Getting Smokey

Whether you know it as mutabbal, moutabal, caviar d’aubergines or baba ganoush, the smoke-scented aubergine puree is a classic.

Baba ganoush is a Lebanese dish of aubergine, mashed and mixed with virgin olive oil and various seasonings. I suppose you could say it’s the lesser known cousin of hummus, only instead of chickpeas you have aubergine.

Good baba ganoush is reliant on the smokey, charred flavour of the aubergines, although I like to help it along with a little smoked salt too. Too many versions of this recipe fail to recognize the importance of scorching the aubergines over a grill or hot flame. This is essential to give the smoky quality that lends such a distinctive note to the dish.

Feel free to drizzle with some pomegranate molasses or pomegranate seeds – this works particularly well with lamb – if you feel like it, but, please don’t go too mad with the flavourings; this is an opportunity for the aubergines earthiness to shine.

Baba Ganoush

• 3 medium-sized aubergines
• 130g tahini
• 1/4 teaspoon smoked salt (or sea salt)
• 3 tablespoons freshly-squeezed lemon juice
• 3 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• A good handful of fresh parsley or coriander leaves plus extra parsley or coriander leaves to serve

1. Preheat the oven to 190C or the equivalent.
2. Prick each aubergine a few times, then char the outside of the auberginess by placing them directly on the flame of a gas burner and as the skin chars, turn them until the auberginess are uniformly-charred on the outside.
3. Place the aubergine on a baking sheet and roast in the oven for 20 to 30 minutes, until they’re completely soft; you should be able to easily poke a paring knife into them and meet no resistance.
4. Remove from oven and let cool.
5. Split the aubergine and scrape out the pulp.
6. Puree the pulp in a blender or food processor with the other ingredients until smooth.
7. Taste, and season with additional salt and lemon juice, if necessary.
8. Chill for a few hours before scattering with the herbs and drizzling with olive oil.
9. Serve with flatbread, pitta or crackers.

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On the Gravy Train …

A short while back British Onions sent me a “Gravy in a Box” kit containing, well, everything you’d need for excellent gravy – onions and some other interesting ingredients such as mushroom ketchup, Marmite, mustard and Worcestershire sauce. They’re trying to work out exactly what makes the perfect onion gravy; you can find my recipe at the end of this post.

Image from BBC Good Food Website.

Despite gravy’s strong ties with British cuisine gravy is actually thought to have originated in Egypt around 3000 B.C. Hieroglyphs in the tomb of Djer, an early first dynasty pharaoh, at Umm el-Qa’ab are said to resemble Classical Greek clay vessels, from which the modern French sauce boat (or gravy boat) was ultimately developed. Paintings on the walls of the tomb depicting feasting show the diners (presumably members of the royal court) drinking a liquid, however the context does not lend itself to wine or beer.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the English word “gravy” is obscure in origin. It is most likely derived from the Old French word “grane.” The earliest printed evidence of this word in our language from the Forme of Curry, an English cookbook circa 1390.

The original medieval meaning of “grane” was precise: the gravé consisted of the natural cooking juices that flowed from roasting meat. By implication, this meat was spit-roasted, and therefore two important implements were required to make and collect the gravy: a flesh fork for piercing the meat in order to increase the flow of drippings, and a dripping pan beneath the roast, designed to collect the gravy for use at table. Normally the gravy was skimmed of fat, salted, and then sent up as a sauce – the term in this sense has been replaced today by jus, and would not meet most modern criteria for a ‘gravy’.

The medieval roasted meat with gravé was generally served rare and not likely to have a counterpart in contemporary Byzantine cookery, since the Eastern Church forbade the consumption of blood or bloody food. Among Byzantine Christians, the gravy of pork, mutton, goat, and the mouflon of Cyprus (a species of wild goat) was often reduced over high heat and mixed with garum (a type fish sauce) or wine, as reported by several medieval travelers. The preparation was then served as a relatively thick dipping sauce.

“Gravy. In the British Isles and areas culturally influenced by them, is…well, gravy, a term fully comprehensible to those who use it, but something of a mystery in the rest of the world. Ideally, gravy as made in the British kitchen is composed of residues left in the tin after roasting meat, deglazed with good stock, and seasoned carefully. (Many cooks incorporate a spoonful of flour before adding the liquid but this practice is frowned on by purists.) Gravy varies in colour from pale gold-brown to burnt umber, and in thickness from something with little more body than water to a substantial sauce of coating consistency. In French meat cookery, jus is roughly equivalent to honestly made thin gravy in the British tradition…Kitchen tricks involving burnt onions, caramelized sugar, gravy browning’, and stock cubes are modern descendants of this practice. Indeed, numerous gravy mixes’ or granules’ are to be had, for use with the meat residue, or in its stead. Yet in many homes in Britain a true gravy is still made; and this remains the most delicious accompaniment for the meat form which it comes and an essential feature of the meat dish.”

—Oxford Companion to Food, Alan Davidson [Oxford University Press:Oxford] 1999 (p. 351)

In Britain, gravy is more than just a condiment; it’s liquid comfort. Think of the warm, meaty embrace of every-mother Lynda Bellingham in the Oxo adverts of yesteryear, or that self-satisfied “ahh, Bisto” slogan which perfectly encapsulated a nation’s feelings about a piping jug of gravy – even if we now know that making your own is much more delicious and just as quick & easy.

It brings together a Sunday roast lending a soothing, savoury homeliness on everything it touches – hardly any wonder that commercials for roast dinner staples such as Yorkshire Puddings end with the host pouring gravy over is it?

