried them up in a little butter over a moderate heat along with some pancetta that I was happy to find in the fridge. I tore up the leaves from a baby gem lettuce, and added a good handful of parsley leaves, left whole, tossing it all in a dressing which was half red wine vinegar, half olive oil, salt and pepper. I was banking on the butter and juices from the pancetta to add enough extra oil to the dressing to make it all balance out. The leaves went onto a plate, and the potato and bacon scattered over the top as soon as ethey were both turning just golden, leaving some of the greens just wilting under the heat. A glass of cold white wine to go with it, and I was cooked, fed and ready to go within twenty minutes. A few shavings of parmesan and some nice little cherry tomatoes would have set it off a treat, and turned it into a pefectly presentable light lunch or dinner to serve to visitors, but I had neither. I coped.
Monday 23 June 2008
Monday 16 June 2008
Baked Camembert
Not really a full post, more a quick sharing of a good idea. The other day we had a Camembert which, it transpired, wasn't quite ripe enough for eating. This is not as much of a problem as you may think. Place your cheese in an oven proof dish which it snugly fits in, stabbing some holes in the top with a little knife. Stick a few sprigs of your herb of choice into the holes (I thoroughly recommended thyme, though rosemary can be almost as good) and shove it in an oven pre-heated to 180C for 10-15 minutes. Dig in with some crusty bread, a few cornichons on the side, and maybe a cold beer close to hand. A great snack for two, a ridiculously unhealthy dinner for one.
Rhubarb and Ginger trifle
I love rhubarb. I especially love stewed rhubarb. I have in the past found myself standing with the fridge door open, teaspoon in hand, shovelling the stuff into my mouth just before going to bed after a trip to the pub. Or first thing in the morning. Or as I'm cooking dinner. I need little excuse. My parents visited a week ago and they bought with them a large bundle of the stuff from their garden, which will be some of the last as it's getting close to the end of it's season. A celebration of this fine vegetable was in order. I normally add a little ground ginger to my stewed rhubarb as the flavours of the two sit so well together. Chatting to my friend Paula, we came to the conclusion that stewed rhubarb could make a fine trifle, and it seems obvious to me to carry on the marriage of flavours I just mentioned. I flicked through a few recipe books and couldn't find such a trifle, so I had to make my own up. I won't write a full recipe out, as I can't be bothered to detail how to stew rhubarb or make custard and I'm sure you're more than capable of doing these things, or at least finding out how to. Instead, I'll discuss the layers, starting from the bottom up.
The Base : When I was little, we used to have McVitties Jamaican Ginger Cake with custard as a quick pudding; It's so beautifully sticky, gingery and comforting and I thought it would make an excellent trifle base. I cut it into slices about half an inch thick and lined the bottom of my trifle bowl with it, sprinkling over a good dash of Stone's Ginger Wine. No trifle is complete without a little booze.
The Fruit : Simple, stewed rhubarb, poured over the cake base whilst still hot. About six medium sticks of rhubarb, a few tablespoons of sugar, and a splash of water is all I used, cooking it for a little longer than normal, hoping that if it was more liquid it may soak into the sponge a little more easily.
The Custard : I made up my own custard using half a pint of cream, half a pint of milk, three egg yolks and four tablespoons of sugar. I left it to cool for as long as possible before pouring it on to the rhubarb so as to make sure it wasn't too runny.
The Cream : Half a pint of double cream, with a little of the syrup from a jar of stem ginger added for good measure, whipped until it drifted lightly, then spooned over the custard.
Decoration : Every trifle must be decorated. Here, I cut some stem ginger from the jar into little matchsticks and sprinkled them over rather haphazardly.
I don't know quite what to say. I think this is one of my proudest achievements in my limited cooking history; I thought it was fantastically rich and luxurious, the flavours sitting beautifully together, tempting me back for thirds. One to avoid if you're on a diet, though. That said, don't come to my house for dinner if you're on a diet.
