Ok, one last wibbly wobbly entry and then I'll get back to the normal stuff, I promise.
On the hunt for more ways to get bang from my (increasingly limited) buck, I experienced a bit of a time machine moment when, standing in front of the fishmonger's counter, my beady little eyes alighted upon: Cod's Roe. Why the flashback, I hear you cry? Well, when I was a wee youngster, Ma Pea used to rustle us up Cod's Roe on toast and, yep you guessed it, I would snaffle it up. Quick and easy supper - tick, barely a penny spent - tick, packed with brain-enhancing nutrients - TICK. A match made in heaven then!
Fried Cod's Roe on Toast
Serves 2
1. Ask the poissonier (or fishman) for a generous handful of the roe
2. Drop these roe into a seasoned flour mixture, as per my previous kidney and liver recipes, and roll around until covered
3. Pop a piece of bread in the toaster and drop the floured roe into about a tablespoon of hot groundnut oil.
4. Fry gently until light golden
5. Serve on toast
A smooth, silky texture, and strong fish-taste means that this dish ain't for the faint-hearted. But for that quick and easy supper, it is perfect!
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Monstruous Meat Mania - mmm
The Mighty Muffuletta. Woah there. Slow down. Backtrack a little. Some of you (Brits) maybe instantly thrown upon hearing this foreign, and faintly rude-sounding term. ‘What can she be talking about?’ I hear you cry. Well, fear not. It is my mission to educate you. It’s not a celebrity, it’s not a band, it is, in fact, a sandwich (although by the end of this piece, you'll be forgiven for assuming otherwise). But this is no ordinary sandwich, this is the King of sandwiches. I am a fully fledged member of the fan club, a bona fide member of the Muffuletta mafia. I first learnt of The King when, on my plane from Mexico to Boston, I picked up the in-flight magazine and read the finest piece of food writing I’ve ever clapped eyes upon. This was three whole pages dedicated to full-blown, unapologetic nosh-centric nostalgia: one woman’s life-long obsession with a sandwich which hails from hungry Sicilian farmers in New Orleans.
I’m always keen for a good bit of food porn, but this was obscene! This had me drooling in my plane seat (much to my neighbour’s alarm). I wanted one. I wanted one now, and the plastic-wrapped anaemic plane fare just didn’t cut it. Sadly there was no other choice, and I had to snap myself out of my wistful reveries of floating sandwiches, garlicky salami, a parade of cheesy characters, and a cascade of olive salad. I resolved one day to experience first hand the object of this wonderful writer’s obsession.
Fast forward a couple of months, and I was soon to experience the real deal – no impersonations for me! This was Monster Meat Mania in Mornington Crescent. It was a weekend was crammed full of food odyssies, from Marmite tasting, to Muffuletta with Malcolm Monteiro (I know, I know, I couldn’t have asked for more perfect alliteration, but honestly it wasn’t planned!). My dear friend Malcs - undoubtedly feeling pity for me jangling around a great big house all on my lonesome in Surrey, away from civilisation and elbow deep in job applications - sent me the newsletter from EatDrinkTalk, a marvellous cook school in London, run by UrbanJunkies contributor and chef, Jennifer. A quick scan down the list of recipes and I instantly clocked the Muffuletta. Amused of the coincidence, I told Malcolm about the aforementioned ode to sandwichdom. Ever the host, he invited me up to London for a Sunday sarnie-fest. I was hungry already (which really was just as well, I warn all makers now that you really need to have prepped your stomach for the onslaught of sheer protein power – forgo breakfast, as well as all of the previous day’s meals).
I’m not sure if I’ve ever travelled 2.5 hours (hideous Sunday traffic, and a poor little car heaving three grown women up the motorway) purely to eat a sandwich. First time for everything. Of course, I wouldn’t just travel miles and miles for a few bits of meat and bread, I was looking forward to seeing my dear friend Malcolm as well… Freezing cold, I entered the fug of his little one-bedroom den in great anticipation, only just managing to stop myself licking my lips and salivating onto his lovely sofa set. Quite the closet foodie, he had already risen admirably to the challenge of assembling the ingredients – obscene, and I really do mean OBSCENE, quantities of meat (salami, parma ham, cooked ham) per head, mozzarella, provolone, ciabatta and various bits and bobs for the olive salad. We rolled up our sleeves, divvied up the tasks, and got going.
