Enjoy without thinking about it: warming the heart with turmeric milk

tumeric-milk

This winter I’ve had cause to reflect that no amount of meditation, mindfulness apps or aphorisms about living in the now will encourage you to inhabit the present as much as walking down an icy, frosted street will. The council will occasionally scatter a handful of salt onto the roads, but the pavements, untreated, remained glazed with a hard carapace of frost. The slick streets require focus and calm. Your world reduces to only the crunchy grey pavement and each footstep you take in order to avoid a fall. It’s risky to distract yourself even with the extraction of a tissue to blow a wintery nose.

These are days to forego your 10,000 steps and spend as much time as possible snuggled beneath thick fleecy blankets, under a lamp throwing a pool of welcome, warming yellow light, with a stack of cookbooks to leaf through (or maybe Laurie Colwin’s always-soothing ‘Home Cooking’) and the TV on low. Of course you’ll need something warming and filling to drink, because nothing else sends much-needed heat pouring into you in quite the same way. And while I am perennially devoted to tea – truly, madly, deeply in love, always and forever, with a strong and malty Assam – I have more recently been making myself the occasional cup of turmeric milk, usually before bed.

golden-milk

Also known –  in English – as golden milk (and sometimes even referenced as a ‘turmeric latte’ when available to purchase in coffee shops, presumably to push up the price), this drink, a favoured cold remedy of [some] grandmothers of the Indian subcontinent (a friend described it as ‘the kind of thing our granny forces us to drink every time we cough’), has recently become trendy as turmeric secures its status in the global pantheon of superfoods. The co-optation of golden milk and its celebration in Western diets has been noted as potentially problematic, which a thoughtful piece by Tara O’Brady (brought to my attention by my friend Mehrunnisa) outlines, as has its growing symbolism as a representation of an idea of a monolithic, singular ‘Indian’ culture. The parcelling out of one acceptable piece of a traditional culture, divorced from wider acceptance, appreciation or integration of that culture or its people, is an ongoing process and an ongoing, sometimes uncomfortable, conversation which surely finds  echoes whenever a ‘host’ and ‘immigrant’ culture meet. (I don’t think ‘host’ and ‘immigrant’ are quite right here, but it’s difficult to find something equally expressive and concise. During my MA, I studied a unit on migration to London and we discussed there terms such as ‘third generation immigrants’ and their problematic application to people who are by definition not immigrants at all). Whenever I read pieces like this I find myself reflecting on those lines between cultural appropriation, cultural appreciation and, in the case of food, the culinary adventurousness which compels people who love to cook and eat to explore different cultures through mealtimes, picking and choosing without regard for context beyond one’s own taste and dinner table. I’m not quite clear what the answer is. I know that when I drink a cup of turmeric milk, it is indeed “removed from its thousands-of-years-old provenance”, albeit without the promise of anything beyond its delightful taste, just as I certainly don’t eat quinoa as a Peruvian person would do. I am reminded of Nigella Lawson’s oft-repeated phrase “I don’t know if it’s authentic, but it’s authentically good” – and am compelled to wondering if this is really enough, or even if I am the best person to reflect on these complex issues.

I know, however, that I’ve been intermittently drinking warm, spiced milk since I was a university student in an attempt to develop a good sleeping pattern, though the soporific effects of milk are debatable. With regular sleep eluding me and wanting to avoid the caffeine associated with tea straight before bed, I more recently returned to my occasional spiced milk habit in the evenings, albeit with a few twists; one of these is a dusting of bright turmeric. In addition to staining the milk a cheerful butter yellow, I admit it makes me feel good to ingest more of this spice, whose anti-inflammatory properties are increasingly subject to pharmacological scrutiny. I’m always sceptical of the claims that any food can cure dementia, arthritis or any other maladies, but evidence suggests a lot of foods (such as fish) have preventative, even if not curative, effects. And rest assured that I am as happy to drink my spiced turmeric milk for its mood-elevating properties, delivered by its soothing taste and pretty colour, as for any health reason (perhaps an example of ‘just eating’ and enjoying without thinking about and intellectualising the experience).

