Deep Purple

04 Thursday Jul 2013

Tags

Aromatherapy, Fruit, Herbs, Ingredients, Nature, Recipes, Stories, Travel

We recently went to a lavender festival in an area called, confusingly, Cherry Valley. No cherries as such, but a billowing sea of lavender instead, made all the more surreal by its position in a vast, merciless desert, with windswept plains filled with tumbleweed and signs advertising pleasant and welcoming mortuaries. The air was different too. Gone was the hot, dry wind that smelt vaguely burnt in nearby Palm Springs. There was coolness and an endless waft of fresh lavender here, so different to dried, which makes me think of scones and English B&Bs and ‘granny’s pants’. By this I mean stored, clean pants from another era, washed with old soap and perhaps not dried fully, so, though clean, there is a suggestion of staleness.

A fresh sprig of lavender – or should I say ear because to me it has the same corn-like structure – is quite different. Camphorous, sultry and direct. It smells more like it looks: purple and lusty. It is known as a sedative, mainly, something you apply to yourself or a pillow to aid sleep, but according to the talk we attended, it is more of a balancing herb, bringing you back from the brink, settling you back into the centre of things. There were many other things growing, thriving in this oasis – thickets of tea tree, and a long avenue of broad-necked olive trees amongst them. But you couldn’t escape the lavender. We waded through it, running our fingers through the brittle stalks, letting them whip back against our thighs, crumbling the flowers between finger and thumb, enjoying their spiky scent and tight whorls of colour. We found a stall selling lamb kebabs and sat rather drunkenly in the sweet fug of lavender and smoky meat.
The night before we’d decided to visit a casino nearby. We walked in and I had to walk back out again. Noise, made up of music and machines merging like screaming sirens in vague counterpoint, cigarette smoke, cold, piped air, and the look of glassy appetite on the faces of the gamblers all combined to remind me why zombies are still such a resonant force in our culture. Nothing about it made sense to me. And there are no windows, and no clocks inside the place, so you lose any sense of where you are. Who you are, even. More tawdry still is the fact that the casino is built on an Indian reservation, a result of the deal made between Indian tribes and the federal government that allows the Native Americans ‘tribal sovereignty’. It feels, to me at least, like a bit of a crap deal.

So we needed the lavender the next day. I was wondering, looking around, if the same people at the casino the night before were here in this place. It was possible: there were lots of benign-looking elderly ladies at the casino, perched on stools, resting their sticks against the machines, handbags at the ready. And here they were too, with their cameras and grandchildren. I’m not sure how you could do that – how you could square that world with this one. Or how we can ignore the world beneath both, when the land belonged to the Native Americans, before cultivation and agriculture, and every tree, plant and herb was theirs.

Tea tree

Lavender is an odd one to cook with – bitter or rather ‘faded’ has been my experience so far. Lavender honey works beautifully, of course, and there are Provencal dishes that use it imaginatively and to good effect: traditionally, it’s cooked with rabbit. I understand the theory that it works best if treated like rosemary and thyme. But I’d still rather cook with the last two, and keep the lavender as an essential oil, where it feels fresh and alive – the closest to rolling a torn sprig in my hand and letting the smell climb into my limbic system. Ken from The Garum Factory suggested I go the lavender-infused olive oil route and add a few drops over a dish (in this instance melon and Serrano ham) and he was right. The lavender is gentle and warm, and definitely in the background, with just a hint of floral. No granny’s pants here.

From the aromatherapist at the festival, I learnt the simplest technique for using the essential oil: add a few drops to a base of water and use it as a room and body spray. It is beautifully simple and effective. I’ve been dousing my sheets with it and myself (it is, along with tea tree, a clear oil and doesn’t stain fabric. You can also apply it neat to the skin). Also great for getting rid of any ‘untoward’ smells in the house. Recipes below.

Lavender Spray

Fill a clean spray bottle with 4 ounces of pure distilled water (or tap water)

Pour 6 drops of lavender essential oil directly into the spray bottle

Tightly close the bottle and shake vigorously to combine

Be sure to shake it before each use, as the water and essential oils tend to separate

Lavender-infused olive oil, melon and Serrano ham

Adapted from Skye Gyngell, My Favourite Ingredients

English lavender (Lavandula angustifolia and Munstead) is commonly used for cooking

250ml (1 cup) of extra virgin olive oil

1 lemon

2 sprigs of fresh lavender

Pare the lemon zest in long strips using a vegetable peeler, and place it in a small pan along with the sprigs of lavender. Pour over the olive oil and warm gently to body temperature (around 99F) for ten minutes so the lemon and lavender can release their aromas. If you want a more pronounced lemon flavour, add the zest of 2-3 lemons. Remove from the heat and let stand for 30 minutes. Use on the day of making or within 24 hours. If using with the melon and ham, dribble over the cold fruit (which should be lightly salted) and serve with a scattering of lavender buds or flowers if you like.

“Mercury owns the herb; and it carries his effects very potently. Lavender is of special good use for all the griefs and pains of the head and brain that proceed of a cold cause, as the apoplexy, falling-sickness, the dropsy, or sluggish malady, cramps, convulsions, palsies, and often faintings. Two spoonfuls of the distilled water of the flowers taken, helps them that have lost their voice, as also the tremblings and passions of the heart, and faintings and swooning, not only being drank, but applied to the temples, or nostrils to be smelled unto; but it is not safe to use it where the body is replete with blood and humours, because of the hot and subtile spirits wherewith it is possessed.”

