When it turns cold, grey and drizzly, I find myself needing banana bread. For me, banana bread represents that feeling of warmth and security that overcomes a person when walking through the front door after a trying day and a long, cold walk from the bus stop. A toasted slice or two, with a thin spreading of butter, and a cup of tea was my ultimate after-school snack.
Thus, last week, feeling rather nostalgic and counting down the days until returning to the Twin Cities for Christmas, I called home for the butter-stained page out of James Beard's Beard on Bread (Knopf, 1973). There are two versions--one with honey and another, without.
The beauty of Beard's recipe is in the 'buttermilk', which one makes by combining 1/3 cup milk and 1 tsp. fresh lemon juice. The tang of slightly curdled milk offsets the sweetness of the sugar and banana and rounds out the flavour of the bread. Armed with GourmetSleuth's gram conversion calculator, I set about converting the list of ingredients into grams. I've listed the rough conversions in the recipe below.
Now, I am not one to go about messing with a James Beard recipe, but I did feel that, in this instance, the combination of caster sugar and brown sugar, instead of granulated sugar alone, created a totally decadent caramelised note that I will not be able to do without from this point forward.
250g/2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tsp. baking soda 1/2 tsp. salt
113 g/ 1.5 cup butter 62 g/ .5 cup caster sugar 62g/ .5 cup dark brown sugar*
2 eggs 230g/ 1 cup mashed banana
1/3 cup milk 1 tsp. lemon juice
* If you would prefer to stay true to Mr Beard's recipe, use 1 cup of granulated sugar
Sift the flour, baking soda and salt in a sieve and set aside. Cream the butter and sugar using electric beaters (MixMaster). Add the eggs and banana to the creamed butter and sugar, combine milk and lemon juice in a glass, and then add the dry ingredients and the milk mixture in alternating additions, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients. Fold in chocolate chips, raisins, or anything else that you fancy!
Pour the batter into a lavishly buttered loaf pan and bake at 350 F (176 C) for one hour.
Keeping with this recent theme of posts to do with leftovers, I thought this warm salad of leftover chicken might make a timely addition. With the mercury dropping, or, in Oxford's case, a seemingly constant cold rain falling, I find myself craving stodge in a primal way--somewhere, deep in those rare, remaining empty fat cells there is a concerted, biological chorus of voices cooing 'fatten up for winter!'
And in a last-ditch effort this week to stick to healthy dinners, this salad fit the bill as both warming, satisfying and...well...not unhealthy.
Mixed greens, washed and torn 1/2 small white onion, finely sliced 1 garlic clove, minced 1/2 bulb fennel, finely sliced, exterior layer removed and discarded. 1 apple (Pink Lady is a favourite), cut into fine slices Leftover roasted chicken Stilton or blue cheese, crumbled, to taste Cashew nuts (optional; toasted almonds or pine nuts could work, too)
3 Tbs. olive oil 1 Tbs. white wine vinegar 1 tsp. Dijon mustard (whole grain mustard would be fine as well) Salt Pepper
In a small saute pain, add 2 tsp. olive oil and saute the onion over medium-high heat until soft and beginning to brown; then, add the sliced fennel and garlic and continue to saute another 2-3 minutes. Lower the heat and add in cubed chicken, stirring until the chicken is heated through.
Whisk together the last five ingredients in a large bowl and toss with salad greens. Layer the greens on a plate, followed by the sliced apples, chicken/onion/fennel mixture, Stilton, and cashews.
The salty tang of cheese, sweet apple, combined with the savoury warm ingredients hits every note and creates a satisfying mouthfeel without any stodge!
With little else than feta and tomatoes in the fridge on a Sunday morning, what is a girl to do?
Make menemen.
This weekend's festivities have left me feeling my age. I do realise that one's mid-twenties does still fall under the 'spring chicken' category, but two nights of boozy social events left me feeling, well, like I was too old to be feeling as badly as I did this morning.
While staring bleakly into the florescent expanse, three sad eggs called out 'menemen'. Feeling the need for a bit of a refresher on method, I turned to Google, and the results were anything but helpful. Search results varied from the truly disgusting to the city of Menemen, Turkey, to the traditional, though vague.
