Soothing Soup

Since we bought this house, a former presbytery in a little French village, winter weekends have been some of my favourite times.

In summer, the diary can get quite packed with holidays, houseguests, and visits to friends and family. By the time the days start getting noticeably shorter in late September, I’m always ready for a spell of reclusive domesticity, until required to be sociable again for the Christmas season. Ed loves to spend the entire weekend in his library, and often doesn’t leave the house from Friday evening to Monday morning. Not quite sure what he does, really, but my suspicion is that reading about boats and vampires (not usually together) accounts for a good deal of the time.

Meanwhile, my time is divided between the garden and the kitchen. To me, gardens have a special charm in the autumn. I love pottering about the leaf-strewn beds doing a spot of pruning or tidying, or filling up the bird-feeders, and it’s a good way to get a bit of fresh air without being too far from the fireplace if the damp chill gets too uncomfortable. This year I’ve been preparing a steep bank for planting with some ground-cover plants. I’ve managed to produce quite a few from cuttings, which will make it all the more satisfying – if they survive, that is.

I have just finished sweeping up the dead leaves, which have been packed into the newly-constructed “silo” (posh word for 4 bamboo canes and a bit of chickenwire) and heaped up round the roots of the young shrubs to keep the worst of the frost at bay. The construction of the leaf-mold silo was moderately entertaining in itself. Le Patron prodded at the ground with a cane in what I can only describe as a seriously girly fashion, provoking one of those “oh, for heaven’s sake, let me do it” moments we know so well. When it came to cutting the roll of chicken wire, he decided my secateurs were not the appropriate implement and strode off to the garage in search of something more industrial. My legendary patience struck again here, I’m afraid, and by the time he came back, wielding giant bolt cutters, I’d almost finished.

Pretty, but sadly not edible

All this outdoor activity makes for a healthy appetite (although Ed finds he can conjure one up without it). That’s another thing I like about the onset of autumn: the change from fresh and light summer food to the warming calories and comforting steamy aromas of winter. Weekend lunches assume a greater importance in the cold weather. A few bits of prosciutto and a bowl of salad will no longer suffice: It’s soup time!

French onion soup, a great luxury with its crusty croutons laden with gruyere; Scotch broth, with home-made lamb stock and soft pearl barley; many variations on the theme of minestrone…  The list goes on, but my personal favourite is pumpkin soup (yes, I know, MORE pumpkin, but it is the season, after all). The recipes I’ve tried include all sorts of extra ingredients such as pork belly, potato, various sorts of cheese and cream, but over the years I have ruthlessly eliminated almost all of these intruders, leaving a velvety, aromatic velouté that tastes of, well, pumpkin.

Pumpkin Soup

serves 4

ingredients

1 kg wedge of pumpkin, weight including skin but not seeds

olive oil

sea salt and freshly-ground black pepper

1 med onion, chopped

1 litre good vegetable stock

¼ tsp freshly-grated nutmeg

1 bay leaf

preparation

• Heat the oven to 220°C. Cut the pumpkin into chunks. Place in a roasting dish, brush lightly with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt. Roast until soft and browning at the edges – 30 to 40 minutes.
• Heat 2 tbsp olive oil in a deep pan and fry the onion gently for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until starting to caramelize.
• Add the stock, scraping the bottom of the pan, and bring to a simmer.
• Allow the pumpkin to cool, remove the skin and cut the flesh into chunks. Add to the stock, together with the nutmeg, and bay leaf. Add a little pepper, but no more salt yet.
• Simmer for 15 minutes. Remove the bay leaf and blend the soup until very smooth. Check the seasoning, and add a little hot water if the soup is too thick.

I think all this needs is a chunk of fresh bread (preferably white, dare I say it), but it looks prettier garnished with a few herbs or a dollop of yoghurt.

It also freezes very well.

A Pumpkin of Two Halves

You may recall the sorry tale of this year’s vegetable harvest. I had lovingly watered and watched over the solitary pumpkin, as it grew almost imperceptibly from one week to the next. Out of over-zealous affection, I managed one day to break its stalk. Furious with myself, I abandoned it at the edge of the veg patch for some days, only to be filled with remorse and rescue it, leaving it to ripen on the sunny porch out of the rain.

