Caponata

I've never really got the hang of aubergines.  Cooking them at home as always ended up being infuriating rather satisfying, I think one of the reasons is that the bulbous purple beasties don't really taste of a whole lot on their own.  They're pleasant enough but one of those things that only suddenly come alive and start singing once they're shacked up happily with oils, spices, cheeses, herbs, tomatoes, lamb, almost anything now I come to think of it but they need something.  Even the simple-looking aubergine salads going round on the Japanese kaiten restaurant conveyor belts have a platoon of oils, spices and vinegars strong-arming the aubergine into making something tasty.  This recipe is the exception that proves the rule of my inability to deal with aubergines in my kitchen, there's quite a lot going on and what I like so much about it is the balance between the extremely salty, sour, sweet and bitter ingredients, with the aubergine sitting happily in the middle pulling it all together, shamelessly taking the glory off the back of everyone else's hard work.

Caponata is an Italian dish, usually translated as an aubergine salad.  The variations are legion however, including everything up to octopus, herring, tuna, anchovies and even beef not to mention most other vegetables under the (Mediterranean) sun getting chucked in by one recipe or another.  What they all have in common though is the classic aubergine/tomato pairing cooked in a sauce balancing the sweet and sour, salty and bitter.  This recipe doesn't have any unnecessary extras, just the essentials and it cooks down into quite a dense, intense, rich dish that is delicious served straight away or left to cool down to room temperature.  What's really great about it is that you can store jars of it in the fridge for ages where it transforms into a kind of chutney which goes well with practically anything and is a nice accompaniment to liven up a mid-week dinner.

Ingredients

2 medium sized aubergines or 1 large one
1 teaspoon cocoa powder
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons capers
good handful of black olives, pitted and halved
1 big juicy garlic clove or a couple of ordinary ones
1 onion
1 tin chopped tomatoes (or about 5 real ones)
a few chopped basil leaves


Heat the oven to 180.  Chop the aubergines - some recipes say to peel them, but I don't bother.  I can see why, some people think the skin is a bit too tannic but I like it and I think it makes the dish look more, erm, auberginey.  Slice them lengthways then again into quarters or sixths if it's a big one, then slice them across into pieces about 1cm thick.  Fry these until they've taken on some colour then cook for a further 5 mins with the onion and the crushed garlic, you want to halve the onion and slice it into thin disks to give the final dish a bit more texture.

Frying aubergines is always a bit of a sod since the things soak up any oil immediately, so putting the oil in the pan first never really works unless you're frying them about 5 pieces at a time - the road to insanity - and also one of the reasons it's common to get oily, greasy aubergine dishes served up since it's so tempting to keep adding some more oil when the previous lot just disappears in front of your eyes.  I first put them in a bowl and give them a quick mix by hand with some oil in an attempt to try and get it vaguely evenly distributed, an alternative is brushing each piece but frankly I'm buggered if I can be bothered with that.

As the aubergine pieces cook their spongy absorbent structure slowly starts to collapse, the pieces shrink a bit and change colour and the oil starts to ooze back out (which is why you don't want to keep adding it as it disappears at the start), the sizzling noise changes and you can suddenly smell aubergine, similar to cooking mushrooms once you've fried the water out of them and they start to cook properly in the pan.  This is very satisfying (I'm quite easily pleased) but some people would rather stop before that stage, mixing in the onion and garlic to cook whilst the aubergine pieces are just a bit coloured but before they've started really cooking down.  This is fine, you're left with a dish that's not quite so dense, but they'll cook fine, it's just personal preference, I'm more a fan of giving them a proper cooking at this stage and a slightly more gooey final product.

So anyway, once you've got all that out of the way add everything else, pour another half-a-tomato-tin's worth of water in, season with salt and pepper and put in the oven for about 35-45 minutes, taking it out halfway through for a stir and to make sure it's not sticking, add a bit more water if it is.  The photo above is what it looks like after it's done, I've thoughtfully scraped some away from the side of the pan so you can see how thick it is.  Some more chopped basil leaves and pine nuts are nice additions to serve, or possibly some smoked anchovies.

and be sure to make enough to put in the fridge for a few days.