The menemen I had eaten and since dreamed about was always served in metallic bowls, the sucuk (spicy sausage) crispy and bubbling against the slightly browned edges. Clearly, these were finished over a high flame or a broiler. Lacking in any oven-proof pans to speak of, I decided to go at it on the gas hob.
3 eggs 2 tsp. dried parsley 1/4 c. milk Salt and ground black pepper
I coated the pan in olive oil and threw in the tomaotes. I let these cook on medium-high heat for a minute or so, enough time for the shallots to soften but careful not to burn the garlic.
Then the eggs went in:
A few gentle nudges with the wooden spoon ensured that the tomato mixture was equally distributed and that the eggs in direct contact with the pan would not burn.
At this point it is best to drop the heat, add the feta, and cover for about 8 minutes. Count on at least one minute per inch of pan diameter. With a bit of toasted bread and a strong coffee, I was feeling myself again.
Traditionally, mild green peppers and/or sucuk are added, but I didn't have any, so there you are! Some non-traditional additions might include goat's cheese, brie, or left over roasted vegetables. This dish will beat a boring omlette or fritata any day.
On a recent trip to London, my mom and I were searching for an easy, reasonable pre-theatre menu, and Soho's Arbutus ticked both boxes.
The interiors are welcoming, the staff friendly, helpful, and prompt, and the food is reflective of Anthony Demetre's Michelin etoile earned at Putney Bridge Restaurant. Demetre has worked with Will Smith since 1998, and it has been a match that, judging by our recent meal, has worked brilliantly. Demetre's menu is straightforward and comforting without being predictable or boring.
My 'vegetable soup' starter was actually a soupe au pistou, with a dollop of pesto hiding beneath carefully arranged vegetables that had to have been cooked separately from the broth because they were just barely still crisp and the broth worked as a compliment rather than a liquified version of the mushy veggie flavours (as, sadly, so many vegetable soups turn out to be).
Our main (we chose identically) was billed as 'Slow cooked lamb breast, potato puree'. But it was more. Oh, so much more. The layers of breast had been flash sauteed to crisp the meat and then layered into a terrine and braised. With the potato on the side, it was more like a deconstructed lamb brandade, with the carrots seasoned simply (and with copious amounts of butter...which was surely the secret to the potatoes as well).
Will Smith's part in all of this was equally praiseworthy. The pair's philosophy is 'value for money and quality', and Smith's wine list is evidence that they intend to stay true to it. The approximately 25 reds and 25 whites are listed in 1/3 bottle-sized carafes, and not a one struck me as unreasonably priced. Also, for a party of three or four, the 1/3 bottle makes it possible to pair every course with something different.
Unfortunately, I ate dessert too quickly to take a picture, but let that be proof in the pudding that it was something splendid. It was a creme caramel that was one part flan, one part apple crumble, and served with a slender biscotti with which to scoop up layers of caramelised apple (and, I think, a wee bit of pear) and delightfully light vanilla creme.
Oh, and the bill? 18.95 GBP per person. Granted, this was without wine, but Arbutus, in my opinion, is the best pre-theatre spot for a Drury Lane show.
Having rolled back to Albion at least 2 kilos of gelato heavier, I decided that it was time for some tough love in the kitchen. I threw out the remaining Magnum ice cream bars; the butter got the boot; all tempting carbohydrates swiftly met the lining of the rubbish bin.
It was time for some veggies. Not one who takes easily to the notion of a raw diet in a country slipping into the gray, damp cold of November, however, I decided to allow myself a bit of olive oil. OK, a good few Tablespoons of olive oil.
Roasted carrots played a significant part of our Great British Menu meal, and my improvised version of Glynn Purnell's 'pickled carrots' opened my eyes to macerating the carrots in oil and spices in advance of roasting. The oil acts as a conduit for infusing the carrots with whatever spice mixture you add to them. This batch has mustard seed, fennel seed, cumin, garam masala, dried corriander, salt and pepper. I crushed the larger seeds in a mortar and pestle and then added the rest. One could use any kind of oil, but I think vegetable or olive would work best. I may have gone a bit overboard with the spices this time, but mustard seed and fennel seed go wonderfully with carrots. If you happen to have some dried chipotle peppers lying around, crush those up and add a bit--the smokey, piquant flavour is a great compliment to the sweetness of carrots after they are roasted. If you can, slice them as thinly as possible; let them macerate for at least an hour, and place them in a thin layer on a baking sheet lined with foil. They become almost like crisps!