The solitary pumpkin

Finally last week I plucked up the courge (sorry) to cut it open. Amazing! Firm, ripe, juicy orange flesh and large white seeds! So: what to do with such a precious treasure? It weighed almost a kilo, so there would be enough flesh for two dishes for the two of us. The first choice was easy. We both love risotto, and pumpkin has the perfect texture to complement the creamy rice. Fresh sage leaves add a wonderful aromatic autumnal flavour.

Pumpkin and Sage Risotto

Making risotto is for me what making tea is to the Japanese. I don’t cook it for visitors, though, because I selfishly devote all my attention to the pan for half an hour, and insist that it is eaten immediately. If you’re going to be that much of a primadonna about it, it’s neither sociable nor very practical as a party dish!

So, we are left with half a pumpkin.What to do with it? I remembered a French recipe for couscous à la courge, a dish of braised lamb shoulder with squash and potato. Couscous and potato on the same plate seemed a bit dull, so I made a vegetable tagine with the pumpkin and a kohlrabi (chosen because it doesn't have a strong flavour to outshine the pumpkin) and served it with lean lamb kebabs, couscous and some good fiery harissa. Justice done, I think, to the valiant little pumpkin.

Pumpkin and sage risotto

serves 2 for lunch or 4 as starter

ingredients

350g pumpkin flesh, cut into small cubes

large handful fresh sage leaves

1 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp ghee (or butter)

1 large shallot, very finely chopped

200g Arborio rice

150ml white wine or vermouth

1 litre vegetable stock

salt and black pepper

grated parmesan, to serve

preparation

• Par-boil the pumpkin in lightly salted water for 2-3 minutes, leaving it slightly al dente. Drain.
• Chop the sage finely, reserving a few leaves. Bring the stock to the boil, and keep it hot while making the risotto.
• Melt the ghee with the olive oil in a large sauté pan, and fry the shallot gently for 4-5 minutes. Do not allow it to brown. Stir in the chopped sage, then add the rice and cook over a low heat for 2 minutes until the grains start to appear translucent.
• Add the wine, bring to a gentle simmer and stir carefully until the liquid has almost completely evaporated. Add a ladleful of hot stock, and stir gently until it has evaporated. (From this point I find it takes 22 minutes to cook the rice, but obviously there are lots of variables.)
• Stir in the pumpkin, and continue adding hot stock a ladleful at a time, stirring until it has almost evaporated before adding more.
• When it is ready, the rice should be soft (not al dente), and the risotto creamy but not swimming in stock. You may not need all the stock, and if you need more just use hot water.
• When almost ready, stir in a few whole sage leaves, or you can fry these quickly to make them crisp and sprinkle them over the served risotto.
• Season to taste, and serve immediately with the parmesan at the side. Some people like to trickle a little melted butter over it, but my advice would be to try it without first.

Lamb kebabs with pumpkin couscous

serves 2

ingredients

400g lean lamb, cut into cubes

juice of ½ lemon

olive oil

1 tsp dried oregano

salt and black pepper

2 medium onions

350g pumpkin flesh, in large cubes

1 large kohlrabi, peeled and cut into large cubes

500ml lamb stock

1 large clove garlic, crushed

2 tsp ground sweet paprika

1 tsp crushed coriander seeds

a handful of pitted black olives

2 tomatoes (optional)

fresh parsley or coriander leaves, chopped

couscous

bought harissa paste

preparation

• Make a marinade with olive oil, lemon juice, oregano and seasoning. Coat the meat well and leave at room temperature for an hour or so, or in the fridge if you want to leave it longer.
• Heat the oven to 160°C
• Slice one of the onions finely, and soften it gently in olive oil in a flameproof casserole, together with the garlic, paprika and coriander, for about 5 minutes.
• Deglaze the pan with the lamb stock. Stir in the chopped vegetables and olives and add enough stock to cover. Bring to the boil and cook in the oven for about an hour. The vegetables should
• be slightly caramelised, but do not allow the dish to dry out.
• Thread the meat onto skewers, alternated with pieces of onion, and if you wish some pieces of fresh tomato. Baste with the marinade, and grill for about 5 minutes each side until just done.
• Prepare the couscous according to the packet. Pile it onto a serving plate with the kebabs around the edge. Add the parsley to the vegetables, and serve them separately in their sauce.
• Home-made harissa is better, of course, but it’s not practical to make in small quantities and it doesn’t really keep. Shop-bought is fine - just find the brand you like best!

