tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41262204230636774372024-03-06T02:39:18.297+00:00Matarást - Love of FoodThe culinary adventures of a curious cook, with quotations about food from the books I am readingBibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-84451352705577794552017-07-14T11:22:00.000+00:002017-07-22T20:04:56.106+00:00"Photos? What photos?"You may have noticed that some of my photos are gone. This is due to changed policies at the hosting service. I'm working on a solution.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-73965469234704791172014-08-24T12:31:00.000+00:002014-08-24T12:32:51.811+00:00Chicken casserole discussed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And as for the chicken, that was a little beauty. It was
that young and tender, I says to Hannah at the time as it seemed a shame to
casserole it, for it would 'ave roasted beautiful. But Mr. Urquhart is very partial
to a casseroled chicken; he says as there's more flavour to 'em that way, and I
dunno but what he's right."<br />
<br />
"If done with a good beef stock," pronounced Mr. Bunter,
judicially, "the vegetables well packed in layers, on a foundation of
bacon, not too fat, and the whole well seasoned with salt, pepper and paprika,
there are few dishes to beat a casseroled chicken. For my own part, I would
recommend a soupçon of garlic, but I am aware that such is not agreeable to all
tastes."<br />
<br />
"I can't a-bear the smell or sight of the stuff," said Mrs.
Pettican, frankly, "but as for the rest I'm with you, always allowing that
the giblets is added to the stock, and I would personally favour mushrooms when
in season, but not them tinned or bottled sorts as looks pretty but has no more
taste to 'em than boot buttons if so much. But the secret is in the cooking, as
you know well, Mr. Bunter, the lid being kep' well sealed down to 'old the
flavour and the cookin' being' slow to make the juices perambulate through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> through each other as you might say.
I'm not denyin' as sech is very 'ighly enjoyable, and so Hannah and me found
it, though fond of a good roast fowl also, when well-basted with a good rich
stuffing to rejuice the dryness. But as to roasting it, Mr. Urquhart wouldn't
hear of it, and being 'as it's him that pays the bills, he has the right to
give his orders."</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
From <i><b>Strong Poison</b></i>, by Dorothy L. Sayers. Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-82186514721845242342014-07-30T12:00:00.000+00:002014-07-30T12:00:08.288+00:00PicnicsI came across this <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2710150/A-plague-picnics-From-Famous-Five-Brideshead-literature-s-idyllic-outdoor-feasts-not-soggy-sarnie-sight-Don-t-fooled-warns-LAURA-FREEMAN.html">grousing article about picnics</a> and thought I'd share it.<br />
<br />
To add my two cents, I will say that Iceland has even more notoriously fickle weather than Britain and I have still managed to have some perfectly lovely picnics here.<br />
<br />
Simple picnics with sandwiches and cakes and tea are lovely when the food is done right and the weather behaves, but the picnic meals where we cooked the food on the spot were always my favourite, especially the ones combined with a day at the beach: wading in the sea, collecting shells and semi-precious stones (jasper and chalcedony), and gathering driftwood, dry seaweed and garbage that had accumulated on the beach since last year's outing and piling it up to make a bonfire.<br />
<br />
This would be followed by charcoal-grilled sausages in charred buns or lamb cutlets and baked potatoes with salad, and drinks cooled in the river, followed by a lazy hour or two in the sun, digesting the food and talking, and then, when it began to get dark, lighting the bonfire, listening to the driftwood crackle and watching the flames leap. Then home, slather on after-sun cream and to bed and a deep, restful sleep.<br />
<br />
These picnics were always spontaneous because we could never rely on the weather forecast, but it only added to the fun and I don't ever remember one getting disrupted by bad weather. Nor do I remember wasps in the food, but there must have been the occasional midge. Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-61470586875650856002013-07-24T14:00:00.000+00:002013-07-24T14:00:06.493+00:00Coffee as a metaphor for what's to come<br />It's the mid-21st century, and real coffee is scarce.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /> "Now then." Roarke slid in beside her, reached for a decanter. "Would you like a brandy to fight off the chill?"<br />
"No." She felt the warmth of the car sweep up from her feet and was afraid she'd begin to shiver in reaction.<br />
"Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps."<br />
"Great."<br />
Gold winked at his wrist as he pressed his choice for two coffees on the AutoChef built into the side panel. "Cream?"<br />
"Black."<br />
"A woman after my own heart." Moments later, he opened the protective door and offered her a china cup in a delicate saucer. "We have more of a selection on the plane," he said, then settled back with his coffee.<br />