Macerating carrots
For the courgette, garlic, and cherry tomatoes, I kept things simple. Just a bit of olive oil, coarse salt and cracked black pepper.
These veggies roasted for about 45 minutes at 200 degrees Celsius. The tomatoes were sweet with condensed tomato flavour, the garlic was sticky with caramelized goodness. The courgette, however, was, well, just rather limp; I think I'll stick to sauteing or grilling those in the future.
The aubergines got a stove top roast over the gas burners. This method is best in the absence of a grill, and the charred skin gives the flesh of the aubergine, and the 20-foot radius around you, a strong, smokey quality. Yum. The roasted flesh was then removed from the skin and set aside. In a deep saucepan I heated some olive oil over medium heat, added:
3 garlic cloves, smashed and minced (raw) 3 garlic cloves, smashed (roasted) 2 shallots (raw or roasted) Flesh of 2 roasted aubergines, mashed 3 Tbs. tomato paste 4 fresh tomatoes, chopped (I used the roasted cherry tomatoes) 1 Tbs. pomegranate molasses 2 tsp. dried sumac 2 tsp. Turkish red pepper flakes Salt and pepper to taste 1/2 bunch fresh parsley (flat leaf, Italian is best, but curly is fine)
Add the garlic and shallots (if raw) to the oil (enough to coat the bottom of the pan) and saute for a few seconds. The moment that it begins to brown, add the tomato paste and saute for a few seconds more. Then add the aubergine and roasted garlic, shallots (if roasted), followed by the tomatoes, molasses, and spices. And if you happen to have some roasted courgette, go ahead and throw that in, too!
Finally, the jewels of peppers, shallots and fennel got the same simple dressing as the courgette and tomatoes--just a bit of oil, salt, and pepper.
These went in to a roasted veggie salad, dressed with just a bit of balsamic. All of the roasted veg was delicious with pita, hummus, lettuce, yogurt (just throw in some fresh mint, parsley and a bit of lemon juice), and fish throughout the week.
Our second full day in Florence brought us meandering through the streets towards the Piazza del'Carmine, where we had a brilliant sun drenched lunch of prosciutto e melone, insalata caprese, and tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms (which we devoured far too quickly to document...sadly!). So, returning to this certain Florentine quirkiness that I alluded to in my last post...
On our way towards the Piazza del'Carmine we passed some incredible holes in the wall, including a private palazzo with a beautiful courtyard. When I approached the gate to take a picture of the statue at the far end, an old man let us enter and we met two women who offered to take us on a tour of the converted palazzo, which now has a series of private apartments available for rent as well as a private gym! With each crunch or 'exalted warrior' pose, one would look up at a gorgeous series of restored, original frescoes.
Finally, we happened upon this woodworking shop, which had every variety of finial, molding, and wall bracket ever made!
Today, for this post, I am going to indulge. Visually speaking. Less is more as far as words are concerned, in this particular case.
Recently, our wonderful friends, Paula and Cy DeCosse, were our fantastic hosts for a weekend in Florence, where we celebrated Cy's 'Last Picture Show' at the Galleria dell'Accademia. The weekend was enriched with the presence of many of Cy's subjects for his show--the Florentines who make the city the buzzing hub of artisan creativity--, friends from all over the world, and, of course...gorgeous food.
Following the opening at the Accademia, we headed to the Stibbert Museum (think Versailles re-done by an eccentric Scotsman with a penchant for armor). The museum was the residence of a one Fredrick Stibbert, whose grandfather was the high commander of Britain's East India Company in Bengal. With the inheritance of his grandfather's entire estate, Fredrick's sole occupation became filling up the place with stuff. Lots of stuff. As in there is a hall for a complete Cavalcade.