Couscous, the prologue...

Here is yet another tale that begins twenty years ago. Well, that was the theme that started this blog in the first place.

When I met the other half in the early 90’s, there were, I believe, no more than three or four couscous restaurants in London. These were almost exclusively patronized by French expats, and were tucked away where you would be unlikely to stumble upon them by chance. It sounds strange to say it now, but I had never eaten couscous (well, they didn’t sell it in Tesco’s): despite being a moderately adventurous and open-minded diner, it had totally slipped under my radar.

is that it?

I’m not sure I quite twigged at the time, but in retrospect it is clear that this was another little test to see if his precious little (as it was then) tummy would be adequately cared for by yours truly.

I was taken to Laurent, the eponymous restaurant of a jovial Tunisian owner-chef. The atmosphere owed a lot to his Italian wife – it was just like dropping in to an Italian farmhouse kitchen for supper with the extended family. There was a menu, but it seemed only to be offered to strangers. The restaurant was close to Ed’s parents’ flat, and when they were away, it fell to Laurent to feed the poor abandoned offspring.

This was another facet of my new Other Half which was to become familiar: he loves to have a regular haunt in each town. If he likes the result of his first stab at the menu, he will return as often as possible and always order the same thing; if, however, his first choice doesn’t hit the spot, he’ll never go back. Harsh, and totally unfair, but there you go.

Anyway, back to Laurent. Couscous with braised lamb and lots of veggies was ordered. It seemed to me to be fairly bland, a common criticism by newcomers to couscous, I know, but it was OK and I was hungry, so when seconds appeared I tucked in. The house Red was very palatable and washed it all down nicely, so I thought. An hour later I had to be rolled back to the car. I was not allowed to forget this. For some years, Ed insisted on finding a parking space downhill from the restaurant just in case.

I have since learned not to eat seconds and thirds of couscous long after my appetite has been dealt with, and my only excuse for the early over-indulgences (if an excuse is needed) is that we were students, and unlimited food for an extremely fair price was a rare treat, not to be allowed to pass by unsnaffled. Oh, yes, and the wine was also, mm, inexpensive.

Having seen how couscous should be done, I was then “encouraged” to produce it at home. The classic Couscous-with-seven-vegetables is not a sensible choice for fewer than about eight people, though, and after one quite respectable, but unreasonably (I felt) labour-intensive, attempt the idea was allowed to lie fallow, Laurent being within reach to satisfy any cravings (and they were frequent).

Ironically, it was only 2 years later when we moved to live in France that I began to cook couscous regularly at home. (I could tell you about the culture shock of our arrival in the Pas-de-Calais, but I think I’ll save that for another blog all of its own.)

Next, the acquisition of a tagine…

Wild Food

The darkness of November always gives me the urge to cook real winter food. Forget the grilled fish and ratatouille of summer, this weather calls for something altogether more substantial. The beginning of the game season compensates more than adequately for the absence of summer’s abundance. I like the German term for game, Wild, meaning not only the furred and feathered edibles, but also literally “wild”. Strangely, game is not easy to come by around here. There are plenty of hunters, and I’m told that wild boar are plentiful in the forest around the village, but my attempts to locate a supplier have so far proved fruitless. I have a horrible suspicion that this is due to the regulations governing the meat supply industry. Right and necessary though these may be, it seems to mean that if you want to eat the results of the hunter’s Sunday morning outing, first find your hunter. Buying his booty is probably illegal.

Venison can, however, be bought in some supermarkets. It may not seem quite so Wild when diced and shrink-wrapped, but it has the advantage of practicality, and seems to lose nothing of its flavour and tenderness. Venison is beautifully lean and easily-digestible meat, and I have so far failed to find anyone who doesn’t like it, if they can only be persuaded to try it once!