golden-milk-with-spices

My spice mixture was always loosely based on the spices used in masala chai, albeit one brewed without tea leaves: I used cinnamon, black pepper, piney cloves, fragrant star anise and ginger (either the dried version, dusty and warm, or the spikey fresh root), maybe cardamom if I had it – but as a student my funds didn’t always stretch to all of these and sometimes it was just a short, sharp mixture of pepper, tooth-tingling cloves and cinnamon, which I tended to have in greater abundance. Over the Christmas break, I read a feature in Belgian (well, Flemish, anyway) newspaper De Standaard called ‘The favourite winter recipe of 25 foodies’ (‘het favoriete winterrecept van 25 foodies’), which did what it said on the tin and, in terms of combining food and personal stories, was pretty much my platonic ideal of a foodie magazine feature. It made for an incredibly absorbing and comforting reading on the Eurostar trip back home to London. A recipe from Dorien Knockaert – who is described as ‘without a doubt one of the most interesting culinary voices in Flanders’ – for masala chai was included and something about her voice caught my attention. I tried her recipe out and some elements from that crept into my own recipe. (I am fully aware – given the contours of the debate about cultural appropriation of food which I’ve tried to point to, albeit necessarily incompletely, above – of the many ironies of one white Belgian woman’s interpretation of a traditional drink from the Indian subcontinent inspiring another white Belgian woman’s interpretation of a traditional drink from the Indian subcontinent). Regardless of the politics of this cross-cultural exchange, the chief inheritance is the addition of a good sprinkle of fennel seeds; to me, the faint aniseed scent of fennel truly elevates the drink, and I now wouldn’t be without it.

Continue reading “Enjoy without thinking about it: warming the heart with turmeric milk”

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Chorizo and tomato scrambled eggs: comfort food for broken bones

chorizo-scrambled-eggs

 

Bones are funny things. A few years ago, my father broke his hip; he didn’t skid over an icy street or fall down the stairs. Instead, he stumbled slightly on his way to the kitchen, and that was enough. Our bodies can be strong and resilient so often, but there are times when we are physically fragile, even if otherwise healthy, and we remember how vulnerable and delicate our bones and joints really are. The other day, my boyfriend fell during a taekwondo class and landed with most of his body weight on his hand. What was thought to be a torn ligament turned out to be, in fact, two broken fingers, and he had to be fitted with a cast to keep them in place. He works at a hospital, which is the only convenient part of this story.

It’s been painful and uncomfortable, and we’ve also realised how many things we take for granted when going about our daily lives that we wouldn’t otherwise have given a second thought. Buttoning a coat, squeezing out toothpaste, eating a meal, tying shoelaces – all activities made much more difficult, and sometimes impossible, with only one hand. He’s been in to see a hand specialist (and it would be remiss here if I didn’t reference the excellence of the NHS; the competence and kindness of its patient, hard-working staff; and our great fortune in being able to access this excellent healthcare freely), but he won’t be able to have the cast off until at least next week.

Scrambled eggs with chorizo and tomatoes

To cheer him up over the weekend I made him chorizo and tomato scrambled eggs, a re-run of a recipe I threw together in the days between Christmas and New Year to use up the bits and pieces in our fridge before going away. David loved it and suggested I blog the recipe; I demurred because it seemed such an instinctive, easy, obvious way to prepare eggs if you have chorizo hanging about the house. However, I leafed through a copy of Dan Doherty’s comfort-food book ‘Toast Roast Hash Mash’ at a friend’s house and it’s just filled with these very simple, comforting recipes – and if he can justify selling a book with food as simple as this (think dishes like fried potatoes with black pudding), I’m sure I can justify posting this.

I splashed out on eggs from Burford Brown hens here and I do think the excellence of the eggs is important when they are the stars. The yolks are so deeply orange that they glow – it’s clear why Italians sometimes call yolks rosso d’uovo, the red of the egg (they also say giallo dell’uovo, the yellow of the egg, as in English). It is not just the paprika-hued chorizo oil which has given the plateful of eggs their sunset-orange colour. But the choice of egg is not merely cosmetic, it is also for their deeper, richer flavour, and it’s nothing to do with expense as such – the finest eggs I eat are those given to me by my grandfather from his backyard chickens.

Glowing orange egg yolks
The red of the egg
You can use whatever tomatoes you want and have to hand. When I first made it, I used around six quite small round winter tomatoes, coring them and removing the damp, seedy pulp before cutting them up finely. For the second round, I used bright Vittoria cherry tomatoes because they were the ripest looking in the supermarket (well, it is February) and were also grown in the UK (thanks to LED lighting and, presumably, polytunnel). I loved their sweet, bursting flavour and the texture. However, I’m sure that, if you really don’t want to use fresh tomatoes, you could drain and chop tinned plum tomatoes. Personally I don’t like the taste of tinned tomatoes unless they’ve been cooked down for a long time, as in a pasta sauce, so wouldn’t do this – but I know people who happily eat tinned plum tomatoes on toast, so tastes clearly vary in this respect.