Once we'd feasted our eyes on the horror vacui around us, we sat down to the following:
Turbantino di carote con bianco di astice, pinoli tostati e olio al basilico (Carrot pudding with lobster, toasted pine nuts and basil oil)
Fagottini di crespella di ricotta di bufala e spinaci (Crepes au gratin with bufala ricotta cheese and spinach)
Vermicelli alla chitarra al ragout leggero di verdure (Vermicelli with vegetable sauce)
Gran pezzo di bue chianino alla toscana in salsa al ristretto di Brunello & Lattuga belga brasata con bacon (Beef Tuscan style with Brunello red wine sauce & Braised Belgian endive with bacon)
Dolce all'amaretto (Amaretto cake)
Friandises
Needless to say, after all of this, we all rolled down the hill to taxis. The evening was a special one not only because Cy's show was such a crowning moment in his homage to a city and a people he has loved for over sixty years, but the food as well as the venue reflected the best of Florence: one part opulence, one part humility, and one part absolute quirkiness, a certain brand of which can only can be found there.
Yesterday, National Public Radio’s All Things Considered commented on the demise of Gourmet magazine, stating that the public reaction was vaguely divided into two categories: those who didn’t know the magazine and therefore didn’t care, and those who were in mourning.
In the not so distant future, kitchens will be computerised, armed with a plethora of gadgets able not only to mollycoddle one through heaps of watered-down recipes chosen to please a 'target' consumer, but to inform one that the recipe in question calls for 1/3 cup of milk, and, having received a signal from the refrigerator that only 2/3 cups remain, a replacement litre has been pre-emptively ordered through the online grocery service and will be arriving tomorrow morning on one’s front step.
Even reading about the dissolution of Gourmet on blogs such as this one has its own twist of irony—as though the exchange of laments of the foodie blogosphere combine to create one long obituary-in-waiting that was composed using different words long before its actual death.
For as long as I have been alive, Gourmet was the go-to reference for those who cooked good food and those who simply appreciated good food. It stood for exactly what it promised—the delights of the connoisseur, the gluttonous pleasure of the gourmand. Not every recipe between its covers seemed feasible, many brandishing preparation times in days rather than hours. And you know what? That was fine by me. I think we could do with more appreciation for what goes into traditional preparations of truly laborious and equally delicious food and less of the ‘Stoup’ (yes, I know Rachel Ray is far too easy a target) versions.
Why should the only recipes published be ‘accessible’? Surely there is room enough at the table for the home chef and the home cook; it is true that a home cook might risk feeling alienated by time-consuming, labour-intensive, complicated recipes, but Gourmet’s iconic status attests to an equally deserving reading audience that saw those same recipes as inviting challenges. One cook’s tedium is another’s bliss. Furthermore, Gourmet was the exception rather than the rule; every other magazine near the grocery store checkout deals in the business of quick, easy meals.
To those who might be rather quick to cry ‘snob’, let me say that it is thanks to literature such as Gourmet magazine that we enjoy a greater diversity of foods available today in the average American supermarket.
Lynne Rosetto Kasper hit it on the head when she spoke on 5 Oct. with Melissa Block on NPR’s ‘All Things Considered’: ‘about 10 years ago, when Ruth Reichl took over Gourmet, she took this magazine and she took an opportunity to redo a classic, and I think she did a bang-up job…food isn't just recipes. Food is far more than recipes. Food is stories. Food is stories about people. Food's politics. Food's history. And Gourmet was bringing that all in and embracing it’.
For E.'s housewarming party this weekend I decided to go retro. Devilled eggs retro.
I was determined to make these the ultimate devilled egg, no ordinary oeuf mimosa. My instincts told me that despite the recipe’s European origins in ancient Rome and Andalusia, it might have been a while since the devilled egg made an appearance on the Oxford dinner party scene. I was right.
These little beauties were met with a bit of apprehension, and most of our friends went for the crisps and E.’s delectable bruschetta before venturing over to the Pyrex casserole lids filled with eggs (when one is many moons away from places where devilled egg serving plates are easily procured, one improvises). Somehow, though, by the end of a very enjoyable evening, the lids were empty...