Like mot other traditional favourites, every cook (or even family) has their own method. As Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall wisely points out in his River Cottage Meat Book, “there is no recipe for gravy, nor should there be”. There are, however, various ways to make sure you do your patriotic duty by varying the method and optional extras, such as adding wine or port, herbs or mustard – ah sure, you get my drift.

There are two main schools of gravy making – those who add flour to the roasting tin to make a roux – a thickening agent made of flour and fat – with the dripping and juices produced by the joint, and those who deglaze the tin with alcohol or a little stock before adding more liquid. I flit in a rather unorthodox way between the two, for chicken and turkey I simply deglaze, for beef I tend to make a roux.

Of course, sausage & mash or toad in the hole demands onion gravy, and, this gravy must be slightly thicker than gravy for roast dinners.  My favourite recipe for onion gravy is simple enough but I have an aversion to lumps in my gravy so I blitz it to a smooth consistency; yeah, I know onions aren’t ‘lumps’ exactly but I still can’t abide them in my gravy – I hold the horrors that were school meals entirely responsible.

Gravy. One of the most, if not the most, divisive of sauces. Some like it thick, some thin. Some like it highly flavoured, some simply meat juice and water. Me? Well, it depends on my mood, but I’m happy enough to stick to meat juices and top notch stock, but the consistency is key – just thick enough to coat the back of a spoon is perfect.

How do you like yours?

Onion Gravy

• 2 onions, finely sliced
• 1 tablespoon plain flour
• 250ml of stock (I prefer vegetable)
• 50ml port or red wine.
• salt and pepper

1. Fry the onions over medium heat in a frying pan, in a little butter, cooking them slowly until they are caramelised and a good even brown colour. This takes a surprising amount of time, about 30 minutes, but it can’t be rushed as it’s essential to give the gravy both its deep brown colour, and sweet flavour.
2. When you are satisfied with the colour of the onions, sprinkle over the flour and stir round to absorb any cooking fat and juices.
3. Add the port (or wine) and mix well together while the alcohol evaporates.
4. Add the stock, about 250ml but it will depend how thick you like your gravy.
5. Stir well, and simmer the gravy for 10-15 minutes.
6. Transfer to a blender and blitz until smooth (optional).
7. Return to the pan and heat through.
8. Season to taste with freshly ground black pepper and salt

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Going For Gold

I adore sweetcorn, it is one of my favourite vegetables. Sweet, crunchy, succulent and above all cheerful. It is at its most abundant in the UK as the weather is getting drearier and more autumnal (September into mid October) yet there it is a joyous, bright golden shade to brighten our meals.

These fat, gift-wrapped cobs are now plentiful and will be gracing the vegetable boxes and supermarket shelves alike for a wee while to come. I find it rather a-maizing (sorry, I couldn’t help myself) that corn is technically not a vegetable, but a grass.

Apparently when Columbus reached Cuba in 1492, the native Indians greeted him with ears of corn, which he claimed were “most tasty whether boiled, roasted or ground into flour”. Some believe that Columbus introduced corn to Europe, where the variety of maize grown was largely fed to livestock. To this day, many people still see it as something fit only for cattle. This prejudice is rather surprising, because sweeter maize varieties (what we call sweetcorn) have an almost addictive succulence  – boiled, barbecued or turned into succulent fritters, what is there not to love?

When buying sweetcorn look for cobs with the husk intact. The husk should be green and fresh and conceal fine, silky threads. Kernels should be tightly packed, plump and smaller at the tips than in the middle (indicating young cobs). After picking, the sugars in sweetcorn began turning to starch fairly rapidly. As the point of sweetcorn is that it’s sweet, keep sweetcorn cool and eat as soon as possible after picking – on the same day as purchase where possible. If keeping for more than a day, parboil the corn for a minute (this will help slow down the conversion of sugars) before refrigerating or freezing.

My favourite fritter recipe is currently a slightly adapted one of Bill Granger’s. It gives, light, tender fritters with just enough bite and they’re not overly flavoured which gives more scope for the accompaniments.

Bill’s recipe calls for fresh corn and I really do think that makes a difference, but at a pinch you could use frozen (don’t bother defrosting).

These fritters are great served with a simple relish as a light lunch or, served as an accompaniment, or to make a more substantial meal from them with crisp bacon and cockles.

Sweetcorn Fritters

Makes 16 small fritters

• 1 cup plain flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon sweet paprika
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 cup milk
• 2 cups (from 2 to 3 ears) corn kernels
• 1/2 cup red pepper, cut into small dice
• 1/2 cup red onion, finely diced
• 2 tablespoons chopped parsley
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1. Sift the flour, baking powder, salt and paprika into a medium bowl.
2. Add the sugar, stir to combine, and make a well in the center of the dry ingredients.
3. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs and milk until combined. Gradually add the egg mixture to the dry ingredients and whisk until a smooth, stiff, lump-free batter forms.
4. Stir in the corn, pepper, onions and parsley.
5. In a large frying pan, heat the vegetable oil over medium heat.
6. When the oil is hot, add the batter in scant quarter-cup amounts, cooking four at a time.
7. Fry for 2 minutes or until the underside of each fritter is golden. Turn the fritters over and cook until the other side is golden.
8. Transfer to another plate and keep warm while cooking the remaining fritters.

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Miss Masala and an Indian Summer

The weekend before I headed off on holiday saw the return of the sun, or at least it did here in this quiet corner of rural Staffordshire. And, the return of the sun could only mean one thing – making the most of the opportunity to barbecue.