Nothing captures the spirit of English winter food like the Pie. I adore the mixture of light, flaky pieces of pastry with the slightly soggier bits from next to the meat. I make two or three times as much as I need, and freeze portions of it wrapped in clingfilm. This doesn’t seem to have any negative effects on the taste or texture of the piecrust, and I have a sneaking suspicion it might even improve it. Putting a simple crust on top of a venison ragout is an incredibly easy way to make something that looks and tastes a bit special. I like to make small individual pies, and with some fluffy mashed potatoes and plenty of gravy there is no more satisfying and warming supper. We’re back to the theme of comfort food here, you may have noticed. I wouldn’t want you to think that food is the only sort of comfort in my life, but I never run out of appetite for it.

This is not just kitchen supper food, though; the ragout can be prepared the day before, as can the pastry. For a dinner party, the veg. and gravy can be got ready in advance, then all you have to do is pop the pie into the oven when you serve the starter.

This recipe comes from Ravinder Bhogal, although I’ve tweaked it a bit. It’s much simpler than it appears at first glance, and the combination of flavours works really well.

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Venison pie with turnips and beetroot
Serves 2-3

Ingredients

100g smoked lardons

4 tbsp olive oil
1 red onion sliced
1 tsp ground cinnamon
6 cloves crushed
4 sprigs of thyme
2 fat cloves of garlic crushed
3 small turnips peeled and diced
3 small beetroots peeled and diced

500g venison, diced
2 tbsp seasoned flour
250ml Marsala
1 tbsp juniper berries roughly crushed
2 bay leaves
500ml vegetable  stock
1 egg beaten with a little water
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

• Preheat the fan oven to 160°C. In a flameproof casserole, sauté the lardons till the fat runs. Set aside.
• In a tablespoon of olive oil, sauté the onion with the cinnamon, cloves and thyme leaves until caramelised. Add the garlic and fry for another minute or two. Set aside with the bacon.
• In another tablespoon of olive oil, fry the beetroot and turnips until they have some colour on them. Put with the lardons and onions.
• Lightly coat the venison pieces in seasoned flour and brown them, in batches if necessary. Set aside with the veg.
• Deglaze the pan with the Marsala, scraping up all the bits, and boil to reduce by about half. Add the bay leaves, juniper berries, seasoning and stock. Put the onions, vegetables, lardons and venison back in, bring to a simmer, cover and cook in the oven for 1 ½  hours, adding hot water if necessary.
• In the meantime, make the pastry and leave in the fridge until you’re ready to use it. Place the cooked filling in the pie dish or dishes. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface, not too thinly. Cut to fit the dishes and use the pastry trimmings to make a 1cm strip. Wet the edge of the dish with egg/water mix and stick the strip all around.
• Cut a cross in the centre of the pastry for a pie funnel if you want to use one. Lay the pastry over the pie dish and seal the edges onto the pastry rim. Brush the pie all over with the beaten egg and bake at 180°C for 30 minutes till golden brown.

Game Gravy

1 small onion or shallot, sliced downwards

olive oil

1 tsp plain flour

300ml game stock

• Fry onion in oil until golden.
• Reduce heat, stir in flour and cook gently for 2 minutes.
• Add stock a little at a time, stirring well
• Cook for about 5 minutes to required consistency.
• Season to taste.

Piecrust Pastry (from Ruth Watson)

(makes 2 lots)

225g frozen unsalted butter

300g plain flour

about 80ml ice-cold water

• Grater the frozen butter coarsely into a bowl with the flour.
• Rub the butter in to the flour.
• Add the water gradually, using only as much as needed to make a soft dough.
• Roll the dough into two equal balls. Wrap in clingfilm and refrigerate for up to 24 hours, or freeze straight away.

Not-meat balls

Of course, it’s not just meat that gets rolled into balls in this kitchen. Another thing I was to learn very shortly after meeting Edward was to prove of vital importance. It was explained to me that, for genetic reasons, his body was unable to survive winter without a regular intake of matzo balls. Naturally, his mother makes them better than anyone else, but will be only too happy to share her secrets for perfection every time. So, no pressure, then. Fortunately, making floaty matzo balls (and without floatability you are sunk) isn’t that hard, and I very quickly got the hang of it. Moreover, I have even grown to enjoy eating them.