Here is my version:1 dozen eggs
¼ cup mayonnaise
1 ½ Tbs. Dijon mustard
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
2 shallots, minced
2 Tbs. capers, drained and minced
1-2 Tbs. sambal oelec
3-4 dashes Tabasco
Salt and pepper to taste
1. Boiling the eggs
Here I decided to consult Julia Child’s egg chapter in The Way to Cook (my culinary Bible for methods), and it worked beautifully. Place the eggs in enough warm water so that the water level is at least one inch above the eggs. Bring the pot to a boil and then immediately pop the lid on the pot of water and remove from the heat, allowing the eggs to sit for exactly 17 minutes. Then, shock the eggs in cold water (this will prevent that woeful, nasty brownish/green discoloration around the yolk) for two minutes. Finally, pour boiling water over the cooked, cooled eggs, and peel. The temperature shock of cold water followed by boiling water will cause the membrane around the egg to release from the white more easily, making the peeling process far easier.
2. Filling
Halve the eggs (I found that cleaning the knife with a damp paper towel between slicing helped to make cleaner cuts) and add the yolks to the other ingredients listed. The filling is, of course, subject to personal taste, but I must say that the sambal oelek chilli paste really worked a dream! Place the mixture in a piping bag with a star tip and fill the white cavities.
The frizzled shallots are optional. But so good!
Remember the lemon curd from Part 1?
Try dipping shortbread cookies in it and dust with confectioner’s sugar.
The bureaucratic gods smiled warmly upon me this month: the UK Border Agency returned my passport, visa therein, wait for it...one week early! In this age of cynicism and general ire directed towards government agencies, when immigration solutions seem all the more elusive even as the problem mounts and countries lock down their borders instead of looking to the roots of global poverty, I choose to look upon the early arrival of granted leave in the UK as a glimmer of light.
Hence, cupcakes. And how could there be a more hopeful, light variety of cupcake than Coconut Lemon Meringue Cupcakes! The egg itself, of which one needs 9 for this recipe, with its sunny yolk and billowing whites represents a new beginning which emulsifies, binds together, while also aerating and lightening.
Perhaps that was a bit much.
In any case, these were delicious cupcakes. The batter has coconut milk and 6 egg whites, which, together, create a fluffy batter that makes the top of the cupcake more like a cake-y macaroon than dense cake. The golden lemon curd in the middle counters the sweet, toasted meringue, and, all together, creates an irresistible combination.
The only modification I made to the recipe was to make a true Italian meringue. So, instead of just egg and sugar over simmering water, I made a 'softball stage' sugar syrup and drizzled it into whipped, then beaten whites. Julia Child's The Way To Cook is an excellent reference here. The egg chapter has a comprehensive section on meringues.
...From a box. I know, I know. Shock! Horror! I even have a kitchen scale. But when pressed for time, or when the comfort factor of a cake seems like it might be zeroed out by the stresses of managing not just cake but the icing as well...well, I have to admit that I don't really have a problem with turning to the red box of the baking aisle. To a point.
I recently saw a fairy cake box mix to which one adds only water, and that's just gross. Recently, I've been striking a balance that includes experimenting with homemade frostings and fillings, while cheating a bit on the actual baking. I promise to post a cake from scratch soon, but these three cakes (one a rainy day activity, one an impromptu birthday cake, and the other as cupcakes for a dinner party) were no worse off for their processed beginnings because they were coated and layered with fresh ingredients.
D. and I decided a couple of weeks ago that, well, we just needed some cake. With her thesis deadlines looming, summer seeming to have taken a hiatus, and my...unjustified lethargy, a cake was in order. We trotted off to the shops and returned with dark chocolate, Nutella, and all the other accoutrements necessary for the cake and a basic buttercream.
The box's directions were more or less followed, however, one addition really made a difference. Where the measurements for water are called for, I left room for a single shot of espresso. Coffee and chocolate are a natural pair, and the cakes were just ever so slightly more rich in chocolate flavour thanks to the addition.
Now for the buttercream. This is no ordinary buttercream. In fact, I think if consumed in excess it could provoke instantaneous cardiac arrest. However, that is neither here nor there... It ended up as something of a melange between chocolate ganache and buttercream. We began by melting 3oo grams of good quality dark chocolate over a double boiler. This was then added to the creamed butter and sugar...and then we added the Nutella (about 1/3 jar)...and the rest is history. Paula Deen, eat your heart out!