The below recipe is taken from Jennifer from EDT’s newsletter:
The key to a good muffuletta is to combine a mix of cooked ham, cured ham and salami. If you have the willpower to wait 2-3 hours after making your sandwich while it is 'pressed' under something heavy, you'll be rewarded with a slightly better flavour as the pressing helps the olive salad permeate the bread and surrounding layers. Lesser-mortals however, can eat it straightaway.
Makes 2 ENORMOUS sandwiches
Ingredients
1 large ciabatta or other Italian round white loaf, sliced in half widthwise and lengthwise to make 2 sandwich tops and bottoms
150 grams porchetta or other cooked Italian charcuterie like prosciutto cotto
150 grams prosciutto or other cured Italian ham like lonza or speck
150 grams salami
1 ball of buffalo mozzarella, drained and patted dry with kitchen roll
several slices of provolone cheese
Olive Salad
1/4 head of cauliflower
150 grams juicy green olives, pitted and coarsely chopped
200 mls extra virgin olive oil
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon fresh oregano leaves, minced
small handful flat leaf parsley, chopped
1 tsp of chile flakes, or more to taste
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Instructions:
To make the olive salad, trim the cauliflower into fine florets (they should be very small) and place them in a pot of salted, boiling water for 5 minutes or until tender but still crisp. Drain the cauliflower and place in a small mixing bowl with the olives.
Mix together the remaining salad ingredients and pour them over the cauliflower-olive mixture while the cauliflower is still warm. Season generously with salt and pepper and toss well to coat the salad in the mixture. Set aside at room temperature.
Using your hands, hollow out the insides of each bread half. Brush the insides of the top halves with some of the oil from the olive salad and fill the bottom half with the olive salad. Lay the meat and cheese one variety at a time over the olive salad so that it forms layers and cover with the top half of the bread.
If eating right away, press down firmly on the sandwich to help it keep its shape and then slice each sandwich in half. If eating later, wrap each sandwich tightly in cling film and press down firmly. Place the sandwiches on a baking tray or roasting dish and cover with heavy books or other objects to act as weights.
Place the sandwiches in the fridge under the weights and chill until ready to eat. The pressing will help the olive salad to permeate the bread and the sandwich layers.
To serve, remove the cling film and cut each sandwich into halves.
Note the lesser mortals comment. Malcs and I fall firmly into that category. By the time we had made up the sandwiches it was 3pm and we were both ravenous post-Saturday night outs. I think we managed to restrain ourselves for a full 45 minutes, before doing some jaw stretches, and getting our chops around the monstrosity that was the Muffuletta.
It was well worth the wait, and the effort, although I’m not sure if I will be cruel enough to put my poor tum through that sort of digestive effort again. The ciabatta - at once crispy, and with what little dough was left soaked in the tangy lemon-garlic juices of the crunchy, flavoursome olive/cauliflower salad - was the perfect bodyguard for the sought after celebrity protein tucked (or should I say crammed) inside. Garlic was undeniably one of the biggest players throughout, pungent, spicy and raw in the olive salad, mellower but just as boisterous in the thin, meaty salami slices. A chewy, flavoursome duo of cooked and smoked hams jostled their way in, desperate for a bit of the glory. The more delicate cheeses – Lady Mozzarella and wafer thin Provolone – minced and pouted in the background, serving as the girly relief to the testosterone-filled meat. Nevertheless they made their presence known, salty and tender. All in all it was quite a spectacular, star-studded show. Well worth the eager anticipation, and almost worth hanging around afterwards for an autograph. Except, post show, and after leaving some time for moans, groans, and belly rubs, I callously left the stars to do their thing – all that attention was going to their heads. Instead I wafted strong garlic fumes onto the tube and the train home to Surrey. Pity my poor fellow passengers.
