Ginger Tablet

Oatcake Buddy of the Week - Leftover potatoes and Garlic Mayonnaise and Why Stealing is OK

A lot of scavenging occurs in the kitchen I share with D and M, my lovely drunken flatmates. As we sort of all buy our own food, but sort of all share it as well, the exact contents of our fridge at any given moment are impossible to predict. There are unexpected fallows, when something that you had planned on eating at a later date gets consumed while you are innocently at work or school. There are moments of psychic and synchronized bounty when all three of us buy butter, or milk, or kumquats and can then wade in our excesses for days to come. There are times when we seem to have nothing except jam and one thousand tubes of tomato paste and there are moments when it looks like we have pillaged every shop in the neighbourhood and managed to just about fit it all in.

This shambolic system also produces unexpected food gifts to improve your cooking.

Sunday morning I really wanted to make brunch. I had a clutch of roasted fingerling potatoes sitting in the fridge and figured they could do with some frying. So I chopped half a large onion and got those bits slowly cooking in a pan. Then the potatoes were sliced and added into the mix. This is where I started to steal things: the onions and potatoes were seasoned with some of D's cajun spice (a mystery mixture he is very fond of - with good reason. I would guess cayenne pepper and thyme make appearances) and a bit of our endless tomato paste. A hunk of chorizo that I think belonged to M was diced as was some of D's roast chicken. Finally, the last of a red pepper was put out of its languishing misery and thrown in as well. Oh, and since I roasted the potato with unpeeled cloves of garlic, some of those were added, too. These spuds were served with scrambled eggs with spring onion and the few slices of toast that I didn't manage to burn (yes the complexities of UK grills are still beyond me. yes, maybe the door of the grill should have been open. yes, you know everything.) The moral of the story is that a meal that would have been fine (fried garlicky potatoes with eggs and toast) was made even better by the things I stole, especially the meat things. Except that as I fed the meal to D and his lady, it doesn't really count as stealing at all and my parents can relax in the knowledge that they didn't raise a douchebag.

After breakfast, a small amount of the potatoes were left over, and I snuck them to the back of the fridge and prayed to the Fridge God that they would still be there a couple of days later when I was feeling like a snack. Sometimes if you pray really hard, your prayers are answered. Even prayers about leftover potatoes. The Fridge God can be benevolent. But what to have with this carb-on-carb snack? Well, someone has a couple of tubs of garlic mayo in our fridge. I don't know who - I'm guessing M - but it looked like the perfect foil for the spuds. So I stole some, smeared it on the oatcake and then topped it with the potatoes. J had one too, but he put sriracha on his because he is a manly man.  And once again, the moral of our story taught us that something that would have been fine got a whole lot better through stealing. 

(Although J and I tried to photograph this oatcake nesting in his hand, ready to be consumed, the pictures looked crappy. After all, we only have four art degrees between us. Instead it got snapped on a member of M's new tea set. Doesn't it look cute? Haven't you always wanted a tea set like that?)

Disappointing Produce: Curly Parsley

I'm not going to rail against my local produce shop. These people perform a minor miracle in keeping pretty beautiful and often seasonal products on their shelves. Trying to buy vegetables at the major grocery stores in Glasgow can be a nausea-inducing joke. Sometimes, if you go in the early evening or late on a Sunday afternoon, most of the vegetable aisle (the very small vegetable aisle) will be picked clean. Nothing but rows of empty boxes where over-packaged and over-refrigerated produce once stood. So this little place is amazing in comparison with heaps of ripe fruit, various jumbles of potatoes, onions and garlic and ginger, pretty crisp green vegetables, including spotless okra, and loads of South Asian vegetables that I don't know much about. And it's really cheap. And really close.

Normally, they also have a fine assortment of fresh herbs and what I was looking for the other day was a huge bunch of flat-leaf parsley and a couple of zucchinis. I was going to make Daccia's zucchini pasta because 1) I missed her and 2) it's a standard meal in my quick-dinner repertoire. But when I got to the shop I couldn't find any of that parsley. I wandered round and round the aisles in a daze, looking for those oh-so-flat leaves (the people who run the place are pretty used to my dance of indecision so they didn't bat an eyelash. They didn't notice that I was pouting slightly this time, not just being a space cadet). Because my decision was borne from the powerful twins of emotions and laziness, I couldn't change my mind. I couldn't suddenly think of something new to make for dinner. I had to substitute the parsley. And I had to substitute it with the curly stuff.

