Ginger Tablet

Pancake Day and Rhubarb Curd

I can remember the day when my mother suggested we have pancakes for dinner. I thought she was crazy and absolutely wonderful. Shrove/Fat/Gras Tuesday/Mardi was never really invested with greater cultural meaning when I was young. For a few years at least, I saw it solely as an example of my mother's occasional, gentle eccentricities. Because growing up in the United Church there was never much talk of giving anything up for Lent. This was not a fat fest before forty days of misery and penance. Deprivation of any sort didn't really seem to be much of a thing at church. As far as I can remember, it was mostly people being nice to each other and sugar bowls just begging to have their cubes stolen during the after-service tea time. Eventually I realised that other people in our church also ate pancakes once a year for dinner and that they too just returned to their normal food the next day. 

Although there is now even less religious significance to this meal than there was when I was growing up, I still like to mark the day. It makes me think of my mom. I like the idea of a dinner that clears out the pantries and makes use of what's on hand. And I still feel like a naughty and spoiled princess who has somehow managed to get away with not eating her vegetables, at least for one day.

Tonight I made pancakes with two fillings. The first one was made of apple, raisins, cinnamon, pine nuts and very dark chocolate bits. It was based on Samantha Clark's pancake tip in The Guardian, but I improvised the chocolate and we ate it with sour cream. Extremely delicious. The second filling was a rhubarb curd, similar to a lemon curd, but a beguiling pale pink, and served with bright stewed rhubarb and more sour cream (we had some sitting in the fridge, we were just being frugal). This was also amazing. And I've wanted to try and make a rhubarb curd for a long time. It was on my list of things to do. It's a dorky list.

Now you can fulfill that ambition too. Bet you didn't even know it was in you.

Ingredients

300 grams rhubarb 

approximately 1 cup of sugar

6 egg yolks

a pinch of salt

half a lemon

100 grams of butter, cut up into chunks

Method

1. Cut the rhubarb into chunks and stew it gently in a bit of water and some sugar. This is to taste. Perhaps about 1/4  cup. Set aside when it's a bright pink pulp and all of the pieces have dissolved.

2. In a heat-proof bowl, whisk your egg yolks, 3/4 cup of sugar and the pinch of salt. Whisk them well. 

3. Set the bowl over a pot of simmer water. Not too hot, or your eggs will scramble and that will be gross. Just simmering. Just warm. Whisk the mixture.

4. Incorporate about a cup of the stewed rhubarb. Squeeze in the juice of the lemon half. A bit of zest is nice too. Keep whisking! Don't stop! You can add more fruit if you want, just taste it and see. But keep whisking! Do it for about 10 minutes. 

5. Once it seems nice and thick, take the curd off the heat and stir in the butter. Butter. Delicious butter.

6. Now use it or chill it. I don't know how long it will last in your fridge, but probably best not to push it. A few days. Eat it on everything. Eat it with any leftover rhubarb pulp you might have. Eat it straight from the bowl. 

Happy Pancake Day! I hope it was a soft and warm one.

Kedgeree, Absorption Style

Kedgeree is the kind of dish that seems entirely mysterious when you read about it in British novels. Both exotic and a staple, its the kind of food that protagonists fortify themselves with at breakfast before heading out to sea/off on the moors/away to do colonial things involving the Raj. No one thinks kedgeree without thinking about the Raj. It's also one of those words that I've read many times, but never really had the chance to hear or say out loud back in Canada. Sometimes, when my relationship with a word has been primarily visual, I'm not that careful to actually decode the correct sounds. So even though I read k-e-d-g-e-r-e-e, my mind says kedegree, as in rhymes with 'pedigree'. I know this isn't right, so now when I do say the word (it happens sometimes), I have to pause for a second, get the right sounds in place, and then proceed with the sentence. Overriding these transposed letters that my brain won't keep straight. Trying not to sound like an idiot. It's tiring.