I’m always keen for a good bit of food porn, but this was obscene! This had me drooling in my plane seat (much to my neighbour’s alarm). I wanted one. I wanted one now, and the plastic-wrapped anaemic plane fare just didn’t cut it. Sadly there was no other choice, and I had to snap myself out of my wistful reveries of floating sandwiches, garlicky salami, a parade of cheesy characters, and a cascade of olive salad. I resolved one day to experience first hand the object of this wonderful writer’s obsession.
Fast forward a couple of months, and I was soon to experience the real deal – no impersonations for me! This was Monster Meat Mania in Mornington Crescent. It was a weekend was crammed full of food odyssies, from Marmite tasting, to Muffuletta with Malcolm Monteiro (I know, I know, I couldn’t have asked for more perfect alliteration, but honestly it wasn’t planned!). My dear friend Malcs - undoubtedly feeling pity for me jangling around a great big house all on my lonesome in Surrey, away from civilisation and elbow deep in job applications - sent me the newsletter from EatDrinkTalk, a marvellous cook school in London, run by UrbanJunkies contributor and chef, Jennifer. A quick scan down the list of recipes and I instantly clocked the Muffuletta. Amused of the coincidence, I told Malcolm about the aforementioned ode to sandwichdom. Ever the host, he invited me up to London for a Sunday sarnie-fest. I was hungry already (which really was just as well, I warn all makers now that you really need to have prepped your stomach for the onslaught of sheer protein power – forgo breakfast, as well as all of the previous day’s meals).
I’m not sure if I’ve ever travelled 2.5 hours (hideous Sunday traffic, and a poor little car heaving three grown women up the motorway) purely to eat a sandwich. First time for everything. Of course, I wouldn’t just travel miles and miles for a few bits of meat and bread, I was looking forward to seeing my dear friend Malcolm as well… Freezing cold, I entered the fug of his little one-bedroom den in great anticipation, only just managing to stop myself licking my lips and salivating onto his lovely sofa set. Quite the closet foodie, he had already risen admirably to the challenge of assembling the ingredients – obscene, and I really do mean OBSCENE, quantities of meat (salami, parma ham, cooked ham) per head, mozzarella, provolone, ciabatta and various bits and bobs for the olive salad. We rolled up our sleeves, divvied up the tasks, and got going.
The below recipe is taken from Jennifer from EDT’s newsletter:
The key to a good muffuletta is to combine a mix of cooked ham, cured ham and salami. If you have the willpower to wait 2-3 hours after making your sandwich while it is 'pressed' under something heavy, you'll be rewarded with a slightly better flavour as the pressing helps the olive salad permeate the bread and surrounding layers. Lesser-mortals however, can eat it straightaway.
Makes 2 ENORMOUS sandwiches
Ingredients
1 large ciabatta or other Italian round white loaf, sliced in half widthwise and lengthwise to make 2 sandwich tops and bottoms
150 grams porchetta or other cooked Italian charcuterie like prosciutto cotto
150 grams prosciutto or other cured Italian ham like lonza or speck
150 grams salami
1 ball of buffalo mozzarella, drained and patted dry with kitchen roll
several slices of provolone cheese
Olive Salad
1/4 head of cauliflower
150 grams juicy green olives, pitted and coarsely chopped
200 mls extra virgin olive oil
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon fresh oregano leaves, minced
small handful flat leaf parsley, chopped
1 tsp of chile flakes, or more to taste
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Instructions:
To make the olive salad, trim the cauliflower into fine florets (they should be very small) and place them in a pot of salted, boiling water for 5 minutes or until tender but still crisp. Drain the cauliflower and place in a small mixing bowl with the olives.
Mix together the remaining salad ingredients and pour them over the cauliflower-olive mixture while the cauliflower is still warm. Season generously with salt and pepper and toss well to coat the salad in the mixture. Set aside at room temperature.
Using your hands, hollow out the insides of each bread half. Brush the insides of the top halves with some of the oil from the olive salad and fill the bottom half with the olive salad. Lay the meat and cheese one variety at a time over the olive salad so that it forms layers and cover with the top half of the bread.
If eating right away, press down firmly on the sandwich to help it keep its shape and then slice each sandwich in half. If eating later, wrap each sandwich tightly in cling film and press down firmly. Place the sandwiches on a baking tray or roasting dish and cover with heavy books or other objects to act as weights.