Now that it's not the 80s anymore, no one likes this parsley. It's because the flavour-to-abrasion ratio doesn't make it worth eating. It's not a pleasant thing to put in your mouth and the flat-leaf kind tastes nicer. It also never looked that great on the side of a plate. Who came up with that lie? Flat-leaf generally looks better in finished meals, it's little chopped leave stay put, they don't curl about in stubborn little clumps. But I had no choice and, I decided, in Glasgow one is often given potatoes when one is trying to make lemonade so innovation is a necessary skill.

If you are ever in a similar situation, here are two things to do with a huge bunch of curly parsley:

1) Parsley Pesto with Zucchini and Linguini

Daccia's normal recipe involves slicing the zucchini in long, thin strips and cooking them in a lot of butter, olive oil, garlic, salt and chili until they are tender. The zucchini is then tossed with pasta and loads of fresh parsley and cheese are added on top. This is very, very nice even when made by someone else.

I cooked the zucchini in exactly the same way as D, but I didn't add the garlic. Instead I took a few handfuls of that wiry parsley, a couple of cloves of garlic, the juice of one lemon and some olive oil and whizzed it up with a hand blender. I also cooked some linguini while all of this was taking place. Three activities at once. Because my timing is perfect, the pasta was ready to be drained just when the zucchini started to get nice and soft and smooshy (well, you actually have a fair bit of flexibility with the zucchini; it's not that delicate). The pasta was coated with the pesto, and the zucchini was added in and I topped it with grated cheese.

Really good, and you would never know that the uncool parsley had been anywhere near my kitchen!

2) Green Hummus

Despite what more famous people say about hummus, I really think it's much better to make it from scratch and with a lot of tahini. The texture is more interesting than anything you can buy in a store and you have a lot of control in adjusting the flavours, accentuating the ingredients that you think are tastiest. It's also good if you put a whole ton of parsley in it.

First, soak some chickpeas overnight. Yes, you could use a can, but I think that you shouldn't. We can disagree about this and still be friends. I used some organic ones, (about 1.5 cups dried) so my end product was both delicious and pretty smug.

Boil the suckers for over an hour the next morning with some salt. Then dump all those little guys in a blender, or a bowl that's deep enough for a hand blender. Next you just need to add some garlic (I used 3 cloves), lemon juice (I squeezed two), tahini (maybe 1/4 cup, maybe less), as much olive oil as you need to make it the consistency you want, and all of the parsley you have in your house. Whizz everything up. Maybe you need salt, too, depending on how much you used to boil the chickpeas. Taste it and see. The end result will have a lot of character and will make you question why you ever bought that junk in the plastic tubs. Remember, the garlic will get stronger with time, so don't go too crazy if you want people to kiss you in the near future.

I ate this with some tomatoes and toasted potato scones. Don't they look like an exotic flatbread in the picture below? Scottish cuisine is full of surprises.

(When was the last time you saw a garnish like this?

Don't answer the question if you live somewhere unfashionable. If it was last Friday night, just pretend that it's really been over two decades. Say this: "Oh! Look at that! It reminds me of Italian-American food from when I was a small and parsley-ignorant child! Ha! I know so much more now." Good. They believed you.)

Love Letters to Scottish Foods: Tunnock's Tea Cakes

Of course I remember the first time I saw you, sitting with your friends in a box. Who would ever forget a moment like that? No one can deny that you are beautiful in your red and silver stripes. You don't need me to tell you that, and I don't want to inflate that already-round head of yours. But when I asked about you I was disappointed. It turned out that although you were called a "tea cake" (which brought to my mind visions of scones), you were actually made of chocolate, marshmallow and a biscuit. I had had some unfortunate relations with biscuits like that before. I know I shouldn't have judged you so quickly, but I thought "you've tried one marshmallow cookie, you've tried them all". I didn't want to be heartbroken again by a waxy "chocolatey coating", gummy and tasteless white foam and soggy cardboard biscuit combination. I had tried to make it work in the past, and I was always left holding the (almost-full) bag. Always craving something more.