I tried to introduce another member of the dumpling family to the repertoire following a number of weeks spent working in Prague in the early 90’s. On a limited budget, I often ate in little cafes frequented by students and office workers, where undoubtedly the best dish of the day was Goulash with Dumplings (mainly because everything else involved unidentifiable bits of pig). Czech dumplings can best be described as thick slices of boiled bread, but that is to make them sound most unappealing. In reality they are quite light (usually!), and the perfect way to mop up a thick, tasty goulash sauce. Washed down with a glass or two of robust red plonk, there is no better preparation for a stroll back to the hotel through the fairytale heart of the city, with icicles forming on your nose and eyelashes. Sadly, my experiments with Czech instant dumpling mix were not successful, although I can’t claim to have followed the instructions. (My Czech extends no further than “Good Morning”, “Thank you”, and “Two beers please”.)

For many years, then, our goulash had to make do with matzo balls for company, but the dumpling idea was still bobbing about in the murky soup that is my mind. Finally, I bought a packet of shredded suet and set about canvassing opinion. I should have known better than to expect an enthusiastic reception. You’d have thought I’d suggested hard tack and thin gruel, rather than one of the great traditions of English home cooking. In the end, as usual, I took an executive decision. My culinary experiments usually get eaten, for two reasons. Firstly, it’s that or nothing, and secondly nobody wants to be around when I’m sulking.

So it was, then, that the meatballs (well of course, what did you expect?) in last week’s goulash were chaperoned by their larger, fluffier, paler cousins: The Suet Dumplings. Cue fanfare.

All Shapes and Sizes

The Other Half surveyed the pot with undisguised scepticism, but said nothing while I loaded up his plate. Finally, “Big, aren’t they?” he offered. I didn’t know what to say to that. I took a bite of dumpling myself. Mm, not heavy, properly cooked at least, perhaps a little sticky. By the time I had processed these thoughts, the boss was on his second: he likes them. In fact, it was better than that – he declared them to be “luxurious”. Wow! There were no leftovers. Emboldened by this success, I think I might look up a proper recipe for the Bohemian variety and give those a go too – I’m obviously on a roll…

From Russia...

Fragile little cabbage parcels filled with minced beef and rice may not, strictly speaking, fit the definition of meatballs. You could, however, think of them as individually gift-wrapped meatballs – the Ferrero Rocher of the meatballosphere, perhaps.

This dish was one of the first to join the ranks of our supper regulars. Despite both being avid buyers and readers of books, Edward and I had found that there was only one little paperback common to both our collections, a Sainsbury’s edition called “The Cooking of Russia”. I’m not sure I had ever actually tried to make anything from it, and I’m absolutely certain that Edward hadn’t.  His interest in one of the world’s least revered national cuisines can perhaps be explained by the fact that his maternal grandmother had been born in Russia. At any rate, I was persuaded to try my hand at a few traditional dishes, many of them sadly lost to modern Russian home cooking.

When I look back now at the original Russian recipe for Golubtsy (according to Sainsbury’s), I see that my version has been pared down and simplified over the years. This is a common theme through the evolution of our home cooking – the emphasis is increasingly on simple combinations of the best possible ingredients. My natural tendency to put too many herbs and/or spices in each dish has been well and truly stamped upon by my beloved Mr Picky.

This dish is a great way to make a little go a long way. The amount of mince we would easily eat between us as Bolognese will feed four when wrapped in cabbage. This tummy-filling quality can be attributed to the rice in the stuffing, which would traditionally be made even more substantial with the addition of mushrooms collected free in the forests, although we prefer it without. Traditionally, the meat would have been pork or a mixture of beef and pork. We don’t like fresh pork (although I have never been known to refuse a bacon buttie), so I just use beef, but any minced meat would be fine.

I have had this in restaurants such that one portion means two huge leaves full of stuffing. I prefer to use more leaves, each with a smaller filling – I’m not sure two cabbage leaves really counts as one of our five daily portions of veg!