~ ~ ~
D. exercising her piping skills Cake No. 2
M. was on a flight from O'Hare to Heathrow as we spoke, staring at the communal kitchen table. It was time to kick into gear and get a birthday cake to end all birthday cakes together. A recent stop to Added Ingredients in Abingdon meant that I was wielding a proper piping bag and decorating tip set along with a Bialetti coffee maker for D. Needless to say, a couple shots from Mr. Bialetti got us going.
I remembered a cake I'd made out of Bon Appetit (June 2000)--a 'Mixed-Berry and White Chocolate Buttercream Cake', and decided it might work well again with the chocolate cake mix I had. Again, I added some espresso and baked according to the box directions. Bon Appetit's recipe makes an obscene amount of vanilla cake (there are 15 egg whites!), and this gateau had to be baked ASAP in a tiny oven.
For the buttercream, I followed Bon Appetit's recipe, but cut down on the quantities by approximately a third since my version had two layers instead of three:
8 ounces white chocolate, chopped 1/2 c. whipping cream 2 c. (4 sticks) unsalted butter at room temperature 1 c. egg whites (about 8) 2 1/4 c. sugar 2 1/2 tsp. grated orange peel 2 tsp. vanilla extract
We frosted with a crumb layer, topped the first layer chock-a-block with berries, and covered with the remaining buttercream, piping scalloped edges and and using seedless raspberry jam to decorate.
The third impromptu cake experiment was for a dinner party at E's, of Chef E. fame. I had just acquired some silicon cupcake forms, and I was eager to try them out. The end result was far more British 'fairy cake' in shape than American cupcake, but they tasted alright, just the same.
Half-way through baking, I studded each cake with a raspberry or two, and topped with a lemon Swiss meringue buttercream (in essence, the recipe above, minus the white chocolate and with the addition of 1 Tbs. lemon zest and a small squeeze of fresh lemon juice) and blackberries.
If that's not an end-of-summer cupcake, I don't know what is!
May the gods of flat letting be praised: I have a place to live. With the end of my cushy student housing contract looming, these past days have been rather hair-raising.
The exciting thing is that the new pad is not far from one of Oxford's Asian markets, and there, tucked away in a dusty corner of racks of plastic wash bins, woks, and wire baskets it called to me:
a Thai granite mortar and pestle, not unlike this one.
Try to imagine, as hard as it may be, life without a food processor. Difficult, I know. Yet now, dear reader, you realise how joyous a day it was when my hand mixer came into my life. And now, to add to the pantheon of gadgets, a mortar and pestle!
This new acquisition and subsequent christening meant one thing: curry.
I trotted over to the market and picked up lemongrass, baby Thai aubergines (if you haven't tried these yet, do!), shallots, chilis, nam pla (fish sauce), sambal oelec (chili paste), fresh turmeric (you'll never go back to powdered), galangal, and peanuts.
I had diligently watched Rick Stein travel his way through Asia on his 'Rick Stein's Far Eastern Odyssey', and I was hungry. The pastes used as the bases for the dishes explored and explained in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia, Bali, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka had such striking colours, interesting textures, and left me yearning for the mingling aromas of lemongrass, fresh turmeric, and chilis.
The only disappointment I feel obliged to express here is a certain Eurocentrism that coloured his commentary. Perhaps Oxford's post-colonial contingent of the English Faculty was as small then as it is now, but I really did expect a more enlightened, less complacent tone from the OBE. Whether the writer(s) was Stein himself or a group of BBC producers, either way, Stein's reluctance to walk along a Phuket beach because--he states more than once--it would be too cliche does not jive with observations of rural Bangladesh like, 'It looked to me like scenes from ancient Egypt along the flood planes along the Nile', and 'thanks to a massive population, everything is done by hand'.
Somehow, I have to believe that the back-breaking labour of brick makers and rice paddy workers has far less to do with mere population numbers and much more to do with global trade and the exploitation of a product and a people (particularly the rural populations) by Western consumers who aren't willing to pay the true price of their imported goods.