Nicholas Culpeper, Complete Herbal (1653)

Honey Ice

30 Thursday May 2013

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

Claudia Roden, Farmers' market, Honey, Ice cream, Los Angeles, Mediterranean, Stories, Travel

This recipe comes from Invitation to Mediterranean Cooking by Claudia Roden. It is a small, plain book with no photographs, and at first I afforded it only a few cursory glances. And then I read the introduction and it made sense. I reread it and I was transported. She sweeps through the history of the Mediterranean with such blithe eloquence that all I could hope to do here is a blundering précis of facts and impressions. What has stayed with me is the culinary unity of all sixteen or so countries that nestle around this ‘little inland sea.’ And the sheer amount of traffic.

First there were the colonizers – the Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans – who brought their holy trinity of wheat, olives and vines. Then the area was positively over-run by invaders: the Arabs who occupied parts of Spain and Sicily for hundreds of years and introduced new trading routes and cultivated sugar cane, apricots and oranges, pomegranates, dates and aubergines. The Normans and the Republic of Venice also had a go, and then the Ottoman Empire muscled in. And then there were the travellers: traders, troubadours, jongleurs, spice merchants, whole populations uprooted – Tunisians were sent to Palermo in Sicily to build the cathedral, for instance. It must have been a nightmare for Social Services.

What I loved was the idea of the Mediterranean as its own world, distinct from the northern regions of its own countries. So the cuisine of Andalusia would have more in common with southern Italy than with Asturias, say. Provence and Sicily are related. They use the same clay pots and wood-burning stoves. There is olive oil, the juice of lemons, garlic, tomatoes, almonds, quince, basil and wild marjoram. Food is pummeled, slaked, ground with a pestle and mortar, little old women in black keen and worry beads in their gnarled hands, stopping as you pass to ask why you’re not married and how much you weigh.

And that made me think of all the seemingly disconnected events that had happened to me on my travels there. Rather than random or isolated, one event now began to inform the other. So the gesture of the café owner in Paxos in Greece who brought us a bottle of wine and two glasses as we were about to bed down for the night on the beach (with one sheet and two bin bags) was somehow related to the gesture of the boy (whose name I will never forget: Zoran) who boarded my train in Dubrovnik carrying a mattress and shared his lunch with me. The woman who complained we had flooded her bathroom in Corfu was definitely related to the man who ordered me out of his ballet class in Venice. I remember the alleyways in Tunisia and Amalfi, getting lost in darkness, the sounds of bare feet on stone, and the fear it was my stepmother.

There are big differences between the eastern Mediterranean and western, and there are many culinary distinctions between the countries in both regions. But for now, I like to imagine the similarities. We are encouraged in life to unmake connections, to see things as mere coincidence. But in the Mediterranean, it’s the same sun, the same sea, the same fish, the same herbs; all that empire on the chopping board. All those languages in one clay pot.

When it came to choosing a Mediterranean sweet to feature here, I was almost limp with temptation. “My soul responds to a mere vanilla ice smeared out into the thick glass of an Italian ice-cream vendor”, wrote Compton Mackenzie in First Athenian Memories, and despite the turrons, the sfogliatelle and the cassata Siciliana, I think ice cream is always a good place to start.

The honey you use can be characterful and not particularly sweet; remember honey is much more complex than sugar, and can range from treacly, nutty and even mildly bitter. Most honey is polyfloral – meaning the nectar has been taken from different floral sources – and is generally known as ‘wildflower’. Monofloral honey is when the bees have taken nectar from only one plant species (although the jury is out on whether a honey can ever be truly singular, because bees aren’t that picky and like all sorts), and the flavour is more pronounced. Some of the most highly prized honey comes from Sicily: orange blossom, the honey from zagara (the flower of the lemon tree), chestnut and thyme. Sardinian bitter honey comes from the autumnal flowering of the strawberry tree and is light green in hue. This ice cream recipe comes originally from Provence where they use lavender honey from their famous fields. There are fields of lavender here in Mediterranean southern California too, of course, as well as some wonderful urban honey around LA. Happy honey hunting.*

Honey ice cream

Adapted from Invitation to Mediterranean Cooking by Claudia Roden

I suggest pairing this ice cream with something resinous and rich (I want to say lusty), such as roasted figs (go to my recipe here), fig jam, or even better, quince paste (otherwise known as membrillo, recipe here). That said, some poached apricots or plums would also be pretty divine. And some chopped pistachios thrown from above.

As to milk, I used goat’s milk which I know is not to everyone’s taste. If you’re not sure you want goaty ice cream, go for cow’s milk. Sheep’s milk would be a lovely alternative.

500ml milk

4 large egg yolks

150g lavender, acacia or other clear, distinctive honey

150ml double/thick cream (I used crème fraîche)

1 tbs orange blossom water

Boil the milk. If you are using goat’s milk, let it almost come to a boil, but take it off the heat just before. Beat the egg yolks to a pale cream, then beat in the honey, the cream, and then finally a tablespoon of the hot milk. Gradually add the rest of the milk.

Return the mixture to the pan and stir with a wooden spoon over a low heat until it thickens to a light cream. Do not let it boil or it will curdle. Let it cool, stirring occasionally to stop the mixture forming a skin. I accelerate this process by transferring the mixture to a bowl and putting it in the sink filled with some ice cubes and tap water. Stir in the orange blossom water. Cover the bowl with cling-film/plastic wrap and put in the fridge to chill thoroughly. If you have an ice cream maker, follow the manufacturer’s instructions. This was my route, and the photo above and below is a soft-serve version directly after churning, and then a firmer set, having frozen the churned ice cream for a few hours. If you don’t have an ice cream maker, according to Claudia you can put the bowl directly in the freezer and freeze overnight or for at least 5 hours before serving. You can serve this ice cream straight from the freezer.