Summer barbecues send shivers of excitement down my spine, I simply adore the smell from the food intermingling with the  charcoal smoke as it wafts through the air. Build in a little spice into that heady smokey mix and I’m drooling.

I considered making jerk chicken once again, but as I’ve cooked that a number of times recently I thought I’d ring the changes and make another favourite of mine, tandoori chicken.

Normally I use a recipe from The Curry Secret : Indian Restaurant Cookery at Home by Kris Dhillon but I stumbled across a delicious looking recipe on the Delicious website, and after they called it the “Best Ever Tandoori Chicken” how could I not try it?

The Delicious recipe worked well, but it lacked depth of flavour, despite gaining the blackened patches essential to a good tandoori. It certainly wasn’t the “Best Ever” as claimed, I won’t be returning to it again.

I’d recommend you cook tandoori chicken on a barbecue (even though it is technically possible to fry or bake it) as barbecuing is the closest to replicating a traditional tandoor. Traditional tandoors produce moist, smokey meat because the fierce heat allows protein molecules on the meat’s surface to cross-link and contract, trapping moisture inside – juices fall on the coals along with rendered fat, creating smoke that flavours the food. Should you be feeling adventurous you could always make a tandoor, like Jules & her husband did.

Of course with tandoori chicken you need a cooling yogurt based raita and Indian breads, oh and a huge bowl of salad too.

I would happily spoon raita into me on almost any occasion, any time of year, but, in summer they really come into their own. These dishes of savoury, delicately flavoured yogurt and the perfect fresh, cooling antidote to the spiciness of an Indian meal. Perfect, and especially so in the hot weather.

I used a recipe from Miss Masala Real Indian Cooking for Busy Living by Mallika Basu for the raita. Miss Masala is only a small book, but it is crammed with gorgeous recipes and although limited the photography is stunning, really sultry and exotic. Miss Masala is so much more than just a cookbook, this beautiful handbag-sized journal fuses irresistible Indian recipes with Mallika’s quirky and hilarious tales. In her no-nonsense, best-friend-forever style, she demystifies those glorious, exotic ingredients and spices and shows how easy and rewarding it is to cook Indian food at home. One for reading on the bus as much as in the kitchen, you are bound to laugh out loud.

As per usual, I couldn’t help but make one slight change to Mallika’s recipe, and that was to add a splash of lime juice to give added freshness. The lime really helps to lift the sweetness of the mint and creaminess of the yogurt. My personal preference is to use thick Greek yogurt although you can use any natural yogurt.

Parathas were my bread of choice. I’d never made them before but if I eat at an Indian restaurant it is either paratha or peshwari naan that I tend to pick. I found a lovely recipe over on Mamta’s Kitchen, a fabulous site run as a ‘living cookbook’, but there’s much more to it than just recipes – handy hints and a forum to name a couple of elements, it is a treasure trove of Indian cuisine knowledge; do go have a look.

Paratha is an amalgamation of the words parat and atta and literally means layers of cooked flour.

The paratha was first conceived in the ancient Punjab region, but soon became popular all over India (and even current Pakistan), including southern India. The southern Indian states have their own versions of the ubiquitous paratha, the most popular being the Kerala porotta which has eggs in the dough.

Paratha can come plain or filled. Often the filled varieties can constitute a light meal, served with various raitas. They are next on my paratha making journey. Any tips greatly welcomed, so please email or comment.

Tandoori Chicken

1. Make a few 5mm deep slashes on both sides of each chicken leg and thigh, and put into a large glass bowl with the breast pieces. Sprinkle with the lemon juice, paprika and a good pinch of salt, and rub everything in. Cover and set aside for 30 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, put the garlic, ginger, oil, cardamom, garam masala and yogurt into a liquidiser or food processor and blend thoroughly until smooth. Pour onto the marinated chicken and mix well. Cover and chill for at least 1 hour or up to 6 hours.
3. Lift the chicken off the grate onto a plate and brush with the melted butter. Turn off the middle burner or push the coals to either side of the grate. Return the chicken to the grate and continue to cook over an indirect high heat for 3-5 minutes each side or until cooked through – the juices from the thickest part of the leg should run clear when pierced. Divide between plates and serve with a raita, parathas and lemon wedges to squeeze over, if you like.
4. If you are using a charcoal barbecue, light about 30 minutes before you want to cook. If using a gas barbecue, preheat 10 minutes before you want to use it.
5. Lift the chicken out of the marinade, shake off the excess, then thread the breast pieces and thighs onto long metal or bamboo skewers, leaving 3-4cm between each 1 so that the heat can circulate. Brush the chicken lightly with oil, and brush the bars of the grate well with oil. Place the skewered chicken and the legs onto the grate and cook directly over a high heat for 4 minutes each side – use a wide spatula to release them from the grate a few times during the first 1-2 minutes, to prevent sticking. Turn occasionally, so they’re nicely marked by the grate and charred a little here and there.

