You can’t make an omelette without eggs…

An omelette, to be satisfying and delicious, requires more than one egg which is all that I had when the idea of an omelette entered my head and was immediately asked to leave. But a single egg, hopefully a singularly good egg, is a full of possibilities as it is with protein. I had been reading Roberto Alborghetti’s blog on accelerated learning, something that would come in very handy for me in nearly any aspect of my life, where I noticed that, according to Chief Cheetah Michelle LaBrosse, proteins improve the entry of important amino acids into the brain, which are used to synthesise neurotransmitters that are critical for clear thinking. Clear thinking is the Grail that I have been seeking with the same total lack of success as Sir Lancelot and all for lack of an egg. Before you could say knife or synthesise neurotransmitters, the lone egg had been released from its confines by Excalibur the Sabatier and then calmly lowered into the shallow simmering water from where it would arise reformed and ready to kick mental ass. The egg is gone and my hopes of an instant insight into accelerated learning are dashed. However, the Blessed Delia’s ( aka Deli Smith) instructions on producing the perfect poached egg seem to have worked so all was not in vain. There is no question that I’ve learned something very rapidly by ingesting that tiny, but delicious, nugget of information. Pace Roberto.

“Ah, Bistro” …. a tale of two cities

I’ve been enjoying a glass of wine with some good bread and  Comté cheese whilst reflecting on the approach of my birthday which signifies the passing of yet another year and confirms me in the knowledge that I am more content in my own skin. My hopes and aspirations are more modest and the path ahead seems clearer. The similarity between Omar and I are remarkable with our taste for jugs of wine and bread whilst relaxing, but I could do without the singing in the wilderness. I was in part reflecting on the madness of the renowned blogger who was Julie in “Julie and Julia”. The point of the film evaded me as it beggars belief to think that anyone could undertake the daily penance of slowly but surely recreating every complicated dish from the many wordy volumes that make up Julia Child’s “Mastering the art of French Cooking”, any one of which could severely reduce my interest in good food and cooking. Meryl Streep’s characterisation was encouraging in that she fleshed out a jolly, enthusiastic expatriated lady who seemed to be happiest with a warm cock in one hand and a glass of wine in the other whereas the reality was less exciting. My love of food and cooking is based on pleasure and excitement whereas Ms Childs passion appeared be based on detail and exactitude. Whilst in the midst of these ruminations a good thing happened in the guise of an early birthday present from, Jenny, my wife. I can reveal that the present was a copy of “Bistro Cooking” by Patricia Wellswho is amongst my favourite food writers. She has a similarity to Julia Child in that she is an expatriate American living and writing in France, but there the similarity ends. Sometime ago I was commissioned, by the now defunct Sonoma Williams “Taste” magazine, to photograph her and her cookery school in Paris. I followed her through little known markets, underground cheese affineurs, magical patisseries and the shops of every sort of exclusive alimentary artisan whilst she imbued her gaggle of young and old students with her knowledge and enthusiasm as they gathered the ingredients for the simple classic dishes that they would later prepare in the kitchen of her apartment that houses her cookery school. Her writing, although fulfilling the purpose of a cookery book with a raft of her own recipes and those of others, is filled with emotive descriptions of the atmosphere of a particular restaurant or the colours and freshness of ingredients that she has seen waiting to be used in the kitchen of another establishment, together with addresses of suppliers and notes on tastes and sights not to be missed. “Bistro Cooking” is filled with the tastes that are synonymous with the legend of French cooking. Here, to whet your appetite, is a recipe for a dish that I  have not eaten, but I will have done pretty soon after finishing this post.The dishes rely on terroir and care, but not on a chef’s toque. This is food to eat and enjoy with friends. Régalez!

I heard the news today, oh boy…

Yesterday in Strasbourg the corpse of man, who had been dead for three years, was found in his apartment. The radio had been on 24 hours a day for those three years and the window wide open. Nobody had missed him or enquired about him because his rent and bills were all paid by standing order. Yesterday I cooked a success and a disaster and shared the enjoyment and disappointment with my wife. I spoke to our son in London on the telephone several times about his next shoot ( he’s a food photographer) and to our daughter, who lives nearby, about the nightmare of builders in her house during half term. On my way to the dentist I waved to a couple of acquaintances as our paths crossed on the nearly empty roads passing through the nearby forest. I even mouthed a “bonjour” to the widow of the recently deceased farmer who used to live opposite us. She now lives elsewhere for the majority of the time, but was visiting her old home yesterday. In essence, not only were people aware of my existence and me of theirs, but we also communicated and shared life. That this sad event should happen in a busy metropolis was the least surprising part of the news. It is clear that social networking and virtual reality is paramount and that without them there is a real chance of exclusion. For me to say that our eyes are glued to the screen and the keyboard is akin to the owner of a crack den warning of the dangers of drugs. The dead man was old, but that is like saying that the Mayor is fat. There is no need to modify the noun except, maybe, with the adjective “alone”.