Recipe List

I have created a permanent recipe list if you’re interested in finding something specific. I will refine the categories as I go, but for now it’s a start. Hope it helps and you enjoy having a rummage through the archives.

*Addition 2nd June 2013

I found some lovely honey at the farmers’ market today from Bill’s Bees and wanted to share the discovery. I tried their local buckwheat honey which was strong, hearty and malt-like. The orange blossom honey was beautiful and surprising: clear like blown glass, smooth and silky, and floral without being overpoweringly sweet. There was also a small kick of acid when I was least expecting it, right at the end when I was about to ask another question. If you are in the area I would recommend giving them a visit.

Buckwheat honey

Orange blossom honey

True Guacamole

30 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

Food, Guacamole, Ingredients, Mexico, Recipes, Stories, Travel, Vegetarian

Last week we went to Mexico for a few days. I have tussled over how to write about it, since we went there as tourists and were treated as such; by which I mean we were treated with respect and mostly a benign indifference. At times it was quite funny, how we would go back into a shop having spoken to the owner perhaps half an hour before, who now had no recollection of us. This happened quite a bit. Perhaps we do all look the same.

We were staying on the sea near the small town of Todos Santos, on the Baja peninsula. The road leading up to the town was entirely flat and straight and shimmered with that wet heat so beloved of mirages. Either side of us was an ocean of cacti, frozen with dust – imagine stalactites in reverse – with the odd blossom or patch of green as if the landscape was suddenly surprised by something. Loosely tethered horses stood looking at the ground. Nothing else moved, but us. The arrival into Todos Santos is heralded by a banner reading Welcome to Todos Santos, “the magical place”.

These are interesting words, conjuring up the crossing of a threshold, of stepping from one world into another – you walk through the back of a wardrobe and feel the snow underfoot. And entering Todos Santos does have a sensation of time travel. There were pick-up trucks everywhere baked in mud, with kids in the back bouncing up and down on their way to and from school. A child of about four sat helmetless on the front of a motorbike at the one solitary traffic light, her legs wrapped like elastic bands around those of the driver. His movements were dreamlike as he took off, like liquid running slowly through dust.

We found a grocer that sold, amongst other things, eggs, avocados, tomatoes, green tomatillos and garlic. There were mountains of avocados, black, wizened and almost fungally soft. I bought the least mushy. We also bought eggs. I was expecting the avocados to be uneatable. But they were not; behind the skin lay a soft and nutty clay. They were truly gorgeous, a deep, khaki green and I ate them as you would an ice cream in a cup – half-peeled with the ‘peak’ showing, the base sitting in the palm of my hand. I ate avocados all day long from then on, not minding their ‘decaying breast’ appearance.

We ate like this whenever we could; out of hand, from roadside stalls or local shops. We couldn’t pretend to be locals ourselves, but we tried to avoid any obvious tourist spots or hostelries run by sour-looking ex-pats. Apart from avocados, I ate a lot of guacamole. There were different versions of this, ranging from sloppy, almost a slurry of bright and sharp tastes, to thick and smooth like a paste. The one I liked most was all green with no tomato. There was texture from the onion, there was a hint of acid from the lime, there was a kick of freshness from the cilantro and a bloom of warmth; chile perhaps. And of course the divine clay – soft and sweet. I ate it with parrot fish.

I feel reticent to say it was actually our poshest – by which I mean our most expensive – meal. Everything came directly from the sea in front or from the organic garden in a field leading up to the place. You couldn’t miss it; aubergines, tomatoes, nasturtium, sunflowers, papaya trees, everything trailed and sprouted and stretched up to the sky, happily engorged on sun and regular irrigation. We got out of the car and wandered amongst it all before surfacing to ask about the menu. When we returned properly dressed an hour later, no one recognized us. “We just came here. We asked you about the menu, what the catch of the day was.” “Ah, yes, yes!” etc.

There are some moments that seem purely fantastical to me now: sitting in the square in Todos Santos eating an ice cream and hearing the clack-clack-clack of a typewriter from an open office window. Standing in line at the supermarket and opening the lid on a pot of tamales that was sitting on the conveyor belt. They were apparently for sale (pot not included). A cat with half a lizard in its mouth. Our hitch-hikers – two teenage missionaries from Peru, with starched white shirts and ties, so polite it hurt. The wild white fangs of the sea and the surfers bobbing like seals. I hope I can go back. I hope it really exists.

Classic Mexican guacamole

Adapted from Food 52

& Roberto Santibañez, Truly Mexican

Santibañez believes texture is the key to a good guacamole – “you want to feel everything” – and crushes some of the avocado but leaves the rest in chunks. The pummeled chile, onion, salt and cilantro acts as a sort of thick dressing here.

Half a white onion, finely chopped
1 tbs of serrano or jalapeño chile, including seeds, minced
1/2 teaspoon flaky salt
A large handful of chopped cilantro (coriander), divided
1 large or 2 small ripe Mexican Hass avocados, halved and pitted
A few good squeezes of lime

Makes a medium bowlful

Mash the onion, chile, salt and half of the cilantro to a paste in a molcajete or other mortar. You can also mince and mash the ingredients together on a cutting board with a large knife or a fork, and then transfer the paste to a bowl.