Aubergine flower photo courtesy of matsuyuki

Smoked Anchovies

I always found the idea of smoked anchovies to be utterly, utterly minging.  I'd see tins of them on the shelves in Brindisa and pass them quickly by, making little gagging noises and sticking my tongue out at them as I did so, but one day after spending a small fortune in there (they sell lots of nice things) they insisted on giving me a couple of tins for free.  I thought that asking if I could perhaps have something different for free was just too cheeky and I couldn't exactly shout "MINGING!" and chuck them across the shop so with a watery grin I took them with away me.  This was shortly after they'd opened their deli in Borough Market so I guess they were eager to impress; the price of a tin has almost doubled since then so it looks like it's worked.

You'll be surprised to hear that after opening a tin I discovered that they weren't the honking little abominations I was expecting, they were in fact the Best Thing Ever.  Looking back I've no idea why the thought of them made me want to hurl, I've always loved anchovies.  The intensely salty cooked tinned ones can add depth and a savoury quality to almost anything, especially if it involves tomato sauce or roast lamb and as for the marinated, preserved fillets - boquerones - that you see in Spanish tapas places and delis, well I could eat my bodyweight of those and be back for more the next day.

These smoked ones though, they're very special.  Toothsome fleshy fillets of fish like the boquerones but the slight vinegar sharpness is replaced with a gentle, softly sweet smokiness.  It's a flavour that's obviously there but subtly so, serving more to bring out a smooth full-on umami hit from the fish itself.  Left to my own devices I'll happily just eat the whole tin with nothing more than a glass or 2 of chilled manzanilla but if other people are expecting feeding as well I'll brush off the biscuit crumbs, put on some pants and try to dish them up in a slightly more elegant manner.

Smoked anchovies and scrambled eggs on toast is quick, easy and comfort sex on a plate.  The eggs need to be creamy (I don't mean with cream in them, just cooked to a creamy consistency), go easy on the salt, I like to put a pinch of chilli powder in mine, not enough to make them hot but I like the lift they get from a little pinch.  Creamy eggs is the real key though, anchovies and creamy eggy things is quite a classic combo, the parmesan custard with anchovy toast at Le Cafe Anglais being the pinnacle of mankind's achievement in this sphere.  Until someone invents parmesan custard with smoked anchovy toast, that is.

Purple sprouting broccoli with smoked anchovies is my favourite and a great example of something already wonderful improved with smoky anchovy magic.  Purple sprouting broccoli deserves be revered as much as asparagus and it's at its peak in these cold winter months.  Think of this as a winter version of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, but better.

And finally I also love this bruschetta from the River Cafe which remarkably (a) only has 2 ingredients and (b) only takes about 20 minutes to make: mix some cherry tomatoes, slivers of garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper, roast in an oven for about 15 mins at 200C/400F/gas 6.  Meanwhile warm through some borlotti beans tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and a little red wine vinegar.  Mix the beans with the tomatoes, I like to get them a bit crushed and mangled, it looks a bit rough but it's quite entertaining to prepare.  Spread on toasted sourdough bread, and lay fillets of smoky fishy alchemy on top.  


You may notice the last step appears to be missing from my photo, and indeed by the time I'd make the bruschetta I'd eaten all the anchovies.  I find this to be a common problem, if you're planning on making any kind of dish with smoked anchovies then I strongly recommend allowing for the fact that you'll have already eaten half the tin before you need to use them.


More details on Brindisa's website (they're £6.50 for a 100g tin in the shop)


Photo of (live) anchovies courtesy of Team Awesome! on flickr

Turnip Soufflé

What's in a name?  Quite a lot if you're a turnip.  There's no glamour in being a turnip, your name's a byword for idiots and stupidity, at least in England it is for a generation raised on Baldrick's obsession with them.  If you need a quick image to convey "huge moron" to your audience then the turnip is your go-to vegetable, as Graham Taylor will quickly confirm.


I don't think there's much of a culinary reason for this, in Eastern Asian cuisine you find daikon everywhere; it's usually translated as 'radish' and commonly looks more like a parsnip but it tastes more like turnip than anything else. Americans seem quite happy cooking turnips, especially at Thanksgiving, but with an American accent "turnip" doesn't sound quite so much a synonym for imbecile and daikon of course sounds more like a particularly cool Transformer (ninja->ferrari->ninja->ferrari->hiiiYA!->BrrRRMMMmm) but if you're the Sun launching a campaign to oust England's national football team manager, calling him Turnip Head is where you start.