The Curate’s Cake…

As with the Curate’s egg, this cake was good in parts. The reason for the incompleteness of this delicious recipe, a marmalade cake which originates in the current issue of Jamie Magazine, was a sad lack of concentration. It is my way to follow recipes reasonably closely, not slavishly, but at least keeping within the spirit of the author’s concept. In this particular case, my mind being elsewhere, I felt that reversing a proportion of the instructions would help whilst simultaneously forgetting anything that I have ever learnt about baking a cake. If I mention that I began the process by creaming softened butter with self raising flour rather than the time honoured preference of creaming the butter with the sugar it will be clear to you, dear reader, that this is not going to end well. Unlike St Paul, the blindingly obvious mistake did not lead me to the path of culinary righteousness. As the butter and flour metamorphosed into farinaceous cement beneath the whirring blades of the electric whisk there was a moment when I could have stopped what I was doing, built a house with the buttery cement, and restarted the cake making process anew. Therein lies the enigma of free will – we feel the accident is about to happen and we have the ability to change that which is about to happen but it is unlikely that we will take that step. Simple logic and common sense had left the kitchen in dismay sometime before leaving me to continue, like the young subaltern of the forlorn hope during one of the sieges of the Peninsula War, throwing more ingredients into the breach in the hope that some sorcery would create the cake for which I had had such high hopes. A sweet smelling, semi liquid paste was eventually poured into a buttered mould, which I had earlier layered with the wrong oranges and the wrong sugar, and placed in the correctly pre heated oven making my success rate 1 out of 100. As time passed I felt that a miracle might be under way and that, some time in the distant future, penitent cooks might visit La Moussiere in their droves in order to dip their rubber maids into the miraculous marmalade cake mix that would make the peripatetic monk’s creation of stone soup seem like Cuppa Soup. Optimism was still coursing like a drug through my veins as the golden cake took its place on the cooling rack but the miracle was partial and had only affected some of the cake. An apposite metaphor would be that the lame man of the Bible, having raised himself up on the instructions of the Lord, bent to pick up his bed and walk only to be immediately crushed under the weight of his four poster. The part of the cake that was cooked was fantastic and this chastened cook will be making it again this week.

Would Caligula have chosen a plate of leeks whilst watching the Circus Maximus…..

The modest beauty of this bundle of tiny leeks puts to rest the concept that big is beautiful.   I needed fresh eggs which entailed some slipping and sliding across icy lanes to reach the farm of Mme Roustand, just over the hill behind the house, who sells the best eggs as well as a raft of delicious vegetables, pulses and locally ground flours. The crumpled 5€ note in my pocket turned out to be enough for 12 fresh eggs and a bag of these tiny leeks. My sole intention had been to buy a dozen eggs which would have been 4€ but, whilst bending to stroke their golden retriever ( how do some dogs just smell so much of dog?) I noticed the wooden box on the floor that contained these beautiful leeks so I had to splash out the full 5€ to have them. Sometimes I feel like I’m behaving like a Goldman Sachs partner – if I want it, I just buy it. The magic of leeks vinaigrette is that, if the leeks are small enough, the dish will be ready for eating very quickly. Trim the leeks and remove as many layers as you dare. Drop the trimmed ones into iced water, which keeps them firm and removes any dirt, whilst you trim the others. A shallow pan of salted water should be boiling on the hob, into which the leeks are dropped and cooked until a knife pierces the soft white tip. Remove the leeks with a draining spoon and place, white tip up, in a colander to drain. Gently pour a jug of ice cold water over the upturned leeks. Once they are cool, and thoroughly drained, put them on a plate and drizzle them with a good vinaigrette. I ate mine in front of a blazing log fire whilst watching England scrape a win against Italy in Rome and was amazed at the depth of flavour in these tiny vegetables in comparison with the lack of depth in the spectacle that 72,000 people had decided to watch whilst shivering in the snowy depths of Italian winter. Caligula might have chosen to do the same as me, by which I mean staying in the warmth and watching people hurt each other, but I think his choice of dish would have been at odds with my humble leeks.  My guess is that he would definitely have gone for big. This recipe is from my book “Easily Fed” which is available from Blurb.com as an ebook for iPad or iPhone at the unmissable price of 5.49€.