Place the sandwiches in the fridge under the weights and chill until ready to eat. The pressing will help the olive salad to permeate the bread and the sandwich layers.
To serve, remove the cling film and cut each sandwich into halves.
Note the lesser mortals comment. Malcs and I fall firmly into that category. By the time we had made up the sandwiches it was 3pm and we were both ravenous post-Saturday night outs. I think we managed to restrain ourselves for a full 45 minutes, before doing some jaw stretches, and getting our chops around the monstrosity that was the Muffuletta.
It was well worth the wait, and the effort, although I’m not sure if I will be cruel enough to put my poor tum through that sort of digestive effort again. The ciabatta - at once crispy, and with what little dough was left soaked in the tangy lemon-garlic juices of the crunchy, flavoursome olive/cauliflower salad - was the perfect bodyguard for the sought after celebrity protein tucked (or should I say crammed) inside. Garlic was undeniably one of the biggest players throughout, pungent, spicy and raw in the olive salad, mellower but just as boisterous in the thin, meaty salami slices. A chewy, flavoursome duo of cooked and smoked hams jostled their way in, desperate for a bit of the glory. The more delicate cheeses – Lady Mozzarella and wafer thin Provolone – minced and pouted in the background, serving as the girly relief to the testosterone-filled meat. Nevertheless they made their presence known, salty and tender. All in all it was quite a spectacular, star-studded show. Well worth the eager anticipation, and almost worth hanging around afterwards for an autograph. Except, post show, and after leaving some time for moans, groans, and belly rubs, I callously left the stars to do their thing – all that attention was going to their heads. Instead I wafted strong garlic fumes onto the tube and the train home to Surrey. Pity my poor fellow passengers.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Practising Patriotism: Marmite vs. Vegemite Blind Tasting
The time for talking was through. An ongoing argument had to be settled. Travelling through Mexico, Guatemala and Belize with an Australian boy and two other British girls for over a month, conversation inevitably turned to the merits of Marmite vs. Vegemite. The debate got rather heated. This was no ‘love it or hate it’ argument, this was strictly love marmite, love vegemite.
I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly patriotic, and yet for some reason when people I barely know insult British food – particularly when they have absolutely no experience of it whatsoever – I’ve been known to get quite vocal (or rather, more vocal). When my Ecuadorian family on my gap year tried to tell me that ‘all your food comes from tins’ (er, wot?), or when some Japanese I met with decried British food as appalling – each time I set about firmly proving to them that whilst yes, if you just stop anywhere in the UK you won’t necessarily be treated to gourmet fare, not all British food is repulsive. My mother for one cooks glorious British dishes (roasts, pies and puddings, stews, not to mention the soups), there are hundreds of stellar gastropubs around and about, if you know where to find them, and things have been looking up since the war-time rationing of spam and powdered egg.
So the Marmite vs. Vegemite debate was yet another juicy argument I could sink my teeth into. Back safe and sound in our glorious homeland, and almost a month after saying our goodbyes, the three English lasses gathered at my home in Surrey, where we carried out a rigorous and, surprisingly even to us, entirely unbiased taste test. The results were quite, quite fascinating.
Ellie and Lauren were up first – with each donning a blindfold and being handed a random piece of toast with one or other of either Marmite or Vegemite spread. Lauren’s responses were swift and unequivocal – marmite was tangy and satisfying, vegemite was strangely stale, with and overwhelming yeast taste. There was not a moment of hesitation. Ellie, going second, nearly let the side down, umming and ahhing for a while. This, however, was before she tasted the second toast (Vegemite), whereupon she firmly laid down her – marmite was salty and satisfying, vegemite tasted like it had gone off. The results were duly recorded.
The moment of truth – my tasting – was filmed for prosterity. I have to say, the film has had me in fits of giggles since. It is 100% straight-down-the-line tasting. No cheating. Blindfolded, I readied myself for the onslaught of tastes, genuinely unsure what to expect. At the first taste of salty flavoured toast, I was momentarily floored, riddled with self-doubt. Until the aftertaste hit me...and I realised that this wasn’t the good old marmite I’d grown up with and loved. It was an imposter. The aftertaste was cloying, musty and clogged the tastebuds. Lauren and Ellie were right, it tasted slightly off. Ugh. I cleansed my palette with a handy glass of water, ready for the genuine article. The marmite-laden toast was sumptuous and, mixed with the rich, creamy butter, was delicious salty succulence on my tongue. I was taken straight back to my eight year old self being fed an afternoon snack of buttery soldiers glistening with this odd, black gooey concoction.