"I bet." The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Eve took a tentative sip -- and nearly moaned.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJrbJJ8ufe3vo4oR65UwrMeepOTyOBdOvOdaZ0QiaIsgXbrClfbwrBCxO5Fjd5_tSPjYMV2ogL2fJIqCjxG9CzX5hxJ4jS0cmPkkajS4MjuTL-dTSUs1lvJSdspPaUkKwCRsMNuPNdGK_/s1600/Steaming6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJrbJJ8ufe3vo4oR65UwrMeepOTyOBdOvOdaZ0QiaIsgXbrClfbwrBCxO5Fjd5_tSPjYMV2ogL2fJIqCjxG9CzX5hxJ4jS0cmPkkajS4MjuTL-dTSUs1lvJSdspPaUkKwCRsMNuPNdGK_/s320/Steaming6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: morguefile.com; Photographer: rsbc</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.<br />
She sipped again, and could have wept.<br />
"Problem?" He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes -- a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man's hands.<br />
"Do you know how long it's been since I had real coffee?"<br />
He smiled. "No."<br />
"Neither do I." Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. "You'll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We'll talk on the plane." </blockquote>
From <i><b>Naked in Death </b></i>by J.D. Robb (Nora Roberts) Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-68556336067686583392013-06-30T15:57:00.000+00:002013-06-30T15:57:15.854+00:00English fare in Raj era India at its worstAs described by E.M. Forster in A Passage to India:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
...the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it.
</blockquote>
Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-90763777731643553972013-06-25T23:19:00.000+00:002013-06-25T23:19:46.544+00:00A Yorkshirewoman comments on foodThe passage below might well have been written in answer to <a href="http://cooking-challenge.blogspot.com/2013/06/leon-at-table.html">this</a>.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">...a bowl of soup was set before her. 'How very good it smells!' said Venetia, picking up her spoon. 'Oh, Imber, fresh bannocks? Yes, indeed I’ll take one! Now I <i>know</i> I’m at home again!' She turned her head to address Damerel. 'My aunt, I must tell you, has a French cook. He contrives the most delectable dishes, but I couldn’t help yearning sometimes for plain Yorkshire food.' </span></span></blockquote>
From <i>Venetia</i> by Georgette Heyer Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-26430486451783359332013-06-20T23:18:00.000+00:002014-07-30T11:28:07.434+00:00Afternoon tea in early 19th century YorkshireFrom <i>Shirley </i>by Charlotte Brontë:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL4Tz5k-0OSk0dQ5EzQmWP4unOkvGfkDD_WhIibR4TSX32hS-yNGcQNOPdJjuMnt7r1oXRwW0J5a8z8mFbKGztYHii_w-bCnorXQZ-TGTzmd65Pr7A-TeChbDRUtDAzSAe7S7CedDr2m7/s1600/Afternoon+Tea+Party,+18th+C,+Jean-Etienne+Liotard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL4Tz5k-0OSk0dQ5EzQmWP4unOkvGfkDD_WhIibR4TSX32hS-yNGcQNOPdJjuMnt7r1oXRwW0J5a8z8mFbKGztYHii_w-bCnorXQZ-TGTzmd65Pr7A-TeChbDRUtDAzSAe7S7CedDr2m7/s320/Afternoon+Tea+Party,+18th+C,+Jean-Etienne+Liotard.jpg" height="230" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: xx-small;">"Afternoon Tea Party", Jean-Etienne Liotard (1702-1789)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yorkshire
people in those days took their tea round the table, sitting well into
it, with their knees duly introduced under the mahogany. It was
essential to have a multitude of plates of bread and butter, varied in
sorts and plentiful in quantity. It was thought proper, too, that on the
centre plate should stand a glass dish of marmalade. Among the viands
was expected to be found a small assortment of cheesecakes and tarts. If
there was also a plate of thin slices of pink ham garnished with green
parsley, so much the better. <br /><br />
Eliza, the rector's cook, fortunately knew her business as provider. She
had been put out of humour a little at first, when the invaders came so
unexpectedly in such strength; but it appeared that she regained her
cheerfulness with action, for in due time the tea was spread forth in
handsome style, and neither ham, tarts, nor marmalade were wanting among
its accompaniments. </span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Chapter VII)</span></span> Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-53303133027855668242013-06-17T12:00:00.000+00:002013-06-17T12:00:14.076+00:00Léon at tableMore from <i>These Old Shades</i> by Georgette Heyer:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What is the matter now?”<br />
Léon was examining a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_pudding">black pudding</a> with an expression akin to loathing on his face.<br />
“Monseigneur, this—” he pointed disdainfully at the pudding—“this is not for people to eat! Bah!”<br />
“Is aught amiss with it?” inquired his Grace.<br />
“Everything!” said Léon crushingly. “First I am made to feel sick upon that ship, and then I am made to feel sick again by an evil—pudding, you call it? Voyons, it is a good name! Pig-pudding! Monseigneur, you must not eat it! It will make you——”<br />
“Pray do not describe my probable symptoms as well as your own, infant. You have certainly been prodigiously ill-used, but endeavour to forget it! Eat one of those sweetmeats.”<br />
Léon selected one of the little cakes, and started to nibble it.<br />
“Do you always eat these things in England, Monseigneur?” he asked, pointing to the beef and the puddings.<br />
“Invariably, my infant.”<br />
“I think it would be better if we did not stay very long here,” said Léon firmly. </blockquote>
