Noel

'Twas the season of homecoming. I had been counting the days since Thanksgiving to get back home to friends, family, the cat, and--embarrassingly high on the list--the Wolf range. A few years of cooking on the thing, which my dad cleans and polishes as others might a rare Porsche, was like tasting forbidden fruit.

Little did I know that the year following would see me cook every meal in my tiny town in rural France on two electric 'plaquettes' (that's electric hobs or burners). This was followed by kitchen digs which were, essentially, the servants' quarters in a beautiful home in Paris' 16th arrondissement, and finally, my own Marais cuisinette (think mini fridge, two plaquettes, sink, and cupboards in a space of 4' x 2.5' x 5'). It was impressive. Even more so, the food that myself and flatmate, N., managed to coax from those two plaquettes and a micro-onde.

Going home for me in December is like cozying up to a hearth. There are always mouthwatering smells wafting from the kitchen, and the hibernation instinct manifests itself in wearing old high school sweatshirts and manic, early morning, jetleg-induced baking projects that often last throughout the day. Our family holiday season is always punctuated by my brother's Christmas Day birthday and a holiday party of friends and their families who have made the journey back from various continents and coastal states.

There is little drama, in fact, that surrounds these events. Except, that is, when it comes to the menu and cooking. Words like 'overambitious', 'stodge', and 'boring' become verbal lashings in answer to proposed dishes, and despite the six burners and two ovens, there is always the feeling of 'too many cooks in the kitchen'.

My brother's birthday dinner proved a case in point. Meat thermometers flew as grumblings over the timing of the risotto, lobster tails, and sirloin simmered. Somehow it all came together, washed down with some lovely Perrier Jouet, and all was well again.





New Year's Eve this year was a special one. With everyone home, we decided it was the appropriate moment to open a 1977 Taylor Fladgate Vintage Porto. May this year be as earthy, sweet, and balanced. Eat your heart out, Oxford, and a very happy 2010!

The Last Supper

For as many times as I’ve had to leave home to cross the Atlantic, back to Europe for an extended period of time, one might think that it would get easier with each departure. While the packing of suitcases has certainly been elevated to a timely and almost artistically executed process, I still dread goodbyes and the first two minutes of take-off, which, after twenty-plus years of international travel is still anxiety-ridden. I’ve been known to make friends with many a stranger on international flights, usually the result of my seat partner noticing my white knuckles gripping the arm rests while I unconvincingly attempt to ‘close my eyes and breathe deeply’.

On a recent ascent from London’s Heathrow Airport on board a Delta (I’m still struggling to let go of that trusty Northwest logo) plane, we seemed to lose thrust for a moment, and I found myself grabbing the forearm of the kindly, patient man sitting next to me. He, his wife, and son were returning from a cruise, and I don’t know that his wife appreciated my panicked clutch for human contact, but it turned out he was a rather nervous traveler as well, so the whole thing ended far less awkward than it could have…at least far less awkward than the second year University of Reading student who started sucking her thumb half-way through the flight.

But I digress. For my last night in Minnesota the ceremonial question of ‘what would you like to eat on your last night?’ had to be answered, and I must say that it was one of the best meals I’ve had recently. We decided on:

Bruschetta with grilled ciabatta

Asparagus with sweet soy and garlic

Grilled Porter House steaks with Roquefort

Fresh peach pie

…all washed down with some Perrier Jouët

I love adding sundried tomatoes or roasted peppers to fresh tomatoes for bruschetta. I think the alternately sweet, earthy, smoky, and charred flavour of these tomatoes and peppers compliment the clean punch of balsamic, garlic and olive oil. This is especially a good trick when the fresh tomatoes in question aren’t at their best. Another variation I’ve taken to is pan roasting garlic cloves in a sauté pan in a couple tablespoons of olive oil until brown, soft, and nutty. Crush and mince the roasted garlic; add to the tomatoes; reserve the garlic oil to brush on the bread before it goes on the grill, adding whatever remains to the bruschetta topping itself.

For the asparagus, we added a couple of teaspoons of sugar to about 3 tablespoons of soy sauce and let it dissolve. The asparagus is simply stir-fried with toasted sesame oil, slivered garlic, and the soy.

The Roquefort topping for the Porter House steaks was a last-minute addition. I love the combination of any cheese in the blue/Stilton/Roquefort family atop grilled meat, but the addition of the cheese here was by no means necessary. The steak was perfection, and would have stood alone brilliantly. However, if, like me, you have a gluttonous side, just mix together a few tablespoons of Roquefort with a knob of butter and enough buttermilk to make a thick sauce and add pepper to taste.

Finally, this jaunt to the States was not going to be complete without a slice of fresh peach pie. This, and certain members of the family refused to let me get back on the plane without making a pie; ripped, sodden pie crusts have caused much frustration in our house, and I appear to be the chosen one in this instance. Armed with grandma’s pie crust recipe and a pile of peaches, I went to it, adding sugar, flour, cinnamon, orange zest, and a few drops of vanilla and almond extract to the peaches.

If you think I’m about to divulge grandma’s pie crust secrets you are sorely mistaken.

And so it was with a happy heart, full stomach, and many pounds gained that I was rolled to Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport and on to Blighty.