Soufflé raises wide-eyed expectations, it says Michelin star, linen, candles, proper sexy serious cooking.  You wouldn't ever see Baldrick excited about a soufflé in the shape of a thingy or about his thingy being the shape of a soufflé.  This recipe isn't one of those dinky little show-offs rearing up out of its single-seater ramekin looking for 'ooohs' and applause however, it's a big savoury bowlful to be plonked on a table, scooped up and shared out in wobbly spoonfuls.


Winter turnips aren't particularly great for much other than burying in soups and stews, Jane Grigson* refers to them along with swedes as "that grim pair" and how, compared to the French: 

we stick too much to the agricultural view, regarding the turnip as a coarse, cow-sized vegetable, suitable for the over-wintering of herds, schoolchildren, prisoners and lodgers.

Turnips have a soft, sweet pepperiness that goes well with other warm spices like cinnamon, cloves, cardomom and in the spring and summer there are plenty of interesting ways to cook them more simply than the egg-fondling vein-bulging stress of making a soufflé, but getting into winter this is about the only option I know of for doing something delicious with them.  I'm always tempted to experiment more with the spicing in this dish, especially as xmas approaches, some star anise, cloves, a little juniper, I suspect I'd end up with something smelling and tasting very festive and exotic indeed, however I always shy away at the last minute towards something that I know to work.  I think this is the power of the soufflé to intimidate.


Ingredients:


turnips - about 5 or 6 of the smaller ones or a couple of big ones.  After peeling and cooking and mashing you'll want about 200g, so aim for 300-350g of unpeeled raw turnips if you're weighing.
butter - 50g
flour - 50g
egg yolks - 4
egg whites - 5 (I know, just chuck the other yolk away, don't try and keep it in the fridge, really)
breadcrumbs - good handful
grated parmesan - good handful
chopped parsley - good handful
milk - 125ml
cinnamon, cayenne pepper - big tsp each


Peel and dice the turnips and boil in a pan of salted water till soft (15-25 mins) drain - keeping about 150ml of the cooking liquid - and mash.  Don't worry about mashing to a fine puree, I prefer the end result to have some texture (lumps) and they can be a bit of a bugger to mash smooth anyway.  Squish the mashed turnip into a sieve to get most of the water out and leave in the sieve to drain a little bit more.


Whilst the turnips are cooking/draining prepare your soufflé bowl and the egg whites: you'll need a soufflé dish about 1-2 litres greased all round with some butter.  By 'soufflé dish' I just mean anything that'll survive in the oven and is a vaguely sensible shape, I've no idea what my 'soufflé dish' was originally intended for, it looks more like a flower pot than anything else, but it's a decent size and seems to cope with oven temperatures so far.  Tip in the breadcrumbs and the parmesan and jiggle and turn the bowl around until the insides are all nice and evenly coated.  Gently shake out any excess and keep it safe to go on the top of the souffle before it goes in the oven.  Whisk the egg whites in a big clean dry bowl until they're getting to the soft peaks stage.

Melt the butter in a pan, once it's foaming stir in the flour and let cook through for a few seconds.  Pour in the milk and the turnip cooking water that you kept back earlier, stir through until smoothly combined then mix in your pureed turnip.  Once this is all looking well and good remove from the heat and stir in the egg yolks, one at a time.  Make sure you give them a thorough, vigorous stir as they land in the pan, you don't want them sitting there cooking.  I usually have the yolks all in one bowl and slowly try and roll them out one at a time.  This doesn't always work, sometimes a couple will plop out together but no matter, you just have to stir twice as vigorously.


Once the yolks are all safely stirred in check the seasoning and stir in the cinnamon, cayenne and parsley.  It should taste pretty strong at this point, probably a bit too strong, adding the egg whites will dilute it.  Finish whisking the egg whites off, another couple of minutes until they're at the stiff peaks stage, then gently fold into the turnip mixture a spoonful at a time.  Again don't worry too much about perfect folding and having little lumps of egg white in the mixture, no-one will know, it's more important to avoid stirring and beating the air out of them.  Pour the mixture out into your soufflé bowl, sprinkle the rest of the parmesan/breadcrumb mixture over the top and put in an oven at 200C/400F/gas 6, ideally on a metal tray that's been heating in the oven to make a hot base for the soufflé dish, for 30 mins or until the top looks like this:

* Jane Grigson's Vegetable Book.  This recipe is based on her jerusalem artichoke soufflé recipe in that book.