I like to finish off these scrambled eggs with a flourish of finely-grated Parmesan cheese – it’s an optional step, but delicious. You could also use Cheddar or a hard goat’s cheese if you’d prefer that flavour profile.

 

Chorizo scrambled eggs

 

Remember, when making this, that eggs cook quickly and go cold even faster. I don’t usually go in for fol-de-rol like warming plates but I would recommend it for this – and make sure you have everything else you need for breakfast (tea, toast, plates and cutlery) ready to go once the eggs hit the pan.

 

Chorizo and tomato scrambled eggs
This recipe served two, but I honestly don’t know if that’s an obscenely huge portion. We didn’t eat it with bread – it will likely go further if you do.

  • 130g chorizo sausage (the dried, cured kind which is usually sold in loops, not the salami-like slices or fresh chorizo-style sausages)
  • 6 eggs
  • 150g cherry tomatoes
  • Salt and pepper (optional)
  • Parmesan, for grating at the end (optional)
  1. Cut the chorizo into thickish coins and cut each coin into quarters.
  2. Cut the cherry tomatoes into quarters.
  3. Crack the 6 eggs into a bowl or jug. If you wish, add some salt and pepper to them now. Remember, the chorizo will be salty already, and if you add Parmesan there will be a bit more saltiness, so be careful about how you season the eggs. I used pepper only but thought that the dish could have done with a touch of salt – but only the tiniest extra whisper of it.
  4. Take a medium saucepan – I like my good black cast-iron pan, which also fries chorizo perfectly – and heat for a few minutes over a medium heat. Once hot, add the chorizo.
  5. Cook the chorizo, stirring, until it has yielded its oil and is ever-so-slightly crisping up at the edges – about 5-6 minutes. If the edges are getting crispy too quickly, turn the heat down. If you cook the chorizo long enough it will yield up enough oil and you won’t have to add any other.
  6. If you haven’t already lowered the heat, turn it down to as low as possible – for truly delicate eggs you may even want to move it to a lower-heat burner. Pour in the eggs and, using a wooden spoon or, even better, a wooden spoon with a flat bottom, cut through the egg mixture regularly, pulling them from the outside in, to form curds.
  7. When the eggs are setting but are still quite wet – this is often the work of minutes – add in the quartered tomatoes and stir them through the eggs and chorizo evenly. Cook for a few minutes more, until the eggs are set but still soft and slightly runny.
  8. Decant immediately onto warm plates. If liked, grate over some Parmesan using a fine grater.

In praise of the properly cooked vegetable: cavolo nero pasta for one

bucatini-with-cavolo-nero

I have come to develop strong views on greens. On kales and cabbages (and kings), and green beans and asparagus, and even Brussels sprouts.

Greens! No one likes an overcooked green thing, resigned to a grey and mushy existence following overenthusiastic acquaintance with a pan of hard-boiling water. But I think the growing middle-class dread of serving up a disintegrating plate of veg is resulting in the opposite problem, with vegetables far too often being served undercooked.

A green bean, say, tender and with a hint of crunch as your teeth break through the snappy skin, is a fine thing, perfectly balancing crispness with a soft, yielding interior. All too often, though, cooking instructions suggest as little as two minutes of cooking, resulting in hot beans with a suggestion of softness at the edges, a resolutely crisp interior, and, most unforgivably, hard, cold, mean little seeds at the centre. At that rate, you may as well give in and just served them cool, sweet and raw, so they retain that milky, sappy freshness.

Kale, too, is so often served barely cooked or raw, when its frilly edges are still spiny and throat-catching. Savoy cabbage is rarely shown to the heat long enough to allow its pebbled texture to become nubbled silk. As with vegetables, so too with pasta. Overcooked pasta is an unappestising, floppy mess, often pooled with water so thick with starch it is almost gelatinous. But undercooked pasta is crunchy and chalky and no good for winding round the fork or mopping up the sauce. Balance is essential.

cavolo-nero-pasta

Which leads me to this: cavolo nero pasta for one, in which the leaves of this deep dark Italian kale are cooked down in wine and butter and oil until delicate and submissive. Intertwined with some good bucatini – you can use spaghetti if that’s what you have – it makes a satisfying, iron-rich supper for those nights when, say, your partner in dining is trooping around the great garrison towns of Yorkshire.