Plain Paratha

• 250g chapatti flour. 50/50 whole wheat and white flour can be used, if chapatti flour is not available
• 1 tablespoon ghee or butter
• 1/2 teaspoo salt
• Enough water to make dough
• Oil for pan frying

1. Place all ingredients, except oil for frying, in a bowl. Add enough water, a little at a time, as you knead it, and make a soft dough. (If you are new at making parathas, it is better to have a firm dough, which is easier to control while rolling out. Experienced Indian cooks prefer a softer dough, which makes softer parathas but is a little more difficult to roll out).
2. Knead well for 5-6 minutes.
3. Leave to stand for 10 minutes or so. Knead briefly again.
4. Break dough into 10-12 portions (size is your own choice) and roll them into balls, using a little dry flour to dust. Keep covered with a moist cloth.
5. Roll one ball in dry flour and roll it out to approximately 7 cm. or 3 inches diameter.
6. Drizzle a little oil in the centre of the circle, pull the edges in and seal it in the centre. Now you have a ball again.
7. Heat a griddle or tawa.
8. Roll out the ball into a 6-7 inches or 16-18 cm. circle. It should be rolled from centre outwards so that the edges are thinner than the centre. You will need to dip it in dusting flour, on both sides, a couple of time during this process. Parathas should not be too thin, approximately 2-3 mm. thick, as very thin ones do not have ‘bite’. This again is your personal choice, some people prefer paper thin parathas.
9. Put the paratha on the hot griddle/tawa. Turn it over when it changes colour to semi-translucent and you can see a few blisters on the under surface.
10. Cook the other side the same way and turn over again.
11. Brush a little oil on both surfaces, one by one.
12. Press the paratha gently all over, using a flat spatula, coaxing it to fluff up into a ball. If you see any steam escaping, seal it by pressing it with the spatula. This ensures fluffing up of the paratha.
13. Cook until crisp and nicely browned on both sides (the next paratha can be rolled as the previous one is cooking).
14. Repeat until all the paratha are cooked.

Notes

• Parathas can be made in advance, stacked on top of each other and wrapped in aluminum foil. They can be re-heated before serving, either individually on a griddle or in a moderate oven – wrap the paratha in foil and heat in the oven for about 10 minutes.
• They freeze quite well too, but should be defrosted properly before re-heating.
• If you want to make parathas crisper and flakier, add 2 tablespoons of oil to the dough.

Cooling Cucumber & Mint Raita

• 500g natural yogurt (I prefer a thick Greek style one)
• 250g cucumber
• 1 teaspoon dried mint
• 1 teaspoon lime juice

1. Whip the yogurt for one minute until smooth and bubbly.
2. Grate the cucumber, coarsley and stir into the yogurt along the mint and lime juice.
3. Taste and adjust for salt & lime juice.

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Food From The Rye

I’m going to make an upfront confession, although I’m not sure how wise it really is to do so. Right, so, I got the craving for jerk chicken not from research or distant memories but, wait for it, from watching Peckham Finishing School for Girls. Now before you ask, that isn’t the kind of show I’d usually watch but it made for entertaining viewing while I recuperated from recent surgery.

Luckily Peckham dwelling Helen over at Food Stories had a superb recipe. It is pretty obvious from Helen’s superb blog that she loves Jerk.

“You could say I’m fond of jerk, but you’d be making one hell of an understatement.” Helen (Food Stories)

Hardly surprising then that her recipe worked a treat. So much better than the Momma Cherrie recipe I blogged about a couple of years ago. Helen’s recipe created, without doubt, the best jerk chicken I have ever tasted, well, ok then second best. The first? Freshly barbecued jerk chicken sat outside Mango Mamma’s (Sugarloaf Key, Florida) far too many years ago.

The term jerk is said to come from the word charqui, a Spanish term for jerked or dried meat, which eventually became jerky in English. Another origin is linked to the jerking or poking of the meat with a sharp object, producing holes which were then filled with the spice mixture. Like most Caribbean islands, Jamaican foods are derivative of many different settlement cultures, including British, Dutch, French, Spanish, East Indian, West African, Portuguese, and Chinese. The origins of jerk pork can be traced back to the pre-slavery days of the Cormantee hunters of West Africa through the Maroons, who were Jamaican slaves that escaped from the British during the invasion of 1655.

Taking heed of Helen’s most recent blog post about the Jerk Cook Off, I decided to make some ‘special sauce’ to serve alongside the blackened, sweet, hot, chicken pieces. All I did was reduce the leftover marinade (watered down a little bit) until it became thick and glossy. Unlike the saccharine gloop that Helen was subjected to, this sauce really did have kick to rival a donkey – as is only right for a dish like this.

I also served crispy sweet potato fries and, unconventionally, cooling sour cream, oh and lots of salad too.

While you’re at it do have a read of Helen’s top Jerk tips – there are some great ideas there.

Jerk Chicken

• 1.5 tablespoons allspice
• 100g dark packed brown sugar
• 2 tablespoons molasses
• 4 garlic cloves
• 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
• 5 large spring onions
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
• 3 scotch bonnet chillies, deseeded
• Juice of 2 large limes
• 1 teaspoon salt
• Black pepper
• Chicken pieces (I used chicken breast but choose whatever you prefer)

1. Blend all the marinade ingredients together and smother over the chicken rubbing well in. (I use gloves for this, as I do when I chop the scotch bonnets.) Refrigerate overnight.
2. Allow to come to room temperature and brush off most of the excess marinade before placing in a baking tray and cooking at 190C for 30-40 minutes, or until the skin is crisp and the juices run clear. Alternatively (even better option really) barbecue the chicken.

Image Courtesy of Google Images

Oven Baked Sweet Potato Fries

• 1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into fries
• 2 teaspoons sunflower oil
• 1/4 teaspoon salt

1. Preheat the oven to 22oC or the equivalent.
2. Toss the sweet potatoes in the oil and spread out onto a baking sheet. Bake for 20-25 minutes, turning halfway through, or until golden, tender and crisp.
3. Scatter with salt before serving.