But you. You were thrust into my hands by someone eager to introduce me to a Scottish legend. I didn't want to be rude, so I tentatively unwrapped you. So voluptuous. Your marshmallow is twice the height of my ex-biscuits back in Canada. And when I bit into you, a crisp and real chocolate coating snuggled up against my tongue, melting away quickly to reveal gooey delicious marshmallow. And all of this was supported by a firm but yielding biscuit, delicately flavoured with chocolate, unlike anything I had tried before. There was no denying it; I was sweet on you. You were so delicious, so new, such a revelation. I had always assumed that biscuits like you were pretty fake, but despite your pillowy bulk, your list of ingredients is slim and trim. Only the essentials in there.

My darling Tunnock's, thank you for changing my opinion of marshmallow biscuits forever. Of course, you're ruined all of your pale and sunken competitors for me, but that's hardly a loss, is it? It's true that I don't have you over to my house very often anymore, and let's be honest; that's because you made me fat. But once in a while I promise to pick up you (and a couple of your buddies) for a delightful evening in.

All my love,

Katie

Oatcake Buddy of the Week - Cream Cheese and Raspberry Jam and Reflections on England's Inability to Qualify

Here are some oatcakes with cream cheese and raspberry jam.

As you ponder England's failure to qualify for the Euro Cup...

Are you sad because you now don't know what to do with your summer and the British economy stands to be negatively affected?

Are you happy because they didn't deserve to get through if they screwed up last night (even with their injuries and a soggy pitch)? Are you happy just because you are Scottish and you never want England to qualify for anything every again?

Or are you already counting the number of precious summer hours that you won't have to spend in the pub pretending to care about a football team's fate?

Detox Chicken Soup Followed Quickly by Fruit Salad

One of the saddest realizations a young food snob will face upon moving to Glasgow is that social gatherings are not necessarily centered around food. On the official tourism site, they describe the traditional Scottish attitude to food as a "disinclination". I think this is such a perfect and polite way to phrase it. In fact people here can forget to eat all together in favour of continuing to drink. When the beer starts making you feel hungry, there are always crisps or peanuts at the pub or chips and kebabs on the way home.

On Saturday's social calendar there was an early appointment at the pub to secure seats to watch the Scotland match, followed by a party later in the evening. Knowing that enough beer and whisky would be consumed during the five hours at the pub to make going home to cook unappealing, I resigned myself to a fate of procuring food on the streets of Glasgow. Here is the disgusting list:

- Bacon sandwich for lunch (delicious. Made by J. This was to line our stomachs pre-pub.)

- Peanuts at the bar shared amongst friends (both regular salted and dry roasted variations)

- A portion of chips with a topping so indulgent and so revolting that it will have it's own post one day

- A few crisps and a couple of spring rolls at the party in the evening

- beer, whisky and really, really good mojitos made by Anna's strong arms. Those were some muddled leaves. Amazing.

- Apple juice (one of my 5 portions of fruit or veg a day. Can you spot the other four? Whatever.)

This is gross, but the day was super fun and in Glasgow you quickly learn that you don't need good food to have a good time.

(Out of concern for my camera's wellbeing, it was not taken along that evening. Instead, here are the Sauces of Excellence trio offered up at the chippy:)

The next day I woke up early and felt fine and started work on my knitting project. This is because I am obnoxious and still young enough to not have significant hangovers. J is not quite so young and was feeling like garbage.

Time for some food that won't kill us!

Now, while my head was ok, a day like Saturday does leave me tired and stupid. I had two naps and I didn't make the best food decisions.  On the menu that evening was a ginger and citrus chicken soup with watercress. That sounds healing. In theory it wasn't bad: I simmered 1 lb of chicken wings with a load of sliced ginger, some smashed lemon grass, dried orange peel and watercress stalks. It was pretty fragrant and flavourful. I drained it off into another pot and added some noodles and some watercress and lemon juice right after taking it off the heat. But I decided to put some dried tofu in. I quite like the stuff, but had never cooked with it before. Although I soaked it according to instructions, I don't think I let it cook enough in the soup. A bit gross. And because I realized that the tofu needed more time than I had anticipated, I left the noodles to cook for too long. That wasn't the best: tough tofu and soggy noodles. It was fine, but not as bright as it could have been.