Welsh Rarebit

The weather's been grim these last few weeks, the rain, the wind, the cold, the cold winds, the windy rain, the cold rainy wind, ok I'll stop there. It has an effect though, looking out of the office window at 5pm and it's already pitch black, fighting through dark sopping wet pavements filled with people huddled up against the cold, heads down, minds anywhere except the unpleasant present. My mind is usually on what I'm going to eat next and the more shitty the weather, the more deeply my imagination voyages into warm steamy comfort food territory.


One thing in particular had been on my mind over the last couple of weeks but what with the various pies, stews, slow-roasts and fish & chips that had been crowding my rather short-range radar recently it hadn't got a look in. After 2 steps out of the office this evening my hair was sodden, my whole head icy wind-whipped, my shoes full of freezing puddle launched sideways by taxis and buses and my body temperature had plummeted right down into regions that required emergency cheese-on-toast.

Welsh rarebit is not just cheese on toast, however. Well, technically it has cheese in it and it's on toast but it's a lot more than that, which is why this evening found me with the rain rattling against the windows and the wind shaking bits off the building outside whilst I was happily pottering about in my warm kitchen making a few glorious gooey, savoury, crunchy slabs of spicy rib-sticking comforting orgasmic pleasure. I'm not serious of course, no-one really had an orgasm during the eating, despite what the noises might lead you to believe.

Welsh rarebit - I'm not getting into the rabbit/rarebit debate, I find rarebit hard enough to cope with, calling it a rabbit is just weird - is effectively cheese melted with beer, mustard, worcestershire sauce and spices into a thick sauce spread on toast and grilled into a bubbling crackling finish. There is actually cooking involved (not a whole lot, admittedly), and then you leave the mixture to set before carving out slabs to spread on toast and grilling it to melting popping perfection under a grill. The bread's important here, use a proper loaf of proper white bread, not some plastic wonderbread nonsense or wholemeal coated in pumpin seeds etc.

You'll need:

• knob of butter
• 1 tbsp flour
• cayenne pepper, paprika (either/or/both, I like both) 1 tsp each
• Worcestershire sauce - good long glug
• mustard powder 1 tsp (or just mustard is fine, about 2 tsp)
• beer/stout 200ml (Guinness is popular, I used Meantime London Stout because it comes in bigger bottles than Guinness so there's more left to drink, and it's delicious)
• Strong cheddar grated 400g (by 'strong' I mean weapons grade, I used Montgomery Cheddar)

Melt the butter in a pan, once it's on its way stir in the flour. Once that's starting to smell biscuity stir in the spices, then the mustard powder/mustard and once they're living happily together pour in the beer/stout and the worcestershire sauce. Bring it back up to a simmer and start melting the cheese into it a handful at a time. Once all the cheese is melted in, give it another minute's simmering then pour into a shallow dish and leave it to set:

You can see I just used a wide bowl here to set mine, whatever you've got to hand is fine, it's a pretty hard recipe to ruin. Once the mixture has cooled and set to reasonably firm consistency (about half an hour-ish) heat up the grill, make some toast then slice/spoon the mixture on top in about a 1cm thick layer:

Place under a hot grill for a few minutes until the it's bubbling away and taken on some colour. There will probably be gooey bits sliding down the side of the toast as it cooks. This is fine.

One of the pleasures of this dish is that it's never quite the same - I've never actually measured how much of anything I've put in it, and the ingredients vary according to what's on hand. This time round it was a little bit sloppier than usual (too much beer/not enough cheddar/not enough simmering after the cheese went in/playing the Clash too loudly whilst I made it? I don't know.) If I've got some parmesan lying around maybe I'll grate some on top before it goes under the grill. I prefer it with mustard powder but this time I only had Dijon to hand and in all the excitement of trying to remember to take photos I forgot to add any paprika and put it under a stone cold grill. But hey, guess what? It was still freaking delicious (once the sodding grill heated up), a lot of fun and very satisfying to make (always) and washed down with a good glass of red wine was just what was needed to cheer up a miserable, cold, wet night.


photo of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch train station courtesy of jonny2love

the rest are all my fault