<br />Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-69036772390430404952013-06-16T11:31:00.000+00:002014-07-30T11:31:00.759+00:00A French teenager of the 18th century encounters English food for the first timeFrom <i>These Old Shades</i> by Georgette Heyer:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZJ3iizV8RHmMK9y3fjD2qi4rXpqx-gnPleLXQSCa80PZQMUVHj52Jq-0vsiGbiajKelNLCB9zVEsP6zt4uXWXg_wqttpIdxMciwkqTKOj7-OPCIvin2mBta_BmCwpd-fzsrV4On2NfPc/s1600/ham_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZJ3iizV8RHmMK9y3fjD2qi4rXpqx-gnPleLXQSCa80PZQMUVHj52Jq-0vsiGbiajKelNLCB9zVEsP6zt4uXWXg_wqttpIdxMciwkqTKOj7-OPCIvin2mBta_BmCwpd-fzsrV4On2NfPc/s320/ham_large.jpg" height="206" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Breakfast with Ham</i> by Pieter Claesz (c. 1597–1660)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">L</span></span>éon eyed the meal with some disapproval and not a little surprise. A sirloin of English beef stood at one end of the table, flanked by a ham and some capons. A fat duck was at the other end, with pasties and puddings. There was also a flagon of burgundy, and a jug of foaming ale.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“Well, my Léon?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Léon turned. His Grace had entered the room, and stood behind him, fanning himself. Léon looked sternly at the fan, and seeing the condemnation in his eyes Avon smiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“The fan does not find favour with you, infant?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“I do not like it at all, Monseigneur.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“You distress me. What think you of our English meats?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Léon shook his head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“Terrible, Monseigneur. It is—it is barbare!”</span></blockquote>
Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-33682308692914821352013-06-15T13:00:00.000+00:002013-06-15T13:00:05.731+00:00Quick and easy meze or appetizers: Bread rusks with tomatoes, olive oil and capersI have been trying out some Greek recipes lately, mostly from two Greek cookbooks I own: <i>Modern Greek<b> </b></i>by Andy Harris, and <i>The Book of Greek Cooking</i> (Icelandic translation) by Lesley Mackley. <i>Meze</i> are Middle-Eastern and Mediterranean small dishes or appetizers, much like the Spanish <i>tapas </i>or the Chinese <i>dim sum</i>.<br />
<br />
Here is a meze from <i>Modern Greek</i> that I tried recently and loved. I did find it to be rather a lot of work to peel and deseed the tomatoes, so I didn't, but feel free to follow the exact recipe. My alterations are in the brackets. It is clearly a relative of the Italian bruschetta:<br />
<br />
To serve 4 to 6 persons:<br />
<br />
12 paximadia (dried bread rusks - I used lightly toasted slices of baguette)<br />
5 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped (I used fresh, perfectly ripe (completely red and slightly soft) sweet summer tomatoes and neither peeled nor seeded them the second time I made this, and it was just as good. However, it was a bit little wetter that way, so if this is going to stand for a while before you serve it, you'd better follow the original instructions and peel and deseed)<br />
12 caperberries, rinsed (may be left out, especially if the tomatoes are perfectly ripe and sweet)<br />
2 tbs olive oil (must be good quality oil, and make sure it's not rancid - yep, this happened to me the first time around, but fortunately I discovered it before I had ruined all the slices) <br />
salt<br />
freshly ground black pepper<br />
<br />
Arrange the rusks/toast on a serving platter and top with the chopped tomatoes. Put 2-3 caperberries on top of each, drizzle with olive oil and season with the salt and pepper.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-71066867387247739432013-06-14T13:00:00.000+00:002013-06-15T07:00:51.988+00:00...and one of them continues eating (continuation of yesterday's quotation):<blockquote class="tr_bq">
...he whistled, looked impatiently round,
and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time
Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment
after your wet walk. I forget hospitality."<br />
<br />
"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the
right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore
rose and opened a cupboard.<br />
<br />
"It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience
within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity
in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every
drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here
alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes
I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it
pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two
with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you
cook a mutton chop?"<br />
<br />
"Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."<br />
<br />
"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn
them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices
in?"<br />
<br />
"Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork,
please."<br />
<br />
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself
to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed
on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two
tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle—still
from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard—filled it
with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the
fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a
small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the