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“The Only Thing to do with Good Advice is Pass it On”

Oscar Wilde

Clodagh McKenna’s Cork Beef Stew from The Irish Farmer’s Market Cookbook is a real favourite of mine and is a frequently made winter warmer of a dish. Generally I’d served a big bowl of it alongside some fluffy mashed potatoes or colcannon and that itself is heaven on a plate. How could it not be? Succulent, tender beef in a thick stout (Guinness) based gravy is a fabulous food, if I had to pick a last meal it would be this – you can keep all the fancy delights for another time, thank you very much. Guinness is a stout beer and not only adds a delicious malty flavour to the stew but helps tenderise the meat too.  I used chuck steak but shin beef would also be perfect here and although the recipe said to cook for a couple of hours I left it in the slow oven compartment of my range for around seven hours and it was pure gorgeousness on a plate.

This weekend though, I fancied a change. Instead of a stew, I went for pie! A subtle change I’m sure you’ll agree, but a change all the same.

I served the pie with roast potatoes and carrots. There’s something wonderful about the combination of crunchy spud with succulent gravy, I’m sure you’d agree. Carrots? Well don’t a few carrots enhance any pie or stew with their delicate sweetness?

I used a very rich and ‘short’ shortcrust pastry here, but puff pastry would work well also. I’ve gained somewhat of a reputation for this pastry, and until now had guarded the recipe closely, listen carefully now – the secret is extra butter and double cream. Yes really, double cream. The result is melt in the mouth, tender pastry. Go on, give it a try.

Another trick to having really crisp pastry with your pie is to cook it separately. Genius, no?

My favourite way to cook roasties is the ‘Nigella Way’. By that I mean I follow here three crucial steps, I think they make the difference: the first is the heat of the fat (and it’s got to be goose fat)- if it’s not searingly hot, you don’t stand a chance; the second is the size of the potatoes – they need to be relatively small, so that the ratio of crunchy outside to fluffy interior is optimised; and, finally, maybe the most important, dredging the potatoes in semolina after parboiling, then really rattling the pan around to make the potatoes a bit mashed on the surface so they catch more in the hot fat, aiding in that most satisfying crunch.

Cork Beef Stew/Pie Filling:

• 2 tablespoons dripping
• 150g bacon, rind removed, cut into thick strips
• 300g shallots
• 1kg stewing beef steaks, cut into 4cm pieces
• 1 litre stout
• 1 pinch salt and black pepper
• 1 bouquet garni, made up of 1 bay leaf, 3-4 parsley stalks, and a sprig of thyme
• 1 tsp butter
• 400g mushrooms

1. Preheat the oven to 110C or the equivalent.
2. Place the dripping in a hot frying pan and add the bacon. Stir and fry for a minute before tipping in the shallots. Cook for a further 5 minutes, until the onions have browned.
3. Transfer the bacon and onions to a large ovenproof casserole dish, but leave the dripping in the pan.
4. Add the beef to the same frying pan and sear until coloured. Transfer to the casserole dish.
5. Pour the stout into the frying pan, while still on the heat, and scrape the sediment from the bottom of the pan. Bring to a boil and pour the stout into the casserole dish, over the other ingredients.
6. Put the frying pan back on the hob, over a high heat. Melt the butter and toss in the wild mushrooms. Season, and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the mushrooms have softened. Tip them into the casserole dish, season with salt and pepper, and add the bouquet garni.
7. Cover the casserole pot and cook the stew in the oven for at least 5 hours or until the beef is very tender.

The ‘Shortest’ Shortcrust Pastry

• 225g plain flour
• 160 butter, cut into small cubes
• Double cream or gold top milk

1. Begin by sifting the flour into a large bowl.
2. Rub the butter into the flour using your fingertips only and being as light as possible. As you gently rub the fat into the flour, lift it up high and let it fall back into the bowl, which helps incorporate more air, but do this just long enough to make the mixture crumbly with a few odd lumps here and there.
3. Now sprinkle 1 tablespoon of cream in, then, with a knife, start bringing the dough together, using the knife to make it cling, adding more cream as needed. Then discard the knife and, finally, bring it together with your fingertips. When enough liquid is added, the pastry should leave the bowl fairly clean.
4. Now place the pastry in a polythene bag and leave it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes to rest.
5. Use the pastry as directed in your recipe. To cook ‘plain’ roll to about 1cm thickness and cut into sheets, bake at 200C or the equivalent for about 20 minutes or until golden and crisp.

Roast Potatoes the Nigella Way

• 100g goose fat
• 500g potatoes, such as King Edward’s
• 1 tablespoon semolina

1. Preheat the oven to 250C or the equivalent.
2. Put the fat into a large roasting tin and then into the oven to heat up, and get it incredibly hot: 20-30 minutes should do it.
3. Meanwhile peel the potatoes, and cut each one into 3 by cutting off each end at a slant so that you are left with a wedge or triangle in the middle.
4. Put the potatoes into salted, cold water in a saucepan, and bring to a boil, letting them cook for 4 minutes.
5. Drain the potatoes in a colander, then tip them back into the empty, dry saucepan, and sprinkle the semolina over.
6. Shake the potatoes around in the saucepan to coat them well and, with the lid clamped on, give the pan a good rotate and the potatoes a proper bashing so that their edges fuzz and blur a little: this facilitates the crunch effect later.
7. When the fat is as hot as it can be, tip the semolina-coated potatoes carefully into it (they splutter terrifically) and roast in the oven for an hour or until they are darkly golden and crispy, turning them over halfway through cooking.