The Marmite website perfectly describes my feelings for this innocuous-looking, yet intensely flavoured spread: 'Eat Marmite? You don't just want to eat it, you want to bathe in it, wallow in it like a hippo in mud, slather yourself from head to toe and wrap yourself in bread and butter... And you know what? That's fine. Just fine. Completely normal in fact...' Thank goodness. At last some actual written proof that I am normal.
There is no doubt about it, Marmite and Vegemite may come from a similar source (the yeasty residue that comes from the beer-making process), and they may each be as odd a concept as the other, but for this British girl there is no doubting the superior: my mate, Marmite.
I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly patriotic, and yet for some reason when people I barely know insult British food – particularly when they have absolutely no experience of it whatsoever – I’ve been known to get quite vocal (or rather, more vocal). When my Ecuadorian family on my gap year tried to tell me that ‘all your food comes from tins’ (er, wot?), or when some Japanese I met with decried British food as appalling – each time I set about firmly proving to them that whilst yes, if you just stop anywhere in the UK you won’t necessarily be treated to gourmet fare, not all British food is repulsive. My mother for one cooks glorious British dishes (roasts, pies and puddings, stews, not to mention the soups), there are hundreds of stellar gastropubs around and about, if you know where to find them, and things have been looking up since the war-time rationing of spam and powdered egg.
So the Marmite vs. Vegemite debate was yet another juicy argument I could sink my teeth into. Back safe and sound in our glorious homeland, and almost a month after saying our goodbyes, the three English lasses gathered at my home in Surrey, where we carried out a rigorous and, surprisingly even to us, entirely unbiased taste test. The results were quite, quite fascinating.
Ellie and Lauren were up first – with each donning a blindfold and being handed a random piece of toast with one or other of either Marmite or Vegemite spread. Lauren’s responses were swift and unequivocal – marmite was tangy and satisfying, vegemite was strangely stale, with and overwhelming yeast taste. There was not a moment of hesitation. Ellie, going second, nearly let the side down, umming and ahhing for a while. This, however, was before she tasted the second toast (Vegemite), whereupon she firmly laid down her – marmite was salty and satisfying, vegemite tasted like it had gone off. The results were duly recorded.
The moment of truth – my tasting – was filmed for prosterity. I have to say, the film has had me in fits of giggles since. It is 100% straight-down-the-line tasting. No cheating. Blindfolded, I readied myself for the onslaught of tastes, genuinely unsure what to expect. At the first taste of salty flavoured toast, I was momentarily floored, riddled with self-doubt. Until the aftertaste hit me...and I realised that this wasn’t the good old marmite I’d grown up with and loved. It was an imposter. The aftertaste was cloying, musty and clogged the tastebuds. Lauren and Ellie were right, it tasted slightly off. Ugh. I cleansed my palette with a handy glass of water, ready for the genuine article. The marmite-laden toast was sumptuous and, mixed with the rich, creamy butter, was delicious salty succulence on my tongue. I was taken straight back to my eight year old self being fed an afternoon snack of buttery soldiers glistening with this odd, black gooey concoction.
The Marmite website perfectly describes my feelings for this innocuous-looking, yet intensely flavoured spread: 'Eat Marmite? You don't just want to eat it, you want to bathe in it, wallow in it like a hippo in mud, slather yourself from head to toe and wrap yourself in bread and butter... And you know what? That's fine. Just fine. Completely normal in fact...' Thank goodness. At last some actual written proof that I am normal.