When I first made this, the whole thing was a bit bland and didn’t come together until I added lemon juice and zest in at the end – remembering Diana Henry’s advice “when there seems to be something missing, the answer is lemon.” Also, if you have bacon or lardons or pancetta to hand, fry a handful of the cubes or strips off for a few minutes in the melted butter and oil before adding the garlic.

I’m also sure this will sound like, look like, a lot of cavolo nero to start. And it is, enough to make this a hearty meal and give it plenty of body, because green things will happily cook down to nothing if you let them.

You’ll notice I said ‘good bucatini’. I’m no stranger to value packs of spaghetti from Lidl and would not turn my nose up at these ever, but given the relatively sparse ingredients in this dish, a good-quality pasta will make a difference to the final dish. Bucatini, incidentally, is like a slightly thicker spaghetti with a hollow running down the centre and is a little chewier and more resilient than spaghetti; I enjoy its robustness and it stands up well to the assertive kale. If your budget can stretch to it, I’d buy it here.

Cavolo nero with bucatini, for one

  • 90g bucatini or spaghetti
  • 300g pack of cavolo nero
  • 1 tablespoon butter, plus extra to serve (optional)
  • 1 TBS olive oil
  • 4 fat cloves of garlic, smashed and roughly chopped
  • Big pinch of chilli flakes
  • a good glug of white wine – 60ml, if you want to measure
  • The zest and juice of half a lemon
  • Lots and lots of Parmesan – I like mine very finely grated on a Microplane so that it resembles cheese dust
  1. Put a big pan of water for the pasta on the hob, bring to the boil, and salt it generously.
  2. Strip the leaves of the cavolo nero from the stalks. I do this just by pinching the base of the stem between my index finger and thumb and pulling down the length of the stalk – they come away just as efficiently as if you’d used one of those plasticky kale strippersplasticky kale strippers. If you have any smaller leaves attached to slimmer, softer stems, these can just be chopped up without stripping them. Remove any yellowy bits of the kale because these will do you no favours.
  3. Tear or roughly chop the large leaves into bite-sized pieces.
  4. Add your pasta to the pan of water and bring back to the boil. Set your timer for eight minutes.
  5. Heat the butter and oil together in a frying pan over a high heat. Add the garlic and fry until fragrant and just tinged with gold – up to thirty seconds, but as little as 10-15.
  6. Add the chilli flakes and stir them around the pan for a bit, maybe 20 seconds, until you can smell their spicy fragrance.
  7. Throw in the great pile of cavolo nero leaves and stir-fry in the pan for about two minutes. Add a pinch of salt here. Pour in the wine and let it bubble for thirty seconds. Turn the heat down to medium (or medium-low if things seem to be cooking fast) and continue to cook, pushing the leaves around the pan, until they wilt down. Throw in the odd splash of water if things are getting too dry and lower the hear once the cavolo nero is wilted down. Continue stirring.
  8. When the timer for the pasta goes off, give it a test. It might need two more minutes.
  9. Once ready, drain the pasta, not too thoroughly (you want a little of the clinging water). Stir the pasta through the cavolo nero in the frying pan and stir them around together for about thirty seconds to amalgamate. Remove the pan from the heat.
  10. Zest and juice the lemon into the pan. Stir around and taste. Add some salt and pepper if you like and taste again. If you want, zest in more of the lemon and squeeze in more juice and add more salt and pepper. And, also if you want, melt in another pat of butter so the pasta become slick and glossy and the leaves tender and rich.
  11. Pour the panful of pasta and vegetables into your bowl or plate of choice and dust with lots of Parmesan. Then grate over some more Parmesan, because you only live once.

Baking Advent: sticky, syrupy gingerbread loaf with rum

Baking Advent: celebrating the festive season with a different daily baked good.

Sticky gingerbread loaf

This ginger cake is another recipe I have used for a long time, again gleaned from avid food blog reading. The recipe makes a small cake, a simple unadorned loaf that could even be called humble; certainly homely, with all the comforts associated with that word.