punch a tap at the door called him away.<br />
<br />
"Is it you, Sarah?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"<br />
<br />
"No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill.
So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."<br />
<br />
He returned.<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="Page_23" name="Page_23"><span class="hidden"></span><span class="hidden"></span></a></span>"You have your household in proper order," observed
Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the
embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the
mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government,
like poor Sweeting, a man—whew! how the fat
spits! it has burnt my hand—destined to be ruled by
women. Now you and I, Moore—there's a fine brown
one for you, and full of gravy—you and I will have no gray
mares in our stables when we marry."<br />
<br />
"I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray
mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"<br />
<br />
"There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and
his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided
they bring home the frames intact."<br />
<br />
Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He
laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded
them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His
host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. </blockquote>
From <i>Shirley </i>by Charlotte Brontë. Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-88103290016754779182013-06-13T13:00:00.000+00:002013-06-13T13:05:57.329+00:00Gluttons in action:<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner;
Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen
fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting
a friend to a meal occasionally, without additional
charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets
her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late.
The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday
Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and
stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting
of Nunnely came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the
spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast
on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are
both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay
all night. "C'en est trop," she would say, if she could
speak French.<br />
<br />
Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate,
and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says
the beer is flat. Ay, that is the worst of it: if they would
only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much, if they
would only seem satisfied with what they get she wouldn't
care; but "these young parsons is so high and so scornful,
they set everybody beneath their 'fit.' They treat her
with less than civility, just because she doesn't keep a<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="Page_6" name="Page_6"><span class="hidden"></span>6<span class="hidden"></span></a></span>
servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her
mother did afore her; then they are always speaking against
Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk," and by that very
token Mrs. Gale does not believe one of them to be a real
gentleman, or come of gentle kin. "The old parsons is
worth the whole lump of college lads; they know what
belongs to good manners, and is kind to high and low."<br />
<br />
"More bread!" cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which,
though prolonged but to utter two syllables, proclaims him
at once a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes.
Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than either of the other
two; but she fears him also, for he is a tall, strongly-built
personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as
genuinely national—not the Milesian face, not Daniel
O'Connell's style, but the high-featured, North-American-Indian
sort of visage, which belongs to a certain class of the
Irish gentry, and has a petrified and proud look, better
suited to the owner of an estate of slaves than to the landlord
of a free peasantry. Mr. Malone's father termed
himself a gentleman: he was poor and in debt, and besottedly
arrogant; and his son was like him.<br />
Mrs. Gale offered the loaf.<br />
<br />
"Cut it, woman," said her guest; and the "woman"
cut it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations, she
would have cut the parson also; her Yorkshire soul revolted
absolutely from his manner of command.<br />
<br />
The curates had good appetites, and though the beef
was "tough," they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed,
too, a tolerable allowance of the "flat beer," while
a dish of Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of vegetables,
disappeared like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too,
received distinguished marks of their attention; and a
"spice-cake," which followed by way of dessert, vanished
like a vision, and was no more found. Its elegy was chanted
in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son and heir, a
youth of six summers; he had reckoned upon the reversion
thereof, and when his mother brought down the empty
platter, he lifted up his voice and wept sore.<br />
<br />
The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine, a
liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr.