Score the flesh in the avocado halves in a crosshatch pattern (not through the skin) with a knife and then invert into the mortar or bowl. Keep some of the avocado back to add at the end. Toss the guacamole well, then add the rest of the cilantro and avocado and mash briefly and coarsely with a pestle or a fork. Season to taste with lime juice and additional chile and salt (if you like).

Our posh meal was at Rancho Pescadero. If you’re ever in the area, go there.

Coconut, macadamias & a hammer

01 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Baking, Food, Ingredients, Nuts, Recipes, Stories, Travel

I found the macadamia nuts in their shells at the Santa Monica farmers’ market. I was surprised to see them at all. In fact, I was looking for hazelnuts, of which there has not been a snifter. I’m not a fan of exotica in food generally, nor do I warm to the tropical, except for Bounty bars. I once went to the Philippines, which was full of places that looked like the ideal location for a Bounty advert: milk-soft ocean, leggy coconut palms, acres of white sand. At one point a very Americanized Filipino leaned over to me and said “Isn’t this the best decision you, like, ever made?” How to say no, without seeming ungrateful? I probably just nodded and hoped my eyebrows were holding back some of the sweat that I could feel pouring out of my hair.

The one thing I will remember fondly was the man who sang Tears in Heaven every evening yards from my beach hut. He had a rather limited repertoire, but a really nice voice. All the restaurants had their own singer, and the songs were mellow and often accompanied by a single guitar. I remember feeling completely miserable, alone and in paradise. Actually, I wasn’t alone because fishermen used to sleep in my hammock.

Macadamias were introduced to southern California in the late 19th century from Australia, their native soil. They have similar demands to avocados, and are scattered throughout avocado groves and sometimes citrus here for that reason. I was shocked at how they looked once shelled (they are almost impossible to crack – hence the hammer). They are so perfect and pristine it’s unnerving – exact yet miniature, like Japanese netsuke. They are buttery, in the way of a Brazil nut, but sweeter and creamier; they need the dry heat of the oven to do them justice. Alternatively – and I can’t blame you – buy a bag of them shelled and save yourself the agro. I apologize in advance for the expense. They are known as the brat of the nut world, probably for this reason.

I have long held a love for the coconut. The damp matted stuff, fragrant, sweet and nutty has an affinity with macadamia nuts. Coconuts are available year-round but peak in the autumn and winter. I am happy to bring you macaroons, because I think they are lovely in size, easy to make and timeless. They should be eaten on the day they are made though as they stale up easily. The macaroon recipe calls for shredded coconut, which is a common ingredient in the US. The UK version, called desiccated coconut, is very similar. Alternatively, buy a fresh coconut – pierce it, drain off the juice (and drink it, it’s very good for you), crack open the shell with a hammer (yes, again) around the ‘fault’ line, and separate the flesh. Peel off the brown skin with a knife and grate the flesh in a processor. If you think this is too much faff and expense for one recipe, I suggest making the coconut-macadamia shortbread too (see recipe below).

Coconut-macadamia macaroons

Adapted from Lindsay Shere, Chez Panisse Desserts

& Nigella Lawson, How to be a Domestic Goddess

2 large egg whites

¼ tsp of cream of tartar

⅓ cup (25g) of sugar

Pinch of sea salt

1½ cups (150g) of shredded coconut

½ cup (75g) unsalted macadamia nuts

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Preheat the oven to 160C/325F. Toast the macadamias until just beginning to colour – about ten minutes max. Then cool and chop fine by hand. Beat the egg whites until frothy – no more – then add the cream of tartar and salt and carry on beating until soft peaks are formed. Beat in the sugar until the whites hold stiff, shiny peaks. Fold in the nuts and coconut. The mixture is sticky but should hold its shape, just. Form into small domes – say 2 to 3 inches in diameter. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until they are turning a golden brown. Makes 8 large-ish macaroons.

Coconut-macadamia shortbread

Adapted from Nick Malgieri, The Modern Baker

For the shortbread

½ cup (100g) sugar (Use coconut palm sugar if you can get it)

1½ ounces (50g) unsalted macadamias, crushed with the bottom of a pan

2 cups (250g) all purpose flour*

¼ cup (25g) shredded coconut

½ tsp baking powder

12 tbs (1½ sticks/175g) cold, unsalted butter cut into small pieces

Pinch of sea salt

For the top

¾ cup (about 3oz/75g) unsalted macadamias, crushed and finely chopped, not ground

⅓ cup (75g) coconut palm sugar (or any soft, brown sugar)

Generous sprinkling of flaky salt (such as Maldon)

Line a baking sheet with buttered parchment paper. Preheat the oven to 160C/325F. Combine the sugar and macadamias in the bowl of a food processor or blender and grind finely. Add the flour and baking powder and pulse several times to mix. Add the butter and pulse until it is finely mixed in. The mixture should be powdery. You could do this with your hands if you work fast.

Distribute the mixture evenly all over the lined and buttered pan. Use the palm of one hand to press it in. Sprinkle the dough with water and scatter the chopped nuts and sugar evenly on the dough and use the palm of your hand again to press them in. Sprinkle with the flaky salt. Bake the shortbread until it is golden and firm – about 25 minutes. As soon as you remove the pan from the oven, grip the opposite ends of the paper and lift the slab of baked dough onto a cutting board. While the dough is still hot, cut into 2 inch (5cm) squares. Let the shortbread cool and crisp up. If you want it crisper, you can return it to the oven at 300F/150C for a further 10 minutes, then cool the pan on a rack. The sugar and salt are a really lovely combination and enhance the rich nuttiness of the shortbread. Makes about 24 2-inch (5cm) squares.