A potful of green tea was made to activate the enzymes in our liver. Delightful!

Then I made a fruit salad with grapefruit, pomegranate seeds, chopped ginger preserved in syrup and a teensy tiny bit of Triple Sec:

Just a tiny splash. Don't worry all of the alcohol cooks off! Ok. So that's a lie. It probably just soaked right into the grapefruit and then right into our tender flesh. But it tasted healthy. And perhaps homeopathic. Here's what I did:

Beautifully segmented two grapefruits, pulled the seeds from half a pomegranate, cut one lump of candied ginger into really small and sticky cubes. Mixed all of this in a bowl with about a tablespoon of brown sugar (only necessary because the grapefruit were really sour) and a small glug of booze. They all played together nicely while we ate our soup and picked out the unsuccessful tofu from our bowl.

Whisky Tasting Notes: Dalmore 12 Year

I remember the night clearly when after taking a swig from a large, warm can of Tennent's I thought: "You know what would go well with this alcohol? More alcohol!" Specifically whisky. And since you are never more than six feet away from a bottle of cheap blended whisky when studying art in Scotland, my desire was quickly fulfilled. It's not that I had never wanted to drink different kinds of alcohol together in one evening before, but it was the first time I really wanted two different alcoholic drinks on the go at once. From that point forward, I became a devotee of whisky and a half pint.

In my previous life I drank cocktails like vodka and soda with a splash of cranberry, or dirty martinis, or kir, but none of these work in Scotland. They might pop up at the occasional party or a late afternoon picnic, but if you want them to be your staple, you'll be weeping in your oatmeal. On the whole, Scotland doesn't do cocktails, and on the whole it's because the climate is not condusive to them. The Scottish aren't stupid. They have developed a few food products that make the weather not bearable, but somehow just manageable enough allow everyone to keep going. Whisky & beer, oatmeal (in cake or porridge form) and delicious pig products create a holy trinity of food stuffs that enable us to make it through the dark and wet winters.

While single malt whiskies are the reserve of middle-aged business men outside of Scotland, within this fair country the pubs do something to make it accessible to even the poorest art student (the poorest one who prioritizes alcohol, anyway): they have a malt of the month. Every month a different (and usually single malt) whisky is selected and then offered at a very reasonable price (between $1.40 and £2). This means that with a little bit of dedication, even novices can quickly get an idea of the kinds of whiskies they like and the kinds that just leave a burning feeling in their mouth. And you can order the whisky with a nice Scottish beer and together they will make you forget about the rain and the wind that almost knocks you down and that comment that that person made during your group crit and you wanted to punch them.

On Saturday we arrived at the pub almost three hours before the Scotland match and were facing spending the next five hours shifting about uncomfortably on one chair between the two of us, trying to watch the screen and avoid having too much beer spilled down the backs of our shirts. Apart from our friends also huddled around the only tiny available table (nicely saved, B&A), drinking was to be our only solace. After an initial pint, J asked if I wanted a whisky to accompany my next beer.

Clearly.

He brought back two messy pints and two demure glasses of amber-coloured Dalmore and we sipped them carefully.

"It tastes like caramel!" I exclaimed. One of the first things you learn about whisky is that it tastes different based on the region where it comes from. Dalmore is a Highland whisky and those are characterized by being "smooth". Normally I like smooth whisky about as much as I like smooth men. I prefer some dirt and smoke in there somewhere and that's why I tend to pick Island malts. But this sweet malt was quite pleasant. J thought brandy, and we decided it had probably spent some time in sherry casks. Later internet research told us we were right. So clever.

Dalmore seemed to have two distinct phases; the first sweet and fruity one (they say chocolate, but I wouldn't agree) and a second wave that tasted, well, like whisky. Warming and strong and alcoholic. It's not one I would want to have in summer, but seems like a perfect drink for the Christmas season. And not a good mate for the IPA we were drinking, it could use a darker ale. It would go well with dessert, though, and I think if one were prone to decadence, could be a lovely single malt to bake with.