But this is about more than just an intriguing dish with a tricky name. About once a week I want a simple and healthy dinner featuring lots of vegetables and fish. The truth is, if the oceans weren't so barren and poisoned, I would eat fish and vegetables for dinner every second night. Pasta would go in between. Food like this just makes you feel so clean and light. Plus it is excellent for dodgy digestive disorders. There's just nothing for your body to reject.

I have a standard recipe that I normally turn to and which we can discuss at a later date, and it's a lovely colourful plate of food. But I wanted a change. I wanted something involving fewer ingredients. I decided on kedgeree.  The dish as it is understood today is a corruption/amalgam of both a Scottish dish and an Indian dish that gained popularity during the time of British rule and then was brought back to the UK where it is still eaten fondly. It was traditionally served for breakfast made with just-caught fish. 

Typically the dish involves frying cold, cooked rice in onions and spices and serving it with parsley, boiled eggs and smoked white fish (often haddock). Guess which parts Scotland and India contributed to the mix. Now, I love fried rice, but I wanted a less greasy meal. So instead I approached my kedgeree a bit like a risotto. I started the onion and uncooked rice and spices in oil and then added broth until everything was cooked. Not only did this make for a bit of a lighter dish, the flavours of the spices had a chance to really infuse the rice over the longer cooking period. It worked - this method is good. It was delicious and it made me feel Victorian for half an hour.

Two things:

1) If I had some already-cooked rice in the fridge, I would do it the fried way in the future. 

2) This is an excellent application of pre-mixed, mild yellow curry powder. Every once in a while this spice blend is the ticket. I know it lacks cred, but it's taste and colour are so specific, in an application like this there's no sense in messing around with anything more complicated. Get the old, mostly forgotten jar from the back of your spice rack and use it with abandon. Bright yellow!

Ingredients:

(serves at least 4)

4 boiled eggs

400g smoked haddock (thanks Grier)

one chopped onion

approx 300g (long grain) rice

yellow curry powder (or your own precious blend)

chicken/vegetable stock

parsley

cream/whole milk (optional)

Method:

1. Boil your eggs if you haven't done this already

2. Gently fry the onions in some oil, add some salt and the curry powder. I ended up adding loads during the cooking process, so just adjust as needed.

3. Add your rice, coat the grains in oil and after a few minutes, ladle in some stock.

4. Continue to add stock and stir the rice until absorbed, just as you would if you were making risotto. Stop when the rice is cooked through, but before it gets mushy. This will take about 20 minutes.

5. 10 minutes before the rice is done, place the haddock in a pot and just cover with water. Bring to a boil and lower to a simmer for approximately 6 minutes. Take the fish out, remove any skin and bones, flake the flesh and reserve.

6. Once the rice has finished, stir in the parsley, a bit of cream if you want it, adjust seasoning and add the flaked fish and chopped egg.

7. Eat!

Happy Valentines Day

I wish you warm bacon sandwiches. x

A Salad of Seduction

 

Ugh. We're back at that time of year when dubious claims about the aphrodisiac qualities of pretty much everything are touted and our tongues' erogenous zones are endlessly charted. Stupid Valentines Day. Even as a loved up, shacked up girl, I think it's all a bit of a pain. Chocolate recipes everywhere start to make my eyeballs feel cloyed. Obvious, clicheed ideas of food sensuality just end up feeling like textbook lessons. I can't imagine a really exciting, hot night coming from any of these how-to guides. Of course small, spontaneous tokens of affection are always sweet and always encouraged, and I do have some plans to make an elaborate breakfast, convince J to go out for the paper and then have a lazy morning. But after that I'll probably just try to get on with my life. Grand gestures are exhausting.