*Use ground almonds if you want to go flourless – it will be much softer and sandier but still very good. Reduce the butter to 6 tbs and melt it beforehand.

Roasted squash

24 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Food, Herbs, Ingredients, Recipes, Spices, Stories, Travel

I could live on this. I’m already perilously close to overkill. I have it for breakfast with an omelette, on its own at lunch. It slumps in a devil-may-care way next to all sorts of meat and fish. It’s so over me. I’m praying it goes out of season soon, or suddenly becomes unavailable, so I can kick the habit. The fact that butternut squash is good for you is all the more confusing. Sweet, plump, comforting and the kind of neon orange I haven’t seen since my 1976 flares took my parents’ breath away, it heralds the start of the cooler months, climaxing on Thanksgiving in November.

I don’t think I was properly aware of squash before I came to America, in the sense of the entire ‘family’ of vegetables. In England, we have courgettes and marrows, and of course pumpkins. But here in California there is summer squash and winter squash, and so many sub-genres in between I could really do with a manual. In a nutshell, summer squash has a thinner skin, is tender and glossy (think courgettes) and winter squash, the butternut for example, is firm with a thick, tough rind.

The thing butternut squash most loves is ham. Boiled, then roasted, basted and then glazed with a treacly syrup. Both are sweet and soft, rich and caramelized, chunky and substantial. Interestingly, squash is not particularly starchy, so though it eats like a sweet potato, it has none of the fibrous load.

On our first Thanksgiving* as a couple in LA, three years ago, we had somehow missed all the invitations to join in with other families celebrating, and found ourselves a deux. We bought a ham from Trader Joe’s and some squash, and proceeded to have ourselves a party. Not having this tradition in England, it was hard to tap into the spirit. My only previous Thanksgiving reference had been the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles, where Steve Martin’s character struggles to get home in time, with podgy irritant John Candy tagging along. My favourite line is when the two of them are sharing a bed, and Steve Martin says: “Those aren’t pillows”. It is a funny film, tinged with sadness, and I loved John Candy’s shower curtain ring salesman. I can never remember if they do make it back in time, but I was left with a memory of those awful, corporate hotel rooms, piles of snow, and men screaming in car parks.

That ham gave me terrible wind. Afterwards, we went for a walk in Runyon Canyon and watched people working out. There were families – shoals of them – walking off their feast, laughing and shouting to one another. We sat on a bench and looked out at the sea of buildings below and beyond, everything indistinguishable. I think we realized then that it was tantamount to missing Christmas. The timing was off, but the squash was good. I am still giving thanks for it.

Roasted Squash

Adapted from Jamie Oliver, Jamie’s Italy

1 large butternut squash

1 dried red chilli

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

A large handful of sage leaves

1 stick of cinnamon

Olive oil

Preheat your oven to 180C/350F/Gas 4. Halve the butternut squash, remove and reserve the seeds, then cut the squash into slices or chunks with the skin left on. Using a pestle and mortar, or a metal bowl with a rolling-pin, bash up the dried red chilli with a good pinch of salt. Add the whole sage leaves, the cinnamon and enough olive oil to loosen the mixture, and rub the whole lot over the squash pieces, so they are well covered.

Place the squash in one layer (this is important) in a roasting tray and season lightly with salt and pepper. Sprinkle over the seeds, cover tightly with tin foil and bake for 30 minutes, or until the skin of the squash is soft, then remove the foil and cook for another 15 minutes until the squash is golden and crisp. Remove the cinnamon and tuck in.

*Thanksgiving takes place on the fourth Thursday of November in the US. You could say it’s the original harvest festival, started by the pilgrims and puritans emigrating from England in the early 17th century, and assisted by the Wampanoag Native Americans who provided seeds and fish.

First ever quince

10 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Cookbook, Dessert, Food, Fruit, Honey, Ingredients, Nonfiction, Recipes, Spain, Stories, Travel

My first ever quinces. My first ever quince paste, or membrillo. It didn’t go the deep red I had been reading about, and hoping for, no matter how long I cooked it, but rather a dark, rosy gold. In Mexico it is seen as candy, and it candies as you cook it. It feels and looks like a humongous boiled sweet, the way it wraps itself around your wooden spoon. Gradually, it solidifies, becomes harder to manage and your forearm sweats and reddens. I felt like one of those glass blowers by the end, with roasted arms. And then you must unwrap it, flatten it into a block and cool it on a baking sheet, smoothing it out with wet hands. It’s a tough little thing, and you need to prize it off in cubes. Some suggest burying it in sugar and cinnamon. I was interested in the Spanish version, where you serve it with Manchego, a chalky sheep’s cheese, which you dribble either with honey or olive oil. What I love about Manchego is the crystalline quality when it dissolves on the tongue – there is sharpness, it is intense, but crumbly, frail, reminiscent of ragged, yellowing parchment.

Quinces when they are cooking are startlingly honeyed and musky, almost ‘heavy’ smelling, but it is also an astringent fruit and you are left with traces of acid long after the sugar has gone. The best paste is a reminder of the fruit’s essence. Thin slices of Manchego, a hunk of bread, a few jellied sheets of membrillo – a tapa we would get for free en route to our house in Picena, southern Spain, and a bar stop demanded by the driver, Pepe el taxista. If you bought a drink, you’d get the food for free. Amazing if you think about it, and I doubt it still exists in quite the same way now.