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Will you be cool as a cucumber?

Fresh cucumbers are simple to add to salads. For an easy salad just toss diced cucumbers with sliced red onions, red tomatoes and your favourite vinaigrette. This can be a fast way to make a refreshing salad that reaps some great benefits of cucumber.

Not merely is the cucumber known for the capability to cool off the body, it has also been proven to assist with jaundice, diarrhoea, epilepsy, sore throat, conjunctivitis (redness of the eye) and swelling of extremities.

Some people find it best to deseed the cucumber as the body can have difficulty digesting the seeds. It is possible to deseed them yourself easily by cutting them in two and using a spoon to eliminate the seeds or if you wish to eliminate this step it is possible to buy cucumber chunks that are already seeded.

Anti-diabetic Benefits of Cucumber:

Beta cells within the pancreas produce the hormone insulin. Cucumber is found to have a hormone necessary for beta cells in the insulin production. Moreover, the Glycemic Index of cucumbers is found to be zero.

Why don’t Cucumbers have a glycemic index listed? Does this signify they do not raise blood sugar levels?

No! It means that under the “rules” for the concept of the glycemic index, it is too hard to get an accurate number. It is because you’ll need to eat a very big amount of the food to get 50 grams of carbohydrate at once in order to be tested. In general, the lower the quantity of carbohydrate in a vegetable and the more fibre it has, the less the increase in blood sugar levels will be.

The carbohydrates are primarily responsible of the raise of the glucose level. But the carbohydrates within the cucumber are easily digestible.

Just a few Quick Serving Ideas:

• Use half-inch thick cucumber slices as petite serving “dishes” for chopped vegetable salads.
• Mix diced cucumbers with sugar snap peas and mint leaves and toss with rice wine vinaigrette.
• For refreshing cold gazpacho soup that takes five minutes or less to make, simply purée cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers and onions, then add salt and pepper to taste.
• Add diced cucumber to tuna fish or chicken salad recipes.

Cool Cucumber Salad

Serves 8

Preparation time: 25 minutes

Marinating time: 1 hour

• 3 medium cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1/4-inch slices
• 1 carrot, peeled and shredded
• 1/2 red onion, sliced paper-thin
• 1/3 cup roughly chopped coriander

Dressing:

• 1/2 cup rice vinegar
• 2 teaspoons honey
• 2 teaspoons soy sauce (preferably low salt)
• 1 1/2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
• Pinch dried red pepper flakes

1. Combine the cucumbers, carrots, red onion, and coriander in a large bowl.
2. Combine the dressing ingredients. Pour the dressing over cucumbers, cover, and refrigerate for one hour before serving.

Nutritional Values per Meal: 1/2 cup portion

• Calories: 25
• Calories From Fat: 10
• Total Fat: 1 gram
• Saturated Fat: 0.1 grams
• Cholesterol: trace
• Sodium: 50 milligrams (without added salt)
• Total Carbohydrate: 5 grams
• Dietary Fibre: 1 gram
• Sugars: 3 grams
• Protein: 1g

About the writer:

Suzanne Ault shares knowledge for the diabetic diet recipes blog, her personal hobby internet site centred on cooking suggestions to stop diabetic issues.

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A Taste of Morocco

“I’m really proud of this beautiful dish. I’m not sure what the mechoui man I met in the market in Marrakesh would make of it, but I like to think I’m respecting the way he cooks”

Jamie Oliver (Jamie Does)

If Jamie Oliver is unsure of how his version of Mechoui lamb with carrot and orange salad would go down in Morocco, goodness knows what they’d make of my extremely far removed from tradition version of Mechoui roast chicken wraps, served with harissa yoghurt dip and red onion salad.

Regular readers will know how much I enjoy Moroccan cuisine and how I generally try and stick to traditional methods and ingredients.

Moroccan food is one of the most sensual in the world. It appeals directly and unashamedly to the senses of smell, sight and taste in a way that no other cuisine in my eyes can match. I have yet to travel to Morocco; the closest I have got is Gibraltar, a greatly uninspiring place – too many tourists visiting en masse to shop for cut price drinks, tobacco and whatever else they could find – the one thing that did inspire though once I’d got off the beaten track was the Moroccan influence on the food. I came away with an even greater love of the Moroccan way of eating, the combination of spices and serving fruits with meat. For that reason alone I am glad to have made the trip.

In regard to the mechoui chicken though things took a rather non-traditional route. Mechoui is a North African lamb dish which is frequently prepared in Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria. Each nation has its own specific take on mechoui, so several different dishes are collectively referred to as “mechoui.” Mechoui comes from an Arabic word which means “to roast on a fire,” and traditionally the (whole) lamb is either roasted on a spit or cooked in a pit.

Whole cooking a lamb is certainly out of the question so Jamie adapted the traditional method to make it suitable for home-cooking. I’m sure, should you wish the recipe could be adapted slightly and used for lamb steaks (or other meat of your choice) which could then cooked on a barbecue.

Whatever meat you decide on, don’t forget the mandatory requirement of fiery harissa and cooling yoghurt dips. Harissa paste is widely available at all the major supermarkets now and so getting hold of some shouldn’t be a problem. You could always have a go at making your own though.  My favourite paste is one that my great friend Francesca sends me jars of from Israel.