Stuffed Cabbage, serves 4

ingredients

1 savoy cabbage

350g lean minced beef

2 tbsp long grain rice

small bunch fresh parsley

sprigs fresh thyme

1 med onion

2 cloves garlic

1 egg, beaten

salt and black pepper

1 tin chopped tomatoes

750ml beef stock

preparation

• Put the rice in a small bowl. Pour boiling water over it and leave it to soak for 5-10 minutes then strain it.
• Put a large pan of water to boil and add some salt. Cut carefully round the core of the cabbage from underneath, so you can detach the leaves individually without tearing them. Discard the outermost ones, but the next layer of large, green leaves are the best, in my view. You need about a dozen of the largest leaves, or the equivalent. Blanch them for 2 minutes, 2 or 3 at a time, then put them in a large bowl to drain, being careful not to make holes in them.
• Chop the onion and garlic finely. Put them in a large bowl with the meat, soaked rice and herbs. Season fairly generously and mix well. Mix in half the beaten egg, see how it looks and add more egg if necessary – this needs to look like stuffing mix, but the cabbage leaves will hold it together so it doesn’t need to be a paste.
• Brush the inside of a large, deep pan or flame-proof casserole with oil.
• Stuff the cabbage leaves: place a good tablespoonful of stuffing in the middle of a leaf, just above the base of the stalk. Roll the stalk over the stuffing, then fold in the sides and roll up towards the top of the leaf.
• Cover the base of the pan with the stuffed leaves, fitting them snuggly together without squashing. Add a second layer as necessary.  Tip the tomato pulp (or chopped fresh tomato) over the cabbage, and carefully pour in the stock to cover. Put an inverted plate on top to hold the parcels down. Put a lid on the pan, bring to the boil and simmer very gently for 45 minutes, or cook in a moderate oven if preferred.

Serve with boiled rice or steamed potatoes.

Tough Year in the Veg Patch

With varying degrees of ambition and devotion, I've been growing vegetables for nearly 10 years. I'm not the world's most conscientious gardener, but there have been abundant harvests of garlic, peas, beans and courgettes over the years. This year is probably the first that could be categorised as a total disaster!
It started really well. The plans were ambitious, encouraged by some rewarding harvests over the last couple of years. We have been in this house for four years, and I'm getting used to cultivating poor, chalky soil. Fertilisers (organic, of course), compost and manure have started to work their magic, although there is still a good way to go on that front. The veg patch had been expanded to 75m², rotavated and zapped with weedkiller (sorry). By May, neat rows of seeds had been planted and cutely labelled with little terracotta pots on sticks. It looked pretty, although I wouldn't go as far as to say professional, and I was keeping it remarkably weed-free.
My problem was water. We had virtually no rain from April to July. If there is an overriding lesson to be learned from this year, it is that no amount of watering can compensate for a lack of rain in such free-draining soil. I watered nearly every evening, but to almost no avail. A lot of my seeds simply failed to germinate. They were the lucky ones - the poor little plants which did make a start in life  got nowhere near their potential size.
The peas are a good example. Last year, they outgrew the 2 metre-high canes I so artistically constructed for them. This year, I struggled to get the canes into the ground, even after watering, as it was rock hard, even in May. The pea plants eventually reached calf-height, and I harvested enough peas for at least 4 people. For one meal. The garlic withered and died before the bulbs had developped. Four courgette plants produced an average of 2 fruits each before succumbing to frost last weekend. I won't go on; you're getting the idea.
The other outrageous arrow delivered by fortune was that the horse manure I applied so diligently was full of grass seeds. This grass was the only thing to survive the drought during my absences (I don't apologise for going on holiday for a week or two - give a girl a break) and choked any veggies brave enough to venture above ground in the Sahara-like conditions prevailing in Lorraine this year.
You'll have grasped that I was not a happy bunny. In the end I gave up, and by late August I had lost interest in a veg patch overrun with grass and weeds, interspersed with runty little veg plants.

More form than substance

There were a few bright spots in the otherwide bleak prospect: the tomatoes were delicious, if not exactly numerous - I guess the aridity was worse news for the pests than for the plants - and the parsley seems to have seeded itself and gone through a 2-year lifecycle in one year. The thyme, rosemary and sage have thrived in the mediterranean conditions, and the long-suffering, devoted consumer of my culinary efforts is delighted by the absence of French beans. There is also a pumpkin. A small one.

Sunday

Monday

 Much peeling, chopping and bottling...






On the fruit front, last year's damson avalanche was succeeded this year by an Everest of apples. The cherry tree, a rather sickly-looking specimen, actually produced sweet red fruit, as opposed to its usual orangey-coloured sour little efforts, and even the young pear tree managed a couple of edible offerings. There was also a bucketful of tasty little hazelnuts.

Actually, when you add it all up, maybe it wasn't such a bad year after all.