A simple green bean salad
Nothing fancy, this, just a straightforward side dish. I cooked some fine green beans and sugar snap peas in boiling water for four minutes, until cooked but with just a little bite left to them, and rinsed them in cold water straight away. I added a simple dressing of one part red wine vinegar to three parts olive oil, and a handful of very finely chopped red onion (I would have gone for shallots, but I didn't have any in). Piled onto a plate for people to help themselves to, we ate them alongside a roast leg of lamb, but they would go beautifully with cold roast chicken or a nice piece of grilled fish.
A refreshing summer salad
The sun has been threatening to make a real appearance over the last few days and, at times like this, a clean tasting salad is all I could ask for. Here, the refreshing flavour of peas and parsley sit beside the earthy notes of lentils and a creamy piece of welsh goat's cheese. I actually made this up as a starter for Sunday lunch yesterday and it served as beautifully light introduction to the meal but, to my mind, it would also make a wonderfully light summer lunch served with a cold, crisp glass of white wine. It is very simple, and can mostly be put together ahead of time. Here's a rough outline of what to do:
> Rinse 150g of Puy lentils, tip into boiling water and simmer for around 20 minutes.
> Drain the lentils, place them in a bowl and toss in a nice olive oil; it will smell beautiful.
> Boil 150g of peas until tender, rinse under cold water, and add to the lentils.
> Add a squeeze of lemon juice, salt and pepper to taste, and enough extra olive oil to give the whole thing a nice sheen.
> Just before serving, tear off the leaves from a small bunch of parsely and stir in to the pea and lentil mixture.
> Divide the salad between the plates, topping with a slice or two of your favourite goats cheese.
Serves six as a starter, or three as a main.
Saturday 7 June 2008
A Sunday lunch for the end of spring
Four of us for lunch, all boys, and a rather boozy affair it was, too. As people arrived, we all sipped at a gin and tonic, and what better to go with that pre-lunch gin and tonic than a bowl full of home made crisps? I am lacking a mandoline, so i sliced potatoes by hand, trying to keep them thinner than a one pence coin and I also took thin slithers off a parsnip using a vegetable peeler. Dunked into cold water to remove some starch, they were then deep fired until golden, drained, and sprinkled with salt. Alarmingly simple, unhealthy and rather moreish. My only concern is that some were left in the fryer a little too long. Maybe I should have been a little slower with my gin.
I am well aware that I haven't cooked much asparagus this spring which is such a shame, as it's a real favourite of mine. I always think that it's a vegetable that cries out for simple cooking, and that's what I did here, taking a cue from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. The asparagus was drizzled in olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper and roasted for 10 minutes at 180 and at the same time, I soft boiled four eggs. At the table, everyone got to chop the top off their egg, add a little butter and cider vinegar, and plunge spears of asparagus into the runny yolks. The butter and vinegar combine to make an impromptu hollandaise. And an awful lot of mess. There's a certain theatre to serving this as a starter, which I usually tend to shy away from, but this time we all revelled in it, sipping cava as we ate and reminisced about eating boiled eggs with toast soldiers as children. Then I had to wash the egg yolk off my face.
Feeling rather lazy, I opted to roast the loin of pork I'd picked up from the butchers in the same tin as the potatoes. The idea being that the the pork will provide just enough fat for the potatoes roast nicely, whilst also meaning no par-boiling and less washing up. Fantastic. I dried the skin of the pork and rubbed a decent amount of salt in since I don't believe there's any more of a secret to getting good crackling than this. The pork then sat in the middle of the tin, it was surrounded by waxy little new potatoes, sliced in two if they were on the large side, a couple of lemons cut into wedges, a sprinkle of fennel seeds and a handful of lightly crushed garlic cloves. All this went into a hot oven for half an hour, which was then turned down for the rest of the cooking time (about 2 hours in total for 1.5kg of pork). I'm very keen on cooking like this, as I like being able to sit and chat to people that have come round to eat with me, rather than spending half my time slaving in the kitchen. As the pork finished cooking, it came out to rest for 15-20 minutes, allowing enough time to make some gravy with the pan juices and cook some greens. For the gravy, I added a glass of white wine to the pan, scraped the tasty bits off the bottom, and let the mixture bubble for a few minutes. For the greens, I cooked some broccoli and peas together in the same pan for four minutes. As I said, I was feeling lazy. How did it all turn out? The pork was juicy, the crackling close to perfect. The lemony potatoes would have been too much by themselves, but cut through the pork really well. The gravy managed to be a touch overpowering due to the lemon, though this was almost offset by the last minute addition of a touch of honey. Most importantly, people dived in for second helpings without asking. Always such a compliment.