The only reason I used chicken is because I cooked this as a birthday lunch for my mother, and she requested the chicken. Irritating really as she normally would pick lamb given the choice. Happen I should just have kept my mouth shut and served up a ‘surprise’ meal. Never mind though as the chicken was delightful.

Rather than rub the ground spices directly on the chicken I made a spice butter with them, which I then stuffed under the skin of the chicken and splodged over the top of the bird too. Jamie’s recipe calls for smen (a type of fermented butter) which is not exactly easy to get hold of in rural Staffordshire I had a pot of double cream in the fridge that needed using up so I made the ‘mechoui butter’ from scratch, needless to say you could just use some store bought butter and beat in the spices. A short recipe for the ‘mechoui butter’ can be found at the end of this post, but, if you’d like to know more about how to make butter a post with detailed photographic instructions on how to make butter can be found here.

The chicken ends up incredibly moist, flavoursome and fragrant. The waft of spices and citrus backnotes permeating the house as this cooks is enough to not only whet your appetite but have you salivating at the mere thought of the first mouthful.

In a very lapse moment I forgot to order my carrots for the salad so substituted them for red onions. What a great move that proved to be. Sweet, wafer thin slices of onion in a heady bath of citrus juice, red wine vinegar and superb light but peppery Tunisian olive oil made the perfect accompaniment to the chicken.

Don’t just take my word for it, get cooking.

Mechoui Butter:

• 250ml double cream

• 1 heaped teaspoon ground cumin

• 1 heaped teaspoon ground coriander

• 1 teaspoon sea salt

• a small handful of fresh thyme sprigs, leaves picked

• a few sprigs of fresh rosemary, leaves picked

1. Put your (room temperature) cream in the free-standing mixer, with the paddle attachment in situ.
2. Whip the cream on high speed until stiff peaks form.
3. Reduce the speed of the mixer to medium and continue beating until the cream begins to go yellowish and clumpy.
4. Reduce the speed to low and keep mixing, after a few minutes you will see the butter forming and buttermilk being extracted.
5. Remove the butter from the dish and reserve the buttermilk, wash the bowl well and then place the butter back into the bowl. Cover the butter with very cold water and knead well, repeat the process several times or until the water is clear.
6. Press the butter (using butter pats or wooden spoons) to extract the water before gently kneading in the salt, herbs and spices.
7. Refrigerate the butter until needed.

Mechoui Chicken:

• 1 chicken (approx 2-2.5kg)
• 1 portion of ‘mechoui butter’ (see above)
• 1 lemon, cut into rough chunks
• 1 orange, cut into rough chunks
• 1 bulb garlic cut in half

1. Preheat the oven to 200C or the equivalent.
2. Loosen the chicken skin over the breasts and fill with the 2/3 mechoui butter.
3. Make a trivet for the chicken with the lemon, orange and garlic.
4. Sit the chicken on the fruit & garlic and then spread the remaining butter over the chicken.
5. Roast the chicken for 20 minutes per 500g plus 10-20 minutes extra – this will be 1 hour and 50 minutes to 2 hours for a 2.25kg bird.
6. Once cooked either carve or shred the chicken.
7. Serve with flat breads, salads and dips.

Red Onion & Citrus Salad:

• 2 small red onions, peeled and very finely sliced.

• Juice of 1/2 an orange

• Extra virgin olive oil

• Red wine vinegar

• A small bunch of fresh mint, leaves picked, larger ones torn

• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Dress the red onions with the orange juice, a good lug of extra virgin olive oil, a splash of red wine vinegar, the mint leaves and a pinch of salt and pepper

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ODE TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’need
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!

Robert Burns

A couple of weeks back I made a mammoth journey to Scotland to collect our new family member Maximus, and back home in the same day — a journey that took over ten hours.

On the journey north a breakfast break was taken at a fabulous farm shop come service station. After a hearty, if rather expensive, breakfast I just had to take a wander around the farm shop. Sure it would be rude not to peruse the goods for sale wouldn’t it? I ended up buying some local cheese, a couple of pork pies and bread (food for the journey home) and, a haggis. Not just any haggis mind you, but a Rick Stein Food Hero haggis.

So what is a haggis? Well, without wanting to disappoint anyone, it is not the mythical furry creature with its two inside legs shorter than its two outside legs to allow it to run easily along hillsides. Haggis is in fact a very old Scottish dish, which combines meats, spices and oatmeal to create a very rich, unusual, but nonetheless delicious meal.

The origin of haggis, as with many other national dishes, is obscure. A similar dish was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans and is mentioned in some 14th-century Scottish chronicles. Dr. Michael Krause, a physician from Hamburg reported that it was much like a Silesian dish he called ”derma.” And although haggis includes pork fat or suet, its taste and texture also resemble the Jewish dish made of chicken fat, flour, spices and onions baked in a steer’s intestines that is also called derma.

The French honour its Scottish connections by calling it ”Puding de St. Andre” although, in fact, the word haggis is probably French in origin and comes from the verb hacher — to chop up or mangle. Though unproven, the French origin seems likely as French influence was strong in Scotland until 1603 and other traces of that tongue remain in the Scottish lexicon.

What to serve with the haggis? Well, ‘neeps and tatties’ would be the obvious choice but I wanted something a little different, nothing too out of the traditional realms of Scottish cuisine though. Rumbledethumps seemed the obvious choice, and, isn’t the name just lovely.