Another line pulled me up short: 'I feel slightly proud of being British because we introduced tea to Assam. And here it is, it came from China in the first place'. This sense of (misplaced?) pride and awe is a constant throughout the series, with Stein focusing far less on the realities currently facing the people of these countries than on romantic asides that smack of nostalgia for the days of Conrad. While it certainly must have been exciting times in Assam in 1838 when that first dispatch of 160 Kg of tea was sent to be sold at London's India House, not one word was mentioned of the tea crisis in India of the past decade. The British did not 'introduce tea to Assam', but certain multinational corporations who shall remain nameless have succeeded in fostering a growing preference for soft drinks, which, along with the global financial crisis, continues to threaten the tea industry in India, Kenya, and Sri Lanka.
I truly do enjoy listening to Stein talk about food. It's clear that his awe and affinity for Asia comes from a place of respect and good intentions; I just wish the travelogue commentary could have stuck to food, or, better yet, acknowledged the hardships faced by those in the food production industry of these countries.
OK, now that that is off my chest, back to this recipe. I freely admit that this concoction is in no way an 'authentic' version of any one national dish. It is, rather, what I found to be a combination of flavours that are largely Thai, but one that certainly does not strictly adhere to what a Thai curry should entail.
Annie's 'Thai' Curry: (yields approximately 4 portions)
4 garlic cloves
7 shallots (substitution: 2 small red onions)
2 1-cm cubes fresh turmeric
1 stalk lemongrass
1 1-cm cube galangal
2 handfuls of plain (not roasted) peanuts
3 red Thai chilis (bird's eye), 3 green Thai chilis (to taste)
4-5 Tbs. sambal oelek (to taste)
1 tsp. lime zest
Juice of 2-3 limes (to taste--I like lots of chili and lots of lime)
4 Tbs. nam pla
1 Tbs. ground corriander
1 Tbs. ground cumin
1 Tbs. garam masala
Fresh corriander
Salt
4 chicken breasts
4 baby Thai aubergines
4 tomatoes (with or without skin)
2 Tbs. palm sugar
1 can coconut milk
Jasmine rice
1. Toast the peanuts in a skillet, and get to chopping!
2. Chop as finely as possible and add to the mortar: shallots, garlic (use a garlic press), lime zest, tumeric, galangal, and chilis.
3. Cut the root tip off of the lemongrass and pummel the length of the shoot with a rolling pin to soften the inner flesh and chop finely. Add to the mortar and, using the pestle, work into a paste. One small handful at a time, add the toasted peanuts, alternating with lime juice, and sambal oelec. Then add the dry spices to taste.
5. Cut the chicken breasts into small, bite-sized pieces, salt and pepper, and brown in the same pan, adding a small amount of oil, as needed. While the chicken browns, add about 10 shakes of nam pla. Remove browned chicken and set aside.
6. Add enough oil to barely cover the bottom of the pan, bring to medium-high heat, and add the paste from the mortar. Stir-fry the paste for about two minutes, then add the chicken, aubergines, tomatoes, and a few shakes more of nam pla. Let cook, stirring often for about 4 minutes. Then, add a palmful of palm sugar and as much coconut milk as you'd like (I used about 3/4 can to make a lot of creamy sauce). Lower the heat to medium-low and let the curry simmer for at least 20 minutes. For a rich curry, add the entire can of coconut milk and let the curry reduce further.
Serve with jasmine rice, fresh coriander, and chopped peanuts.
I love markets. There is something about the sensory overload and the gamut of sights, smells, and tastes therein that has centripetal force, calling me away from named streets and that morning's agenda into labyrinthine alleys and aisles from which I will inevitably emerge hours later, arms laden with original finds enough to feed an army.
A couple of weeks ago, fellow course mate L.--a self-professed foodie and art lover--and I set out for a visit to Borough Market before catching the 'Futurism' show at the TATE Modern. Before leaving Oxford, however, one stop was necessary...