I remember patatas a lo pobre – poor man’s potatoes – served in terracotta dishes, cakes of sweet onion tortilla and chunks of melting lamb. It was just enough to stave off hunger, and the alcohol would make everything nice and blurry. A lot of people died on that mountain road. No barriers, alcohol, a few stray goats. Everything was crumbling and dry. On average, a person a year from the village careered off the mountain side to their death, and travellers were picked off with horrible ease. But I always remember the food first, and only later the slow, lurching ascent into the clouds.

Quinces (cydonia oblongata) were the original ingredient in marmalade; the word marmelo is in fact the Portuguese word for quince. It wasn’t until 1790 that oranges were used, and all marmalade recipes before then were based on quinces, even in England. These days they are considered too tart, dry and tannic to eat raw (blame the advent of sugarcane). Cooked is the only way to eat them, unless already ‘bletted’ – beyond ripe and softened by decay.

They flummox people. What are they, exactly? For many years, they were thought to be a relative of the pear, and though most pears are grown on quince rootstock, they are not pears and will not hybridise with them. They are a separate species, full of mythology, and loved by preserve-makers and food enthusiasts. They are hard, yellowy, blocky, sometimes shaped like commas, thick-set. Imagine a great aunt with a plinth-like bosom called Enid. Anyway, they are very exciting to cook with because they transform, becoming glassy and gorgeous and they work well with fatty meats. The ones above are green and would benefit from a long sit for a few weeks until they become a mellow yellow.

Quince paste with Manchego

Adapted from Sam and Sam Clark, Moro – The Cookbook & Nigel Slater, Tender

2kg (4lb) quinces

Caster sugar

Juice of 2 lemons

Remove the down/fur on the quinces, wash them and cut them up. Don’t bother to remove the core or peel them, you will sustain injuries. Put the fruit into a heavy pan and just cover with cold water. Bring to the boil, and then simmer until tender. Strain off any excess water and push the quinces through a sieve, removing pips and core as you go, letting the purée collect in a bowl beneath. This can take some time. Alternatively, if you have one, use a mouli, but remember to use the disc with the smallest possible holes, or you will be eating fibres and grit.

Weigh the purée and add to it half the weight again of sugar; the Moro cookbook calls for equal weights of fruit and sugar, and I have adhered to their recipe for years, but having tried this Nigel Slater version, from Tender, I find the paste has more flavour, tang and quincy character and still keeps its shape.

Place both the sugar and the fruit purée in the same (but washed) pan. Return to the stove, and heat gently until the sugar has completely dissolved. Now raise the heat and let the mixture bubble, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon (wear an oven glove to protect your hand). Add some lemon juice to taste. It is ready when it starts to come away from the sides of the pan, attaching itself to your spoon like a thick, deep orange wand. By the end, you can hardly move your spoon through the paste.

Now, remove the mixture and spread it out in a centimetre (½ inch) layer on a baking tray lined with greaseproof paper. Push it out to the sides as evenly as possible. When it has cooled slightly, wet your hands and smooth it down. Switch the oven to its lowest heat and dry it out for a couple of hours, or simply air dry it. It should be tacky dry and firm enough to be cut into solid pieces. Pack it in greaseproof paper and store in an airtight container. Refrigeration should not be necessary and it keeps for many months.

Traditionally, the sheep’s cheese Manchego is served in thin triangles with the rind left on. The quince paste is sliced and then placed on top of the cheese, with a thread of extra virgin olive oil alongside. Honey is also lovely here if you fancy it.

The first figs

25 Wednesday Jul 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Cooking, Dessert, Food, Fruit, Ingredients, Nonfiction, Recipes, Spain, Stories, Travel

I never know what to make of figs. They look slightly obscene, but then purple always does (think of aubergines). They are so delicate, shaped like an engorged teardrop, with that satiny, touchy skin. Each fruit contains, not seeds, but a mass of curled-up flowers that will never be. Certain things they like, I’ve noticed. Like honey, a scattering of thyme leaves, a slake of lemon juice, walnuts. I feel on safer ground when they are tarred by the heat of the oven, reduced to their buttery essence. They blister and bead – droplets of sap line the fruit’s seams. They eventually cave in, turning to jam with only the slightest provocation.

Of course if you have a fig tree, you need do nothing but tear one open and suckle, especially if it has already been warmed by the sun. Forget fruit salads, and cold of any sort. Figs are usually a late summer crop, but ‘breva’ figs* (meaning ‘first fruit of the fig tree’) are with us now. They grow on last year’s wood, a couple of months before this season’s crop ripens. They are not quite as spectacular as the ‘higo’ (second crop), not quite as burstingly succulent, less beauteous to the eye, but they are worth investigating.

I first tried breva figs when I was lost on a mountainside in southern Spain. I wasn’t particularly hungry or thirsty, but they were hanging about us as we tramped along the road and so it passed the time. I was wearing corduroy shorts – a fashion fad that lasted about a week in 1991 – and in the midday sun it was like wearing a pair of blankets. I remember the fig’s sweetness, and the way we popped each plump little confection whole into our mouths, the flesh turning into a dewy, flowery syrup. So I associate them with heat and dust and a certain wildness of spirit.

Our house, bought for £2,000 in Las Alpujarras in Spain, was white and chalky and if you brushed past a wall, part of it would come off on your clothes. Swallows nested in the beams. The rats never came upstairs. They preferred the bathroom that had been built in the middle of the cellar, with a makeshift wall around it, like a turret. We had no transport so hitched lifts with the postwoman or a friendly tractor driver, or walked. Occasionally, somebody would throw fruit through our window. This was if they were unfriendly and wanted us to go away. Locals who liked us, and owned fincas in the area, came to the door and handed us their harvest directly. Tomatoes, oranges, lemons, peppers, garlic, figs, sometimes nuts, everything was saddled to the mule standing morosely in the background while they did the deed.