But just in case you think my heart has turned to coal, there is a new crush in the kitchen. We've been quite taken with this little number over the past few days. It's an herb salad that comes from the one cookbook I've really lusted after recently, the pretty newly released Ottolenghi Cookbook. I can't remember the last time I flipped through the pages of a cookbook and was curious to try not only the meat dishes, but also the numerous vegetable dishes, the salads and the pastries. THE PASTRIES. I dropped a few hints about wanting it for Christmas, but J firmly objected to the photographs in the book. They are numerous. The composition is sometimes arranged so that the actual food is barely in the frame. There are loads of pictures of blurry people. Yes. Yes. Yes. I could clearly see all of this as well. But I had faith that our dinners would truly benefit from bringing it into our home. He wasn't swayed. I'm an independent lady with a well-used amazon account. 

I love it. I took it to bed with me the morning I got it and read every page. This was one of the recipes I was most excited to try out.

Now, salad is not the food of love and I am not going to argue otherwise. But this salad made of the picked leaves of basil, dill, parsley, coriander, tarragon and some rocket topped with butter-fried nuts and a citrus dressing will put a spring in your step and a smile on your face and a song in your heart. The mix of herbs seems strange at first, but it makes a lot of sense in your mouth. There is clarity and truth in this combination. If you are planning a big Valentines dinner,  I'm suggesting this as a palate cleanser in between your slinky oysters, rich meats and deep chocolates. If you don't care about any of that, you should still try it. It'll make you feel healthy and vigorous, but with a hint of fried-in-butter. And who doesn't want to feel vigorous and a little bit rich right now?

I'm not going to type up the recipe because I really want to go to sleep and I think you should buy the book. It's on sale right now even. But if you're not yet sold, you can check out the blog. There are a few recipes on there that look very tempting, too. You could even improvise from the description above. Whatever. It doesn't matter. The bottom line is that if you want to feel fantastic, just put it in your mouth. 

And that is the most suggestive sentence I have ever written on this blog. The end.

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(I've been very actively working on my new web project (www.katiemcgown.info), so if you feel like things are too quiet here, go there. It's being updated e.v.e.r.y. s.i.n.g.l.e. d.a.y.)

Tea Cakes Save the Day!

Honestly.

How cute is that? I found this little silk screened shopping bag at the market outside of Sloans when I met Jules for a coffee. Well, she was drinking coffee and I was sipping a hangover-abating Coke. Because she was smoking we were sitting outside in the cold and the wind. I was grumpy partly because I was freezing and hungover and partly because a recent hunt for dresses had been resoundingly whatever. There just wasn't a frock out there that was quite cute enough for me. So I was cold and stroppy and then I saw the stall with these bags. Lovely drawings of Scottish food items. Reasonable prices. Screw a new dress, all I needed was a tea cake.

These bags are made by Gillian Kyle who has a website (that seems to be taking a bit of a vacation), but can also be reliably found at the market (I think it's held every weekend). Other designs featured Scottish Plain, Spam and a sporran (it didn't look like these ones, but look at these one! little critters.). Two of these bags will cost you ten quid. She told us she was running a bit low on stock, but she'd have new stuff soon. Good present, great souvenir. 

Mussels, Fennel and a Barely Cream Sauce

 

Few things instill in me a greater feeling of fear, uncertainty and dread than the sound of a mouse scratching unseen in a corner. Especially when you were under the illusion that you were co-habitating with no such creatures. I hate living with mice. I hate trying to kill them. I hate that my lease won't allow me to get a cat that could patrol the perimeters of our flat, releasing its killer pheromones and dissuading little rodents from investigating our pantry. I've lived in places that were overrun and I am now scarred and scared. 

But Saturday afternoon, that's exactly the sound I heard.

After an exhausting afternoon foraging and shopping, I came home, dropped the shopping bags on the floor of the living room and slumped down in front of my computer for a few restorative minutes. I find the exhaustion that comes from shopping exceptionally mysterious. I feel far more drained going to a few stores than I ever do going to the gym or after a day at work. Something about the noise, the poor show that humanity puts on while they shop, the slow pace, the absence of the endorphin rush that comes from real exercise. This combination turns me into a vegetable capable of little more than facebook-surfing for a least 45 minutes. Even taking off my coat is just too hard.

