Ginger Tablet

Preserved Quince

I think you should try to smell a quince today.

If you haven't grown up with this fruit, its perfume is unusual but still somehow familiar; it's the missing fruit smell from your vast register. They smell ancient and warm and spiced with a clear citrus spike. I suggest them as an antidote to rain that has been falling angrily for hours and will most likely persist for the rest of the day, week, month.

Of course, you can smell quince all you want, but I don't think you should take a bite.* You can't eat them raw because bad things will happen to you. Witness:

•  Adam took a bite and got banished from Eden and had to wear clothes.
• J almost ate one of the ones pictured above while I was out at the pub. He would also have been banished and subjected to my fierce and angry wrath: quince aren't easy to find in Glasgow and these Spanish babies were not cheap. Fortunately J felt a sense of foreboding and decided not to proceed with his snack and domestic harmony reigned.
• I took a wee nibble as I was cutting them up. It wasn't actually that bad, but you know when you eat a persimmon that's not ripe and your whole mouth feels like it's full of aggressive cotton balls and you want to scrape all of the skin out of your oral cavity as soon as possible? Well there was a soupcon of that, so I would imagine a bigger bite would not be pleasant.

But as soon as you cook them, they soften, banish the bitterness and release only their sweetly complex flavour. And most fantastically of all, they turn from boring white into amazing pink, coral and red. Look:

This is my pot of poaching quince right after they've all been sliced and added to the sugar syrup (I dissolved about 2 cups of sugar in two cups of water).

And this is what they looked like after about 45 minutes. How magical is that? What other fruit performs such alchemical wonders all on its own while you sit read celebrity gossip online?

After the fruit was cooked, I scooped it into two clean, boiled jars and stuck them in the fridge (preserves make me nervous, so I make very small batches and keep them cold).

I cracked open one of these jars the other night to accompany some organic crowdie (a soft cheese made in the Highlands) and a few very crisp oatcakes. Quince has quite a bit of naturally occuring pectin so that makes the soft fruit pieces more like jellied sweets than syrupy preserves. There's a grittiness to the flesh, a bit like a pear, that gives the pink segments a sturdy texture and substance next to the soft folds of cheese. And the flavour: so perfumed and layered, redolent of dozens of aromatics, even though nothing but sugar was added. Your mouth fills with a taste that was hinted at when you first smelled the fruit. It's a miraculous payoff for such a simple bit of work.

* Certain varieties of quince can be eaten raw, particularly those grown in the Middle East. If you're unsure, cook the sucker.

Mutual Affection

 

Two interests have really become pronounced over our last three and a half months of cohabitation. The first of these is a near-weekly hunt for plates and bowls and glasses at our numerous local charity shops. We've passed the point of needing anything and are now just there for kicks and cheap, cheap thrills. Admittedly, while we both enjoy foraging in these musty shops, I'm more focused on kitchen/table accoutrement than J. I have years of living like a nomad to make up for. I want some pretty bowls again.

But display is an issue. I just can't bring myself to mount our plates on our walls or make some kind of rack. I'm still in my twenties for goodness sake. I don't really want to just have them stacked in out cupboard either because I have a particular fondness for things that have been hand painted and I'm worried about chips and damage. The solution so far has been a careful pile of just the prettiest ones on an open shelf so I can still look at their edges. I think they should probably star in some future posts. This blog will be my virtual plate/glass/bowl rail. Are you excited?

So let's start with the wee glass above. I liked both the curvy shape and the grandma lily pattern and the pair of them cost me a pound. I love to drink from glasses without stems. With the exception of champagne or a very dirty martini, I want my booze in a stout tumbler. These glasses are perfect for imparting elegance while still remaining planted firmly on the table, snugly in my hand. My aesthetic choices are sometimes dictated by my klutziness.

And this glass can mostly be found drowning in port, our second prevailing interest. Sometimes sherry. Fortified wine is one of our more frequent visitors these days. Our justification of this habit is as follows:

1) Health - I like to drink but I don't want to drink too much and die a horrible alcohol-related death. This is a difficult conundrum.  While I always try to not drink for a few days of the week, the nights that I do drink I often exceed the blasted recommended intakes. Of course I do. The limits are ridiculously low. I had a routine appointment with a nurse the other day (who also happened to be a nun) and when we discussed my drinking I cited pretty realistic numbers but said I knew it was too much. She told me that I was doing my best and drinking within the government limits "was pretty much impossible". Thank you, Sister. Anyway, in recent experiments I've discovered that one small glass of port does it for me. It feels the same as a couple of beers or a glass of wine or two, but more like a special treat. Two glasses feels like gout. I'm just not going to over-indulge on port.

2) Economics - Fortified wine is always on sale. You can routinely find a 10 quid bottle reduced by 50% (clearly we drink unfashionably. whatevs). If you combine a pretty low price with a reduced level of consumption, you quickly have savings. And we love being cheap more than we love each other. That's actually, sadly, true.

3) God, it's lovely. Sometimes when I'm sipping port I try to think of other flavours that I like more. I don't often find any. Especially now that it's cold and dark, it's probably the best thing in the world. Or at least the best thing in the world that you can buy at Sainsbury's (don't worry, Mom, your still tops).

A recent conversation:

J: Port is so much better than wine.

K: Yeah!

J: It doesn't taste like (pulls a painful, puckered face)...*

K: I know. I think those are the tannins that makes wine taste like that. Maybe there are less in port.

J: And it feels so warm when you drink it.

K: I know! It's like it loves you and it's giving you a hug when you swallow it. I love port and it loves me!