I can't tell you what it looked like because I forget and the pub was dark. You'll have to imagine the smell, too, because I was mostly smelling spilled beer and the already-drunk Scotland supporters. It was a pungent micro-climate. Therefore these notes won't be that extensive. But in short, I liked it. If you were ever trying to get your mom to cozy up to a whisky, this would be where I would start.

Oatcake Buddy of the Week - Wensleydale, Beet and Mustard

Everyone in Scotland eats oatcakes except for Jules. They're filing, insultating, delicious and can be easily carried around on your travels. Here's the topping for this week:

I'm looking for an after-work snack in J's kitchen:

"Do you have any oatcakes?"

"Yes -- what do you want on them? I have some cheese."

"Good. Yup."

"Do you want some beet, too?"

"Yes! That's great."

"Any mustard?"

"No. Eww. That sounds gross. I don't like mustard"

(I'm lying here. I like mustard at certain times. I used to really dislike it when I was a vegetarian. What are vegetarians supposed to eat with mustard? Mustard is for meat. Now that I love meat again, I have a little space in my heart for the yellow stuff.)

"You always want mustard with cheese."

"Uh, no I don't"

"Yes you do -- you ate that just last week."

"Nope. You're thinking about your other girlfriend."

(This continued for a number of minutes, each of us citing examples to back our claims, each of us convinced of our position. Meanwhile, some cold steamed beets are being sliced and precarious crumbles of Wensleydale are being assembled onto some willing oatcakes. I survey these constructions and think about the taste. My palate begins to battle with my ego.)

"Actually I want a little bit of mustard on mine."

J looks thoroughly pleased with himself. Fortunately his face is too full of the oatcake snack to smirk for long.

(These oatcakes were recreated using some already-cooked beets, Wensleydale cheese and a bit of really grainy mustard from the lovely island of Arran.)

Steamed Pudding for Dark Days

The sun is not staying up for very long these days. If you roll out of bed in the middle of a Sunday morning, make it down to the cafe on the corner for brunch and then go for a walk to collect something for dinner, the sun will already be setting on your return home. It lurks about low on the horizon often not letting any light onto the street. You know that the sun is out somewhere, but it doesn't appear to be anywhere near Glasgow. Now and then it stings you, popping out from behind buildings. Still, it's not raining.

Before leaving the house, sleepy in bed, I decided it was a day to celebrate. After the delivery of a promising letter and following a few sad and tiring days, a restorative winter meal was necessary. I felt this would necessarily involve a piece of meat cooked for a number of hours and a steamed pudding.

Full of French toast, bacon and maple syrup J and I went in search for this piece of meat. I wanted a ham hock cooked with peas or beans. None of the local butchers were open, so we settled for the supermarket and the fattest, meatiest hunk they had. Arriving home in the dimming light (it was, after all, nearly 3 p.m.), I set to work on the soup and pudding. I had no idea what to do with the ham hock. One had never visited my kitchen before and I only had memories of finished dishes from my father's kitchen, nothing about the formative stages. J said to just throw it in boiling water. That seemed like such a British response to a piece of meat, especially one with a thick, fatty layer. Instead, I got out my witch's cauldron, and slowly seared the meat in a bit of olive oil, with a touch of sea salt (probably unnecessary in retrospect - the ham was salty enough) and a bunch of whole peppercorns. Onions, carrots and nearly forgotten fridge celery were added to the flavoured fat and oil. Once they had all gotten to know each other for a while I poured enough water in to cover the meat and threw in some bay leaves. I then tried to simmer is just enough to bob the vegetable bits up and down. Pretty much forgot about it at this point.