Pudding was an old faithful Nigel Slater recipe. I'd picked up some of the first peaches I'd seen this year the previous day, knowing they'd be a little ropey to eat by themselves but that they could be brought alive with a little cooking. Taking a peach per person, I halved and stoned them, placing them skin-side-down in a little roasting tin and each half got a little dot of butter in the centre, a dollop of honey, and little squeeze of lemon juice. Grilled until the edges were just catching and the honey was bubbling in the bottom of the pan, they were done. I stirred a little chopped stem ginger into some crème fraiche to serve with them. My house mate laughs about how unhealthy this is every time I make it, but then finishes the leftovers from everybody else's plates. I think he approves.
I am well aware that I haven't cooked much asparagus this spring which is such a shame, as it's a real favourite of mine. I always think that it's a vegetable that cries out for simple cooking, and that's what I did here, taking a cue from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. The asparagus was drizzled in olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper and roasted for 10 minutes at 180 and at the same time, I soft boiled four eggs. At the table, everyone got to chop the top off their egg, add a little butter and cider vinegar, and plunge spears of asparagus into the runny yolks. The butter and vinegar combine to make an impromptu hollandaise. And an awful lot of mess. There's a certain theatre to serving this as a starter, which I usually tend to shy away from, but this time we all revelled in it, sipping cava as we ate and reminisced about eating boiled eggs with toast soldiers as children. Then I had to wash the egg yolk off my face.
Feeling rather lazy, I opted to roast the loin of pork I'd picked up from the butchers in the same tin as the potatoes. The idea being that the the pork will provide just enough fat for the potatoes roast nicely, whilst also meaning no par-boiling and less washing up. Fantastic. I dried the skin of the pork and rubbed a decent amount of salt in since I don't believe there's any more of a secret to getting good crackling than this. The pork then sat in the middle of the tin, it was surrounded by waxy little new potatoes, sliced in two if they were on the large side, a couple of lemons cut into wedges, a sprinkle of fennel seeds and a handful of lightly crushed garlic cloves. All this went into a hot oven for half an hour, which was then turned down for the rest of the cooking time (about 2 hours in total for 1.5kg of pork). I'm very keen on cooking like this, as I like being able to sit and chat to people that have come round to eat with me, rather than spending half my time slaving in the kitchen. As the pork finished cooking, it came out to rest for 15-20 minutes, allowing enough time to make some gravy with the pan juices and cook some greens. For the gravy, I added a glass of white wine to the pan, scraped the tasty bits off the bottom, and let the mixture bubble for a few minutes. For the greens, I cooked some broccoli and peas together in the same pan for four minutes. As I said, I was feeling lazy. How did it all turn out? The pork was juicy, the crackling close to perfect. The lemony potatoes would have been too much by themselves, but cut through the pork really well. The gravy managed to be a touch overpowering due to the lemon, though this was almost offset by the last minute addition of a touch of honey. Most importantly, people dived in for second helpings without asking. Always such a compliment.
Pudding was an old faithful Nigel Slater recipe. I'd picked up some of the first peaches I'd seen this year the previous day, knowing they'd be a little ropey to eat by themselves but that they could be brought alive with a little cooking. Taking a peach per person, I halved and stoned them, placing them skin-side-down in a little roasting tin and each half got a little dot of butter in the centre, a dollop of honey, and little squeeze of lemon juice. Grilled until the edges were just catching and the honey was bubbling in the bottom of the pan, they were done. I stirred a little chopped stem ginger into some crème fraiche to serve with them. My house mate laughs about how unhealthy this is every time I make it, but then finishes the leftovers from everybody else's plates. I think he approves.
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