Rumbledethumps is a traditional dish from the Scottish Borders. The main ingredients are potato, cabbage and onion or  swede depending on which recipes you care to look at. Similar in nature to Irish colcannon, and English bubble and squeak, it is either served as an accompaniment to a main dish or as a main dish itself. An alternative version from Aberdeenshire is called kailkenny which replaces the butter in the potatoes with cream.

The name rumbledethumps apparently comes from the noise made in the kitchen as the tatties and cabbage are rumbled and thumped in the preparation.

Contrary to Tim Hayward description of Rumbledethumps (found here) that they are “potatoes and cabbage knocked about a bit in a pot – just to ensure the ultimate disheartening combination of lumps, bruised, leathery brassicas and self denial.” I found them luxuriously creamy, fresh and vibrant – note though that I added a dash of cream to the process and mashed away at the potatoes until not a lump could be found; before folding through quickly sautéed strips of kale. A culinary pleasure indeed.

The recipe I used for the rumbledethumps comes (in an albeit slightly adapted way) via Sue Lawrence’s Scottish Kitchen; an absolute treasure-trove of recipes which emphasises all that is good about Scottish cooking.

Of course you need a wee dram of whisky to accompany your dinner.

Rumbledethumps:

• 600g potatoes — peeled and chopped
• 400g turnip (swede) — peeled and chopped
• 250g kale or Savoy cabbage with the stalks stripped of — washed and shredded
• 50ml double cream
• 75g butter
• 50g mature farmhouse Cheddar – grated

1. Boil the potatoes and turnip in boiling salted water then drain thoroughly, before mashing well adding the butter and beating until smooth.
2. Gently cook the kale or cabbage by sautéing in the butter over a medium heat for four to five minutes, stirring, until wilted but still vivid green
3. Tip the kale and all the butter into the potato pan and mix everything together, season to taste with plenty of salt and freshly milled black pepper.
4. Tip into an ovenproof dish.
5. Sprinkle over the cheese and bake uncovered in a preheated oven (180C) for about 30 minutes or until golden brown and piping hot

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Lamb took centre stage for me this week. The rarity of having the house to myself for the evening was occuring and this could only mean one thing – the cooking of a solitary feast that the rest of the family simply wouldn’t have cared to join me in; in other words a meal that under normal circumstances just wouldn’t get cooked.

Lamb is one of my favourite meats but alas it isn’t that of my family so it is rare that I get to indulge; all the more reason to make the most of the opportunity then.

Armed with some fabulous organic lamb steaks from my local butcher and feeling greatly inspired by the fabulous Nigel Slater’s slow cooked lamb with chickpea mash I set about creating a version fit for one person.

I wanted to keep the flavourings simple and straightforward; this was my day, my ‘me time’ and I didn’t want to be spending it making a million and one components for my simple supper. I settled on coating the lamb with a harrisa rub and keeping the mash incredibly basic; simply mashed chickpeas with a drizzle of olive oil and a few leaves of watercress (as I had a huge bag from Riverford that needed using) tossed through.

Harissa is a North African hot red sauce or paste whose main ingredients are chili peppers (often smoked or dried) and garlic. Though most closely associated with Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria, it is a standard ingredient of North African and Middle Eastern cuisines.

Harissa paste is now an everyday, easily accessible, storecupboard ingredient and can be bought from supermarkets and small ethnic food stores alike. I am lucky enough that my lovely Israeli friend Francesca keeps me well stocked up with supplies though. Harissa spice rub is an altogether different beast, one that I struggle to locate locally and so always order directly from The Spice Shop; one day I will visit the London based store and trust me I will be like the proverbial child in a sweet shop.

Slow cooking the lamb steaks was certainly not an option, so, I went down the route of extreme opposites. I pan fried the lamb quickly over a very high heat; giving me caramelised edges, burnished fat and yet quiveringly tender, rose pink meat.

Keeping the chickpea mash subtle, if not even slightly bland, was a great idea as it became a base carrier for all the other flavours. The chickpeas themselves just gave a subtle creamy, nutty, backdrop.

Once the lamb was joined by a sloppy mash of chickpeas and the few cream enhanced mahogany juices, alchemy occured. A simple supper was elevated to a meal I’d have gladly served to guests at a dinner party.

Spiced Moroccan Lamb:

• 4 lamb steaks, roughly 2cm thick
• 1 tablespoon of dried harrisa spice rub
• 1/2 teaspoon harrisa paste
• 100ml double cream

1. Rub the dried harrisa over the lamb steaks (this can be done in advance if wished).
2. Heat a frying pan or griddle until very hot, add the lamb steaks and cook to your liking.
3. Remove the lamb from the pan and set aside to rest.
4. Add the cream to the pan used to cook the lamb and add the spice paste, whisk to amalgamate and simmer gently to reduce the sauce slightly.
5. Return the meat juices to the pan.
6. Serve the lamb on a bed of chickpea mash and drizzle with the sauce.

Chickpea & Watercress Mash

• 1 tin of chickpeas
• 1-2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (preferably a North African one)
• a large handful of watercress leaves, picked from the stems and stems discarded.

1. Drain the chickpeas and put then in a pan with just enough water to cover them.
2. Bring to the boil, then turn down to a simmer. The aim is to warm the chickpeas through rather than cook them further, simmering for around 5 minutes will be enough to do this.
3. Drain the chickpeas, then either mash them with a potato masher, or in the food processor – the latter is preferable to me as I like a smooth almost ‘humous’ like puree.
4. Mix in the olive oil to make smooth and luxurious puree. Stir in the watercress, season with a pinch of hot paprika, salt and black pepper, and serve with the spiced lamb.

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