J leaves the room as my delusions have outmatched his patience. But really, what other drink can provide you with such a fulfilling relationship?**

*We drink cheap wine.

** Please note, this is just effusive, not dependent. Don't worry. I'm really drinking less these days.

Forgotten Photo - Red Currants

 

These were picked on the one glorious day we had in July. M has a collection of fantastically overgrown fruit trees and bushes behind her flat. We walked along the river, sunbathed on the grass and then went back to hers to pick all the berries that the birds had neglected.

I brought my small tub home and mixed them with sugar, very, very thick cream and broken up digestive biscuits. We ate this out of small green glasses, filling them up again and again.

Some Notes on Budapest

 

Make sure you bring some extra AA batteries. That's my number one tip for anyone on their way to Budapest. You see I have this camera that takes AA batteries, and I normally really like this feature because normally you can always find some if you're caught short. In the camera section of Budapest stores you will find many AAAs and a couple of nine volts, but zero AAs. Take some extra.

So my pictures of this trip are less than brilliant because my camera was mostly dead. Fortunately J is a photographer who brought multiple cameras so our memories will still last a lifetime. Unfortunately he didn't take pictures of the food and I forgot to remind him.

But here is a picture of some glorious turkey schnitzel. Although I live in the official capital of strange fried foods, I was still impressed by the Hungarians' desire to deep fry. It was the culinary equivalent of a busman's holiday, but I totally went with it. I had turkey schnitzel for lunch two days in a row and the second time was definitely the best.

We were probably an hour past peckish, and starting to get on each other's nerves when we finally arrived at a cafe recommended by our guidebook. As soon as we sat down we wanted to leave. The menu was small and weird and pretentious. The prices would have been too much in the UK. The people next to us were blowing smoke directly into my face. So there was nothing to do but flee. And fortunately, we landed in the arms of Evoke. I think that's what it was called anyway.

Ducking into a low, tiny room, we found a warm lunch counter and a handful of office workers on their lunch break. There was a menu that we didn't understand, but that had really reasonable prices, so we just started to point at things. The owner/cook spoke pretty perfect English and couldn't have been more friendly. I ended up with the schnitzel and a boat of spinach soup. J had what was basically stuffed cabbage, but in a layer format.  Everything was delicious. A couple of  cans of lager and a sidewalk table, and we were soon full and once again tolerant of each other. There seemed to be a really amazing bread pudding of sorts, but there was no way my stomach could have stretched. This regret will follow me always.

And we once again were reminded of the lesson that while guidebooks can be useful, and their maps are handy, they are sometimes full of shit. There is no way that the first cafe we tried should have made it into its pages while a real little gem went unnoticed. Especially as there weren't very many other restaurants in the area. I almost feel like writing in to the publisher to complain and ask for a revision. The schnitzel deserved it.

I've tried to find mention of it since online, but I haven't succeeded. It's in Lipotvaros on the street with all of the antique dealers.

  

Some other things:

The buildings are beautiful and peeling and dusty and falling. They're the stuff urban brats' dreams are made of. I have dozens of pictures of very interesting doors that I promise to never subject you to.

www.chew.hu is a really great blog (written in English) and a fine guide to the city. Far more reliable than the crappy guidebook we carried with us.  Some of the best things we ate were thanks to them. Plus they have a glossary of Hungarian food and cooking terms which is pretty useful.

 

I found a worm in food twice during our trip. The first one was in a head of garlic I was cutting up for our dinner. He has made a whole little den in there. It looked really cozy except it made me scream and run out of the room. J relocated him to the bin. The second worm had been in the middle of a lovely meal of corn on the cob when he was unceremoniously boiled alive. He was then given to the stupid tourists who ate a good chunk of the cob before noting his cadaver. They didn't scream; they just threw him into the forest to be eaten by his friends.

The strudel was wonderful. Apple, cheese, sour cherry, poppy seed (especially good cold), all delightful. And a super duper bargain (like 40p a slice). Other good snacks included the paprika flavoured sunflower seeds and poppy seed ice cream. With just a little bit of nutmeg, it was the perfect flavour for an autumn cone and a pretty brisk day.

I promised myself that one day I will live in a city with real markets. I love real markets.

We bought a bottle of wine from the little grocery across the street. It cost us about 2.50 pounds. It was one of the better bottles I've had recently. We bought some other cheap stuff that was far more difficult to get down. Somehow we managed.

The best cheap meal we had: Burgers at Samurai Burger in Buda. A really decent burger with a side order of fries or onion rings and a drink (including a beer option) set me back three pounds.

The best not cheap meal we had: Our final dinner at Cafe Kor. Just a lovely setting, good service, interesting menu. I had originally felt foolish making a reservation there on a Tuesday night since almost everywhere else we ate was pretty empty. But it was definitely the right move. The place was packed and people were getting turned away all evening. I had chicken with peaches and sesame seeds in a caramel sauce. Sounds like a cloying atrocity, but it was actually really well balanced and served with flawlessly cooked rice. I like good rice. J had bacon wrapped chicken with "French Style" potatoes. His chicken was just as perfect as mine. The potatoes were similar to a gratin, but with the addition of sliced boiled egg; slightly strange, but a fine accompaniment anyway. To finish we had pancakes stuffed with nuts and raisins and topped with loads of very bitter chocolate sauce. Like a sophisticated Fruit and Nut crepe. What could be better? This place is a bit of an institution and I sincerely hope it's still there the next time we go, whenever that is.

And finally, this is the cutest and dirtiest dog in all of Budapest.

 

If only that ornate fence wasn't so strong, this guy would be eating haggis right about now.