What I love about this cake is that I’ve very rarely been without the wherewithal to make it at a moment’s notice. If I only have a scrap of butter, a lick of golden syrup and a single egg rattling in the cupboards, I can make this cake. I’ve baked it in a loaf pan and a square brownie tin, and doubled it for bake sales; it is incredibly forgiving. Once, I added the egg too quickly to the sticky mixture of syrup, butter and sugar which is first melted together, and the egg coagulated in the mixture. I strained out the bits of cooked egg white and continued as normal; the cake baked up perfectly.

Homely, homey, and delicious

Straight out of the oven a slice is warm, sweet and mild: the gingery flavour and stickiness develops over the next few days, and is enhanced if you wrap it in foil between servings. Personally I like my gingerbread the way my grandmother eats it, which is to say sliced and buttered.

It’s a flexible and infinitely adaptable gem. You could add additional spices, or add-ins such as sultanas soaked in a little brandy or apple juice, or even small chocolate chips if you like the combination of chocolate and ginger. The version I made below includes a splash of rum and some chopped preserved stem ginger to add an additional warming, spicy backnote. It doesn’t require any embellishment to be a lovely little cake, but it makes a nice change. Recipe below the jump, as always.

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Two modern(ish) ways with leftovers: ratatouille butternut squash and courgetti

I read a lot of articles and books on food history and how changes in technology change our relationship with eating and the process of cooking itself. Looking back at the evolution of kitchen technology can result in quite a jolt – it’s fascinating to see how much of what we think of as our culinary culture is the product of technological change, and how much of what we consider tradition is actually relatively modern. One such ‘tradition’ is that of the reheating and re-eating of ‘leftovers’. While uneaten prepared food is likely to be as old as human beings’ relationship with the cooking process itself (unless our caveman ancestors were really excellent at judging portions of mammoth), the concept of ‘leftovers’ – a prepared meal served again and again, in the same form, until it’s done – is much newer, and is tied to the history of refrigeration and, more importantly, the arrival of fridges into the family home.

Prior to their introduction, the concept of ‘leftover’ food appearing on the plate in more or less the same format didn’t exist as such – it was all simply treated as ingredients, continuously reworked and reformed into new dishes. A a roast slab of beef or lamb would be diced into a fine mince, mixed with the leftover gravy and some vegetables, and baked with a topping (and indeed lining) of mashed potato to make a cottage or shepherd’s pie. The pies we make now, using fresh raw mince which is cooked specially, is much more modern. Cooked meat chopped fine formed the basis of many a dish, most of them quite similar: rissoles (breaded patties), cutlets (patties formed into a shape supposedly resembling an actual cutlet), and even something called ‘beef olives’ – thin slices of beef wrapped around vegetables, covered in stock or broth and cooked for an unfathomably long time.

Reworking leftover bits and pieces of food has the advantage of staving off the extreme boredom that can result when eating, say, the same bowlful of carrot soup night after night, especially if the dish you made isn’t something that necessarily gets better with time. I don’t own a freezer, so when I make a dish that yields a lot of servings, I unfortunately don’t have the satisfying option of popping it into a neat labelled box and stowing it away for busier days. A while ago, I made a large portion of ratatouille from a slimming cookbook. I think my liking for ratatouille is a bit more theoretical than actual – I don’t like cooked fresh tomatoes, for example – and calorie-controlled recipes tend to bulk up on watery courgettes rather than delicious, melting, oil-absorbing aubergine. Safe to say, my liking for the recipe was moderate, but there were at least four more portions in the pot after dinner. I served it up in two relatively simple new ways, one on a working night and one on a Friday night.

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Firstly, with courgetti. Here, doubtless, some people may already be turning away in faint disgust. The courgetti backlash is commencing in earnest at the moment. Spiralised vegetables have come to symbolise the clean eating movement, so it’s unsurprising that, as we enter the moment where the media is turning against clean eating as rapidly as it embraced itrapidly as it embraced it, the vegetable noodle has become severely castigated. I’ve seen them described as tasteless, bland, boring and deficient in terms of the ‘energy’ they offer. And yet I persist in quite liking courgetti. Maybe it’s because my interest in acquiring a spiraliser to make vegetable noodles predates the clean eating movement by a good number of years, ever since I saw a post on Chowhound about daikon noodles. I thought the idea was fun and added some interest, the opportunity for innovation and fun textural contrasts, but back then acquiring a spiraliser was more complicated and expensive than it is now; the Lurch model I wanted was perennially out of stock on Amazon and cost about a third more than they do now (demand and supply, right there). And now that spiralising vegetables is easy, the noodles themselves represent everything about a food culture gone wrong; they mean fear – of gluten, pleasure, wheat, fat, abandon, gluttony.