You see, it happened to be Thursday, and on this particular third Thursday of the month it was 'doughnut day'. Pippin Doughnuts should have had a mention in my dissertation, a special word of acknowledgment for getting me through the tough weeks and giving me something to truly look forward to every first and third Thursday. The intellectual breakthroughs attributable to simultaneous sugar and caffeine rushes from a large coffee from Combibos coffee shop and a package of two...or three...Pippin Doughnuts cannot be underestimated.
The doughnuts are fried at dawn and brought to the Gloucester Green market brimming with homemade fillings that include vanilla bean custard, lemon curd, rhubarb, raspberry jam, and chocolate cream.
These fillings may sound ordinary, but in this case it is a question of getting one or two ingredients so perfectly right in texture and unadulterated flavour that one comes away convinced that no lemon curd will ever taste as good as that particular, unctuous blob nestled in a feather-light fried dough.
The recent debut of an apricot preserve filling was a revelation. Not since my weekly croissant aux amandes et abricot from La Fougasse had I tasted such apricot-y bliss. Feeling more iced than filled that morning, I snapped up an iced ginger (candied ginger, ginger glaze, cinnamon dough) and a cinnamon/brown sugar bear claw and we were off to London.
Our first stop was Brindisa, the Spanish provisions shop and jamoneria. Chorizo sizzled awaiting white rolls for take-away sandwiches, and we sampled jamon from acorn-fed pigs.
Next, we were off to the vendors along Stoney Street, where we tasted cheeses, pastries, and drooled over meringues.
By the time we'd made our way through half of the market, we were not exactly in want of food for lunch--the generosity of the vendors combined with our loquacious curiosity meant that we'd consumed our fair share of tasty bits.
L. had spent a semester in Italy recently, where she picked up irregular Italian verbs with their objects, pronouns, and prepositions with the same sort of ease that one might collect dust. We sauntered over, and as L. got to chatting up the owners of the stall, I was busy eyeing prepared portions of squid ink tagliolini, ravioli with cheese, mushroom, and meat fillings, and tortelloni stuffed with artichoke hearts.
Needless to say, our stomachs found it in them to grumble just enough to not let us walk away without a portion of fresh pasta, which they quickly boiled in small colanders and served with a choice of red sauce or pesto. The pesto was the real deal, made with imported Genovese basil.
The red sauce just looked too good at that moment, though, so I opted for that atop ravioli with ricotta and spinach. Mmmm.
I couldn't help but think how different the market experience would have been for the Londoner of the 17th and 18th century, when congestion on the London Bridge leading to Borough High Street left pedestrians clinging to parapets or falling in the river to avoid being run over by overburdened carts passing in and out of the Borough of Southwark.
In a letter addressed to the members of Parliament, Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661-1736) outlined the shortcomings of London Bridge to be considered in the planning of what would become Westminster Bridge:
'That the Bredth of it was formerly sufficient for all Manner of Carriages and Passengers, appears from hence, that a Tilt and Tournament were held on it in the year 1395; which plainly shews, it was free from Houses for upwards of 200 Years; and how it came at last to be embarrassed, or by what means that Nusance of Building upon it has been conniv'd at, is surprising; for to erect a Bridge for a safe and open Passage, and afterwards to streighten and incommode that Passage with Houses, so as to make it difficult for two Carriages to pass by one another, without endangering the Lives of Foot-passengers, or driving them into those very Houses for their Security, must be very absurd, in that it perverts and destroys the principal Benefits that can accrue from a Bridge: And, indeed, it is wonderful how those Buildings do subsist; for the Houses standing upon the extream Parts of the Pier-heads, the one half on the Bridge, and the other half hanging over in the Air, must certainly make the Backs of the Piers suffer much by that unequal Pressure; and as for the Appearance of those Houses on either side of the Bridge, it is so disagreeable, that it exposes the Skill of the Projectors, and sinks their Taste down to the lowest Barbarity'.*
*(Nicholas Hawksmoor, A short historical account of London-bridge; with a proposition for a new stone-bridge at Westminster. In a letter to the...members of Parliament for the city and liberty of Westminster. London, 1736. The Making of the Modern World. Gale 2009. Gale, Cengage Learning. University of Oxford. 23 Aug 2009. Gale Document Number: U3600725967)
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