While the meat cooked, I started on the pudding. Not having grown up in Britain, I tend to regard steamed puddings as exotic spongy miracles. I made a golden syrup one last year and was amazed at how goop dumped into a bowl and then left in a pot of boiling water managed to make a delicious and moist cake. J does favour a syrup sponge, but with the (non-negotiable) addition of custard, I find it a bit too sweet. Instead, I thought I would experiment with a spiced apple version. To start I peeled, cored and sliced three Macintosh apples. I am never prepared for the nostalgia I feel as soon as I first scrape the peeler across one of these apples. The smell, different enough from all other apples, brings me immediately back to my mother's kitchen and schoolyard lunches. They are such humble and ubiquitous apples in Canada, I feel silly getting excited about them in Scotland, but I have rarely found a food that makes me so unexpectedly homesick. Plus I think they are lovely to cook with. The apple slices ended up in a saucepan with butter (always salted), brown sugar and a couple of star anise. I stirred them as little as possible to encourage the apples to keep their shape and caramelize as they saw fit. While they got on with it, I made a simple cake batter: equal measures of butter and brown sugar (3/4  of a cup), 2 eggs, some cinnamon, ground ginger and nutmeg, 1 cup of self-raising flour and 1/2 cup of whole wheat flour. I mixed this all up and got a batter that seemed to stiff, too much of a ball, so I thinned it with some milk until it was a bit looser, and clung to the bowl in thick ribbons. My wee white pudding bowl (just a glass bowl, really) came down from her shelf and the apples (minus the star anise) were heaped in the bottom and the batter spooned on top. It didn't look like enough: the bowl was only half full and my confidence was about the same. Nevertheless, foil was popped over the top and the whole thing was lowered into a pot of simmering water that stopped about halfway up the side of the pudding bowl. I took the mixing bowl with the remnants of the cake batter into the living room and licked it while watching Eastenders. I then took a nap.

By the time I woke up, the meat on the ham hock was falling off the bone and had made a lovely broth. A peek at the pudding revealed a full, brown cake just cresting the top of the bowl. This is the gift of winter food: you can go to sleep and wake up with the house smelling lovely and dinner almost ready. In the end, the broth was left for another day (but made a very fast dinner after work the next day with the handfuls of shredded ham taken off the bone and put back in with some split peas) and the pudding was taken to a gathering at L's to accompany his fantastic fish pie. After rounds of soft, creamy and smoky pie, mountains of peas and salad, homemade bread and constant red wine, we were ready for the pudding. J dashed to the shop for some more custard after I foolishly only brought one can. Both the pudding and the custard were warmed through and dished up into messy piles. The sponge was moist and scented and the addition of the whole wheat flour was unobtrusive but provided a bit of girth and depth. The apples had dissolved into sweet, saucy heaps. The custard made every bite light and lovely. We were warm and full and laughing and that can vanquish even the dimmest winter's day.

Welcome to Ginger Tablet

I was as spoiled as cream at a summer picnic. I grew up with four parents of various cultural backgrounds who pretty much always made delicious food in their kitchens. I lived in Toronto, a city where it is possible to get almost everything from everywhere at cheap prices. I lived near two 24 hour grocery stores, a market community and loads of late-night sushi. There were fresh vegetables, strong cocktails, good beer and long brunches. My calendar was full of elaborate family celebrations and cozy dinners. I owned lovely kitchen equipment that I used regularly to perfect old and faithful recipes and try out hot new numbers. Food I cared for deeply and emotionally was everywhere and I was happy.

Then I accepted a place on the Masters of Fine Art course at the Glasgow School of Art.

This blog is the ongoing chronicle of how an urban brat manages to find comfort, sustenance and inspiration in a city infamous for making chocolate bars even worse for you, a place that tops every unhealthy list out there, where restaurants are comparatively expensive or horrendous, grocery stores have meager or non-existent produce and cultural diversity is just getting going. And where, with the exception of the pubs, everything closes early.

Posts will be grouped into the following themes (at least I think they will be):

• Culinary Adventures: my attempts to recreate favourite foods that are not easily found in Glasgow
• I Say Toma(h)toes: learning to appreciate and love British food
• Cake Constructions: a glimpse into my baking laboratory
• Oatcake Buddies: a weekly suggestion for something delicious to top this most essential snack

Now that's taken care of, look at this picture of a baby snail on a freshly picked Scottish blackberry. Isn't that so cute? The little guy was left to roam free and didn't end up in the lovely berry crumble that was made later that night (click on him to see him slightly larger. or her. I don't know.).