Still, let’s not get hung up on what food symbolises. I still like them and yes, courgette is less energy-dense than spaghetti, so eating it carved into noodles can be helpful if you’re monitoring your calorie intake, which I try to be conscious of. There, I said it. So, the day after I made the fateful never-ending pot of ratatouille, I spiralised two courgettes into thin, satisfyingly long noodles, reheated the ratatouille with an addition splash or two of water (in addition to not having a freezer, I do not own a microwave), and then dropped in the courgetti to cook and lose their raw edge in the sauce for a couple of minutes. I think this is key with vegetable noodles: no matter how much people may try to convince me otherwise, the idea of eating raw courgette rarely appeals.

So the nice thing about this was that it was very quick: slizzing the courgetti into noodles, warming up the ratatouille and cooking the vegetable strips was actually quicker than boiling up spaghetti would have been, and although it does then require washing up the spiraliser or julienne peeler used, this is no worse, to me, than washing up the sieve I use to drain pasta, which always gets gunged up with the thick, starchy pasta cooking water.

I served this up with the ubiquitous clean-eating favourite, the avocado, and – less celebrated among the clean eating who walk among us – soft goat’s cheese (I think Lidl’s is very good but also like the one from Sainsbury’s). I enjoyed it a lot.

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Secondly, baked into the centre of a halved butternut squash. This is inspired by a recipe by Lorraine Pascale. In her book ‘Eating Well Made Easy’‘Eating Well Made Easy’ she serves a sort of proto-chilli con carne with avocado and cheese inside a halved butternut squash. While I’m not entirely convinced by Pascale’s enrolment at the somewhat dubious Institute for Integrative Nutrition, I thought the recipe looked good and I was inspired to try something similar.

I bought a quite small butternut squash (as you can see above, the squash I used was a little smaller than a dinner plate; although dinner plates can, these days, be huge, the one in the picture is a modestly-sized Denby plate), cut in half vertically and scooped out the seeds in the cavity. I then slashed the flesh with a small sharp knife, cutting about 1cm deep and rubbed it with some oil and seasoning before baking for just under an hour in a preheated 200C oven. Once the squash was tender, I piled in the remaining ratatoutille in the squash cavities and baked it for about ten minutes (to heat through) before topping with grated Parmesan – Emmental would be great here too, because it melts beautifully in delicious, gooey, molten, appetising strings. The cheese-topped squash was returned to the oven to allow the Parmesan to melt. The resulting dish was served with a dollop of creme fraiche – somehow the addition of cool, tangy lactic fat offsets the fat from the cheese and provides a good contrast to the vegetables and starchy squash.

Lingering Sunday breakfasts: blackberry and cream cheese French toast

On Sunday mornings, I usually wake up sleepily just before 9am, dream of lingering in bed, then jolt myself out into the shower and tear off to my Pilates class at 10am. Last weekend, however, the studio I go to was closed for the Bank Holiday (and redecoration), and I had the rare opportunity to wake up late and cook up a lazy morning breakfast.

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The recipe I had my eye on was an intriguing one called ‘Poor Knights of Windsor’ which came in a brunch-themed booklet with an old BBC Good Food magazine. It called for sandwiching slices of bread with cream cheese and blackberry compote and then dipping them in a mixture of beaten egg, milk, and sugar, which is more or less what I call French toast. Similar recipes throughout Europe are referred to as ‘Poor Knights’, and in Britain the additional, geographically specific, reference to Windsor refers to an order of Alms Knights forced to liquidate their estates to pay ransoms for their release following capture by the French army during the Battle of Crécy in 1346. In return for a lifetime of daily prayers for the sovereign, these military pensioners received a stipend and were lodged at Windsor Castle.

Apparently the difference between French toast and Poor Knights of Windsor is that, in the former, the eggs and milk are beaten together, whereas the latter recipe does not do so. While this is true of very old recipes, in more modern versions (by which I mean the 19th century), this difference seems to have been lost along the way. Certainly in the BBC Good Food version, the eggs and milk are whisked together.