Children played outside our window until 2am. The afternoons were always dead while the whole village slept. Pigs were slaughtered, also outside our window, and the children continued to play under a canopy of dead pig, strung up by its hooves. But it was also easy to disappear. The village was surrounded by farmed terraces, and acequias – streams of melted snow from the Sierra Nevadas – and we dunked ourselves in whenever the heat got too much. No one was about, apart from the local shepherd and his goats, the bell around their scruffy necks sounding their arrival. We picked figs and thought nothing of it.

Figs do well in southern California, having come here in the eighteenth century via Spanish missionaries, hence the name, Black Mission. I am being quite brutish, roasting them with gay abandon, but there are many applications for these treacled beauties and they hang around for ages; dolloped on ice cream, smushed through a sieve and turned into fig butter, partnered with tangy goat’s cheese, piled on hot, yeasty bread, or thrown into a bread dough or cake batter. Or simply potted up and eaten one by one like sticky, gummy candies.

Roasted figs with honey and thyme

Serves 4

I committed the cardinal sin of leaving fresh figs in the oven overnight so they looked like tarmac. They tasted divine, though, so I suggest you do the same.

12 figs (or thereabouts)

3 tbs of clear honey

Walnut-sized knob of butter

A posy of thyme (about 15 sprigs)

Juice and zest of a lemon

1 roasting pan

Preheat the oven to 350F/180C. Bruise the lemon zest and thyme leaves together using a wooden spoon or pestle and mortar. Fish out any woody stems, but don’t worry too much if some remain. Put the butter, honey, thyme leaves, lemon juice and zest in a small saucepan. Heat gently, stirring until liquid. Take off the heat and leave to infuse for about 15 minutes. Cut off the stem at the top of each fig. Cut a deep cross down into each one, then squeeze the sides to expose the flesh. Place them upright in a roasting pan. It’s fine if the pan is crowded, but each fig should be resting on the bottom. Pour over the liquid. Roast for at least half an hour, then turn the oven off and let the figs stew in their own juices. Because first-crop figs can be a hit-and-miss affair, you can be quite brazen about the roasting, and general neglect here. These are not jewels, and they taste better for the wait.

“They say that the Fig-tree, as well as the Bay-tree, is never hurt by lightning; and also if you tie a bull, be he ever so mad, to a Fig-tree, he will quickly become tame and gentle. As for such figs that come from beyond the sea, I have little to say, because I write not of exotics; yet some authors say, the eating of them makes people lousy.“

Nich. Culpeper, Gent., The English Physician Enlarged, 1653

* Also known as ‘breba’ figs.

Cucumber Gazpacho

04 Monday Jun 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Food, Greece, Ingredients, Nonfiction, Recipes, Stories, Travel, Yoghurt

I know cucumbers can be a bit ‘whatever.’ I mean, I could go my whole life never missing them. And yet they are fresh and summery and lend themselves beautifully to cold soups as well as interesting herbal combinations. They like a bit of salt and lemon. I can’t work out why so many recipes ask for cucumbers to be peeled and de-seeded. What’s left? Thankfully, the recipe I’m using here is less prissy and allows you to chuck the whole thing into the blender. Which is good because you really get the essence of cucumber – light but with a herbaceous edge – and the seeds are what creates a lot of the juice.

My first memory of cucumbers was in Crete as a child. We were staying with a Greek family. I developed a crush on the son, who was a teenager called Vazeles. I thought he was very sophisticated because he drank his tea with a spoon. I spoke to him in fake Greek a lot and he smiled politely and continued about his business. The thing I remember most though was that whenever I entered the dining room, which was where the whole family congregated, the grandmother would start peeling a cucumber into the fire. She laughed – actually, she cackled – and so did everyone else, including my mother. I have to say, as a child, I couldn’t see the funny side. Even now it seems a bit disturbing; the insinuation was that this act was in some way sexual which was why everyone found it funny. Anyway, if anyone reading this knows of a Greek custom where old ladies start to peel cucumbers into the fire whenever a small child enters, I’d love to hear from you.

I can’t remember where those cucumbers ended up – I mean, in what dish – although it’s fair to surmise it was probably for a Tzatziki, a popular Greek dip made with strained yoghurt, cucumbers, lemon, salt and dill or parsley; a choppier and breadless version of cucumber gazpacho.

If you’re using thick-skinned cucumbers, by which I mean your standard, long, dark green cukes, you may want to peel them as they will have a tougher hide, and may have been waxed. I used thin-skinned Persian cucumbers here, because that’s what I found at the farmers’ market. They’re smaller, but taste the same – in other words, like a cucumber.

The garlic is non-negotiable in my opinion. I really don’t think gazpacho works without it, but you can play around with the intensity. I think three cloves gives you enough of a heady sensation without feeling you’ve been garlic-snorkelling. It’s the cleanness of the cucumber and the sulphurous hit of the garlic that is the key to this dish, so be brave. Stale white bread is a central component of a traditional Spanish gazpacho, and will give the soup a ‘thick cream’ texture. If you use it, I would strain the soup into a bowl before chilling, to remove any rough bits.

