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.

Twenty Years

I'm starting this blog today for a special reason. Twenty years. Two perfectly ordinary words on the page or the screen, but when I said them out loud at 6.30 this morning it sounded like an awfully long time! Today it is exactly twenty years since Ed and I began our life together. Never was there a more convincing illustration of the adage that "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach". We were students at business school, and Ed was making regular visits to his mother to collect home-cooked meals to keep him going during the week. Ripe for the picking, it seemed to me.
He is a very choosy eater. Some people would consider that a criticism, but for me it is only right to be particular about what we eat, and we'd both rather go hungry (at least for a few hours) than eat something poor quality or unappealing. Easy to say that in 21st century Europe, of course, with food plentiful and affordable every day of the year, but surely that is all the more reason to make the effort to nourish ourselves well and to profit from one of life's greatest pleasures?

Carnivorous Male

Why meatballs? Well, as you will see if you persevere with this blog, as our menus have evolved over those twenty years, meatballs have come to occupy an increasingly important place in the repertoire. Found in almost all of the world's great cooking traditions (although curiously absent in French cuisine), made from a variety of different meats, sometimes singly, sometimes mixed together, they have proved to be an inexhaustible (so far) source of innovative, tasty, kitchen suppers - and indeed have been known to grace the table for dinner parties and special occasions.