Apricot jam on toasted brioche brings warmth to chilled bones…

The last few days have been filled with the hiss and hideous hum of power tools which the rays of the winter sun confirm by clearly delineating the sawdust filled atmosphere of the house. I would be delighted if I could sprinkle a dessert with a perfectly even layer of icing sugar with the same proficiency as a circular saw can coat with sawdust an entire dwelling, even through closed doors. This has meant that only cooking of the most rudimentary sort has taken place and photography has ground to halt which is why tea time reminded me of the power of soft yellow brioche, combined with summer reminiscent apricot jam, to render impotent the chill of winter in a stone house. To fully defeat the icy blast, brioche needs to be toasted and to my mind no toaster can hold a candle to a grill which is an unfortunate, but nonetheless jolly, metaphor. Where did the eye level gas grill go, and who in God’s name thought that crouching and peering at a red hot electric element through the window of the now ubiquitous fitted oven could replace the pleasure of watching toast, or in this case brioche, slowly browning to your exact specifications, under fierce and understandable fire with the addition of the mouthwatering pleasure created by the delicious vanilla perfume emanating from the seared brioche? Brioche, though made with mountains of butter, demands a further anointing before the addition of apricot jam. It is wise to keep to keep a small covered dish of butter, out of the fridge, ready for such seasonal emergencies. This prevision ensures that the butter melts on contact with the now golden brown brioche, providing a suitably luxurious surface for the spoonful of fruit filled, translucently gloopy apricot jam. Alternate mouthfuls of good coffee and jam topped brioche have done the job – here comes the sun.

This is based on an excerpt of my book “Simply Fed” which is now available from Blurb.com in ebook format for iPad and iPhone at 5.49€

When she was good she was very, very good but when she was bad she was horrid….

In the comparatively short time that we have lived in this little hamlet there have been significant changes. During my previous life, as an urban dweller, these changes would have gone unnoticed. In those times I had no interest in my neighbours’ activities as they had little or no effect on my life. Friends were one thing, neighbours were quite another as proximity was no reason for association. The microcosm in which we now live has altered this view and I now notice each and every change and feel richer or poorer because of them. Our mortality seems more evident in this underpopulated environment as the parting of one soul is very apparent. A neighbouring farmer died early last year and I feel his absence. Un roussepéteur is a word that I learnt on account of him and it translates loosely as an endlessly grumpy man, a state that my wife believes I may easily achieve in later years, if not earlier. Equivocal he may have been but he knew about living in the countryside and, in between our disagreements, he taught me many things amongst which was a respect for his various home brewed eaux de vie that would have performed equally well as defoliants. To state that they were an acquired taste would be an oxymoron as all taste was anaesthetised with the first drop that fell onto the unprepared papillae of the ambushed tongue. But this sage certainly knew his onions. The rows of drying onions, shallots and garlic in an open sided makeshift structure were, for me, a feature of winter months. The structure and the onions are now gone, but as the snow started to fall my mind’s eye looked back and uncontrollable tears welled up. Soon I was sobbing helplessly, as the onions in my hands released their insidious lacrymogenes,  which apparent shameless display of emotion might easily be mistaken for a display of sorrow for a friend that has gone before, rather than being subject to one of trials and tribulations of the culinary obstacle race known as soupe à l’oignon. The bad so often outweighs the good, which probably accounts for the good being so good as illustrated by the rhyme “When she was good, she was very good, but when she was bad she was horrid”. With onion soup the problem lies with individual feelings about “good” and “horrid”.The haters of stringy cheese vie with the haters of submerged toast. There are blonde versions that are loved and deep, dark versions that are revered as the only genuine soupe à l’oignon. For me the treatment of the onions is the key element. As Fergus Henderson says ” This time we want them to achieve a soft, sweet brownness - no burning”. Once the consommé, beef bouillon or stock is added to such onions the job is done. The final debate is whether to use a raft or a submarine as the cheese carrier.This post is based on a excerpt of my book “Simply Fed” that is available as an e book for iPad or iPhone at the insane price of 5.49€.