As for which herbs to use, mint is traditional, and lovely. Sorrel is less common, and a good reason to experiment. It is a perfect time of year for it. For a spring leaf, it’s incredibly juicy, lemony and refreshing. Can a leaf be creamy? Strangely yes. I hope I’ve piqued your interest.

Cucumber Gazpacho

Serves 4

3 large cucumbers or 6-7 small ones

A small handful of mint or sorrel leaves, stems removed

3 cloves of garlic, crushed

2 tbs extra virgin olive oil – or a couple of very hearty glugs

Sea salt

A squeeze of lemon

1 cup (½ pint) of plain, Greek yoghurt

Optional: A couple of handfuls of stale, white bread, torn up, with crusts removed

Method

I have deliberately kept the amounts quite loose, as this is where feel and taste rule. Coarsely chop the cucumbers – peel them first if you think the skin looks a bit tough – and put them in a blender. Add the crushed garlic, a pinch of sea salt, the olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, the yoghurt and the stale bread (if using) and puree to a wet pulp. You may have to do this in batches depending on the size of your blender.

Take the smoothness as far as you like – silk soup is very pleasing, some like a rougher texture, but I would strain the mixture through a sieve if you’re using the bread. Cover the bowl and chill thoroughly. Go almost to icicles. To serve, season the soup again. Remember that chilling dulls the flavour. Add a streak of yoghurt and strew with the herbs. Drop in some herb-flecked ice cubes for some shock and awe.

About Cucumbers

Originating in the Himalayan foothills, the wild cucumber is hideously bitter by nature. It has taken centuries of breeding to make it edible. It is a member of the Cucurbit family, to which the melon and winter and summer squash also belongs. It is a fruit.

Nasturtium-leaf sandwiches

02 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Food, Ingredients, M.F.K Fisher, Nonfiction, Recipes, Stories, Travel, Writing

Avram Dumitrescu

I discovered nasturtiums and the food writer M.F.K Fisher around the same time, so it seems fitting to include them both here. This recipe might also sum up Fisher’s approach to life and cooking, as it is both daring and in some senses obvious; nasturtiums grow wild, as well as being the easiest things to cultivate, and most of us have a loaf of bread knocking about. The rest is up to you.

Her life is hard to summarize without reducing it to the amount of times she moved house. She was a true vagabond, shuttling between France, Switzerland and her native California; back and forth she went like a ping-pong ball. Possibly because of this, she had a complete lack of vanity about where she cooked and with what. Some of her early, settler-influenced dishes read like one of Edward Lear’s nonsense poems – clabber custard, cocoa toast, tomato soup cake – but her message is disarmingly relevant. Eventually, we must ditch the gurus and find our own voice. Fisher herself was entirely self-taught, spurning even her French landlady’s attempts to school her in the basics. She simply made it up as she went along. The limitations of her surroundings, and the lack of equipment – in one house the radiator stood in for a stove, and in another, the cold meant she cooked wearing a fur coat and gloves – dictated what she was able to prepare, and this was what excited her most; that making do is liberating, and we are confined by choice.

She is the antidote to our learned helplessness – our need for ‘experts’ – and the champion of trial and error. She wanted us to feel our way, physically and psychically, through the food we cooked. About this, she said “I believe that through touch, or perhaps because of its agents, other senses regain their first strengths.”

A devotee of offal at a time when Miracle Whip was considered classy, and a life-long hatred of American salads sets her apart in ways that even now appear radical and eccentric. She is often described as America’s answer to Elizabeth David, but I think this is to do her a disservice. To my mind, her writing has the tough lyricism of the survivor. Flinty, resolute, economical, she was a woman raised under big skies in a brave, new world.

Nasturtium-leaf sandwiches

I know it may be controversial, championing the ‘wich in these carb-free times, but perhaps it’s due a revival. There can be nothing more satisfying than a torn hunk of baguette, with some sharp cheddar (crisps optional), or a few slivers of smoked salmon inside a thin, wheaty shell. And then there is toast, at which even the thought makes my cheeks sing, and gives butter a reason to live.

If you’re craving something cleaner, you could make a nasturtium salad; it works in much the same way as watercress, being from the Indian cress family. In fact, the word originally comes from the Latin nasus tortus, meaning “twisted nose”, supposedly because of what it does to your sinuses. Creamy clouds of pepperiness and a shock of blossom covered in the lightest of dressings is springtime in a bowl.

From With Bold Knife and Fork, M.F.K Fisher (1969)

Makes about 40

1 loaf white Pullman* bread, crust removed, sliced lengthwise into three 1-inch slices

¾ cup butter, softened

2 cups nasturtium leaves, tightly packed

Nasturtium blossoms for garnish

“Using a rolling pin, firmly roll each slice of bread to flatten. Spread each slice on one side with butter. Reserve 6 nasturtium leaves for garnish. Finely chop the rest of the leaves. Spread the chopped leaves over the buttered side of each bread slice. Then, starting from a long side, roll up each slice into a log. Wrap each log separately in plastic wrap and refrigerate until the butter has hardened, about 2 hours. (Once the butter is hard, the logs will stay rolled.) Cut the chilled logs crosswise into ¾-inch-thick slices. Arrange the slices on a platter and serve garnished with nasturtium blossoms and the reserved leaves.”

* Otherwise known as a ‘sandwich loaf’ – the name Pullman comes from their use in the cramped kitchens of Pullman railway cars. These days, most sliced bread is actually a Pullman loaf: square, and baked in a long, rectangular, lidded pan. I used some sliced rye and wheat bread I had in the freezer and lopped off the crusts.