It was in this state of advance slothfulness that I first heard the tiny bastard rodent. It seemed to be chewing electrical cables behind J's computer. While I was of course concerned about the damage it was causing, I couldn't help think that it was there because of J's errant toast crumbs. He had inevitably brought this beastie upon us and I wasn't going to worry too much about the technological fallout. Maybe he needed a lesson in consequences. I went through all of the possible mice-killing methods, made a note to thoroughly check the kitchen cupboards and came to the conclusion that we should probably move.

Then I remembered the bag of living beings in the room. It wasn't an industrious mouse, it was a kilo of mussels. Opening, closing, bubbling, somehow jostling. Inspired by a the picture of clam fettuccine in Nigel Slater's Kitchen Diaries, I had journeyed to the Blas Store, a perfect wee fish, seafood and game emporium just off Dumbarton Road on Hyndland Street. Although they had sold out of clams early in the day, there was still a bag of fresh mussels. And so a kilo was measured into a plastic bag and away I went.

Now I know that mussels are alive when I buy them, but I always forget that there will be the corresponding movements and sounds. I certainly never realised they could sound like mice. I would bet that they make a far better bowl of fettuccine. Because this was a very good bowl of fettuccine. The fennel and tarragon paired with the wine and mussels is so perfect and delicious. Their bright orange flesh and the pale green leeks look beautiful wrapped around the pasta strands. The cream is there just for body and mellowness, but there is not enough to clog the texture of the flavour of the sauce. It felt cleansing and filling. We wept when our bowls were empty.

There's a bit of work in preparing this dish because the mussels, first scrubbed and then steamed with leeks, fennel and wine, are then taken out of their shells and added back to the sauce naked. Unlike tiny dainty clam shells, these would prove too awkward to mix right into your cooked pasta. It's just a lot easier to eat this way, even though it's a lot more fiddly. I ended up buying twice as many mussels as I needed, so after they were cooked and de-shelled, I threw half of them in the freezer (with some of the cooked leek and fennel). This means that out of one labour intensive dinner, I will have a much faster one in the future. I'm already excited to eat this again surrounded by a stunning lack of vermin.

Ingredients

• 500 grams of fresh mussels (or use 1kilo for 4 servings, or leftovers for the freezer)

•  one leek

• fennel bulb (I used half of one because that's all I had, you could use a whole one if it wasn't too large)

• A couple of finely chopped garlic cloves

• olive oil

• butter

• white wine

• tarragon

• a splash of cream

• pasta

Method

1. Place your mussels in a large bowl and fill it with cool water. Let them soak for a bit. Prepare another large bowl of water and start pulling the beards (the fibrous bits) off the mussel shells. Once cleaned, place them in the second bowl.

2. Chop your fennel, leek and garlic. Heat up some olive oil and butter (you determine the amount, you need maybe 1.5 tablespoons of each) in a pot that's big enough to hold the mussels, and add your chopped vegetables. Let them cook and soften and get transparent. Add a glug of wine.

3. Drain the mussels, add them to the pot, cover it fast. Leave it. After five minutes or so you can lift the lid. The mussels should be cooked and the shells should be open. If there are any that aren't, throw them away.

4. Using a slotted spoon, remove the mussels from the pot. Take the meat out of each of the shells and reserve it. Roughly chop it if you want. If there are bits of leek and fennel clinging to the shell, save those too. Throw out all of those shells. Or make a beautiful craft project. 

5. While this is going on, you should have quite a bit of liquid in your pot. If not, add some more wine. Let it continue to cook and reduce.

6. Put some water on to boil for your pasta. You probably want fettuccine or linguine. When the water is ready, throw in your pasta of choice.

7. While the water is boiling, add the mussels back to the liquid in the lovely leek pot and slowly add a dash of cream. You really don't need that much. It will just go white; it won't get too thick. Adjust seasoning; you probably won't need salt, but you might want some pepper or a couple of chili flakes. Add some chopped tarragon right before the pasta is done.

8. Toss it all together. Add grated parmesan if you're uncouth like me.