There is no doubt about it, Marmite and Vegemite may come from a similar source (the yeasty residue that comes from the beer-making process), and they may each be as odd a concept as the other, but for this British girl there is no doubting the superior: my mate, Marmite.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Homesick Hankerings
Four months away, hundreds of interesting, delicious and downright strange foreign foods tried, tested, tasted - and, on one occasion, trashed - and there was still always one food which would haunt me in my dreams, endlessly returning my mind to the comforts of home and a desperate yearning for…
Ma Pea’s homemade Chicken Soup.
The food equivalent of a motherly embrace – nostalgic, comforting, warm, loving – it was just one bowl of the nourishing broth that I craved wherever I was in the world. I could be chowing down decadent grilled lobsters in Belize, tasting new and delicious strains of coffee in the hills of a plantation in Guatemala, drinking my way through dozens of wine varieties in California, competitively slurping down oysters in New York, or being wined and dined in some of the top notch restaurants across the world…but still there remained this little voice in the back of my mind, which whispered “chicken soup…chicken soup…”
It may be difficult to fathom, but it took me less than three weeks into the first port-of-call on my extensive list, Japan, to send an email back (in May) to Ma Pea already adamant that Chicken Soup was my first food request upon my return (in September). Safe to say that five months is probably the longest standing food order I’ve ever had, bar looking forward to Christmas (which, unsurprisingly, I start around June/July time).
Everyone has a dish which their mother made when they were younger which sends them hurtling right back to infancy, dependancy and immaturity. Adult cares and troubles are erased; responsibilities seem distant dreams; for a few blissful moments we are children again.
Mine is without a shadow of a doubt Chicken Soup. It ticks all the right boxes: perfectly filling without being heavy; refreshing, tasty and revitalising; light protein in the chicken, a glorious medley of sumptuous veg (carrots, leeks, onions, celery), and a healthy dose of hydrating, tasty, flavoursome broth. I sit and quietly savour the combinations of flavours. Food tasting is a guaranteed method of quietening this chatterbox soul for a few peaceful minutes – I can only imagine that this is why my mother used to feed me such delicious nosh when I was a highly energetic, inquisitive and talkative youngster.
Dad often jokes that he married my mother for her soups. It shouldn’t really be something to say in jest as, frankly, I’m often worried about bringing boys home in case – following an encounter with one of her particularly famous soups - they fall in love with her over me!
Eyes peeled for the secret recipe – I’ll coax it out of her somehow…
Ma Pea’s homemade Chicken Soup.
The food equivalent of a motherly embrace – nostalgic, comforting, warm, loving – it was just one bowl of the nourishing broth that I craved wherever I was in the world. I could be chowing down decadent grilled lobsters in Belize, tasting new and delicious strains of coffee in the hills of a plantation in Guatemala, drinking my way through dozens of wine varieties in California, competitively slurping down oysters in New York, or being wined and dined in some of the top notch restaurants across the world…but still there remained this little voice in the back of my mind, which whispered “chicken soup…chicken soup…”
It may be difficult to fathom, but it took me less than three weeks into the first port-of-call on my extensive list, Japan, to send an email back (in May) to Ma Pea already adamant that Chicken Soup was my first food request upon my return (in September). Safe to say that five months is probably the longest standing food order I’ve ever had, bar looking forward to Christmas (which, unsurprisingly, I start around June/July time).
Everyone has a dish which their mother made when they were younger which sends them hurtling right back to infancy, dependancy and immaturity. Adult cares and troubles are erased; responsibilities seem distant dreams; for a few blissful moments we are children again.
Mine is without a shadow of a doubt Chicken Soup. It ticks all the right boxes: perfectly filling without being heavy; refreshing, tasty and revitalising; light protein in the chicken, a glorious medley of sumptuous veg (carrots, leeks, onions, celery), and a healthy dose of hydrating, tasty, flavoursome broth. I sit and quietly savour the combinations of flavours. Food tasting is a guaranteed method of quietening this chatterbox soul for a few peaceful minutes – I can only imagine that this is why my mother used to feed me such delicious nosh when I was a highly energetic, inquisitive and talkative youngster.
Dad often jokes that he married my mother for her soups. It shouldn’t really be something to say in jest as, frankly, I’m often worried about bringing boys home in case – following an encounter with one of her particularly famous soups - they fall in love with her over me!
Eyes peeled for the secret recipe – I’ll coax it out of her somehow…
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