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As much as the flavours of the Poor Knights recipe intrigued me, it clocked in at a massive 767 calories per serving. Even for an indulgent weekend breakfast, that is a high number, especially considering it would be consumed on a day where I would actually skip exercise. In addition, I didn’t have all the ingredients required and couldn’t be bothered to trek to the supermarket. (Admittedly it’s a psychological trek rather than a physical one, because it’s very close by, but anything which allows me to avoid the aisles wars, dodging wild children and arguing couples, is very welcome). I also halved the number of eggs because four seemed excessive to soak four slices of bread. It seems my suspicion was right because the amount of liquid was perfect.

With my changes, I managed to save around 215 calories, with each portion clocking in at 552 calories (or so; it depends on the brands you have used), which is much more manageable for breakfast, I think. You could also cut down on the amount of butter a little, I think, but you don’t end up eating it all. It’s a great dish: crisp, slightly sweet bread, and, once the outside is crunched through with a knife, the soft, pudding-like interior, and the slightly sharp cream cheese offsetting the sweet, delicate, even childish blackberry jelly. If you want more of a contrast between the sharp cream cheese and sweet jelly, you could even leave out the teaspoon of maple syrup used to sweeten the cheese. These are perfect for a weekend of lounging in front of the TV in your dressing gown, especially if the weather’s turned a bit. With the weekend about to start, why don’t you try it?

Continue reading “Lingering Sunday breakfasts: blackberry and cream cheese French toast”

Sometimes, I make lunch: ad hoc tuna and pasta salad

Sometimes, I make my boyfriend a packed lunch.

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I make myself a packed lunch to take to work almost every day of the week. On most days, I have soup: minestrone, spicy tomato, browned butter and spinach (that one is amazing). I work in a tall, cold, imposing building whose silhouette dominates the landscape (no, it’s not the Gherkin). I have worked there for almost five years, having moved fairly seamlessly from my last exam at university to its Portland Stone embrace. Time, and a little bit of seniority that I have accumulated, have made me feel comfortable enough to microwave my soup in its lockable plastic mug and sip contentedly at my desk, building up warmth from within. At their desks, my colleagues in turn munch on salad (one colleague has a convenient stash of salt, pepper and basil-infused olive oil behind her desk, which she douses over goat’s cheese and leaves) and porridge.

My boyfriend, however, has in this time moved between several jobs. The kitchens he has described have varied: one had a microwave so crusted with layers of unwashed food that he refused to warm up a lunch in this biohazard. In other workplaces, he has had limited space for lunch, sitting chock-a-block with colleagues. In short: he has never felt entirely comfortable with bringing in something as sloppy, slurpy, and potentially messy as soup. However, I often draw the line at making something else on a Sunday night, and he doesn’t expect me to.

A few nights ago, however, there was a confluence of enough stuff in the fridge that I offered to make him a tuna pasta salad for his lunch. He likes tinned tuna and I don’t; if he eats a commercially prepared tuna sandwich I am guaranteed to rear back in horror. So obviously this was an act of great and noble sacrifice on my part.

The handfuls that I used to make up his packed lunch were as follows. Most of a pack of tiny pasta stars, a handful of which, and no more, had been tossed into a minestrone soup. The green tops of a bunch of spring onions, which for some reason I had had only used the white bulbs of. One and a half Little Gem lettuces. Half a tiny red onion. The better part of a jar of Veganaise I had bought in an experimental spirit (so yes, I used vegan mayonnaise to make a fish-based dish. Ho hum). A stalk or two of celery, because celery always has to be purchased in bunches, even though recipes will call for a mere stick, and as a consequence it wilts languidly at the bottom of the vegetable crisper. To this, just add the contents of a tin of tuna and one of sweetcorn (drained).

The point of this post is not so much the tuna pasta salad (although I have included the recipe for my version below – it was very well-received and can serve as the blueprint for your own fridge foraging). You can find hundreds of recipes on the internet, and most of them will be based on a classic combination of tuna, sweetcorn, mayonnaise and spring onions. The point is that the substance of meals can be found outside the pages of food magazines, fancy cookbooks and even the perfect world of cookery on the World Wide Web (there are some blogs which make me sick with envy, so perfect are the photos, so inviting the perfectly curated tablescapes of frothy white tablecloth, rustic branches and goblets of watery green glass). I love cooking from the shelves of cookbooks in my home, but it is equally important to be able to pull dinner and lunch together from disparate ingredients if you want to avoid filling the compost bin. You can call such dihes inspiration, or pragmatism…or just a great way to save the £3.00 a day you would otherwise spend on a Meal Deal.

Continue reading “Sometimes, I make lunch: ad hoc tuna and pasta salad”