Malone, indeed, would much rather have had whisky;
but Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep the
beverage. While they sipped they argued, not on politics,
nor on philosophy, nor on literature—these topics were now,<span class="pagenum"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="Page_7" name="Page_7"><span class="hidden"></span>7<span class="hidden"></span></a></span>
as ever, totally without interest for them—not even on
theology, practical or doctrinal, but on minute points of
ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as
bubbles to all save themselves. Mr. Malone, who contrived
to secure two glasses of wine, when his brethren
contented themselves with one, waxed by degrees hilarious
after his fashion; that is, he grew a little insolent, said rude
things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his
own brilliancy.</blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">From <i>Shirley</i> by Charlotte Brontë.</span>Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-26319818953721435602013-03-23T14:14:00.001+00:002017-03-16T10:01:45.198+00:00Everyday meal in a Regency era English country home<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v255/Bibliophiliac/matur/ax_zpse7ad9d7b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v255/Bibliophiliac/matur/ax_zpse7ad9d7b.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Dinner Table" by Henri Matisse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love to read descriptions of meals in novels, and knowing that Georgette Heyer would have researched it well, I have no reason to doubt that the meal described below, in a scene from <b><i>The Reluctant Widow</i></b>, is a genuine example of fare one could have expected to find on the dinner table of an English country house during the Regency era.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What I marvel at is the size of the meal and the number of dishes in what is, despite there being a guest at the table, an everyday meal.</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"He partook lavishly of every dish and
was so much moved by the excellence of the <a href="http://www.foodsofengland.co.uk/davenportfowls.htm">Davenport fowls</a>, stuffed, parboiled,
and stewed in butter, that he sent a complimentary message to the cook and
congratulated Carlyon on having acquired such a treasure. By the time he had
worked his way from the <a href="http://www.vintagerecipes.net/books/bookofhouseholdmanagement/hessian_soup.php">Hessian soup</a> and <a href="http://www.recipes4us.co.uk/Beeton/Mrs%20Beeton%20Ragout%20of%20Wild%20Duck.htm">ragout</a> which began the repast through
a baked carp dressed in the Portuguese way, some beefsteaks with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oyster_sauce#European_oyster_sauce">oyster sauce</a>,
the fowls, and a <a href="http://books.google.is/books?id=ptZgNoobsyUC&pg=PA810&lpg=PA810&dq=floating+island+recipe+mrs+beeton&source=bl&ots=y3QprvUabZ&sig=SjLqWlk-s0S-IsKxGGfvwQuGpd8&hl=en&sa=X&ei=4rNNUdmqI8-n0wXo6YGQAg&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q=floating%20island%20recipe%20mrs%20beeton&f=false">floating island</a>, with a fruit pie as a remove, he was so far
reconciled to his nephew’s death as to be able to recount three of the latest
good stories circulating town and to confide to Carlyon as he ecstatically
savored the bouquet of the port, that he really could not agree with his old
friend Brummell in deeming it a wine only fit for the lower orders to drink."</span></blockquote>
<br />Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-91198675345625132172011-04-07T14:01:00.002+00:002013-06-13T13:06:15.375+00:00Video: "I'm Trying to Cook"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I came across this while looking for something else on YouTube. If it sounds familiar - it's a parody of Julian Smith's satirical rap video "I'm trying to read".<br />
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<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2DMi_jUHjSc?rel=0" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe></div>Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-36321601411370567152011-04-03T13:44:00.000+00:002013-06-13T13:13:23.035+00:00An evocation of hearty, down-to-earth English workingman's food:<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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However gross it might be in reality, he makes it sound like the most heavenly meal in the world:</div>
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"On my own once again, I found a snug little room over an eating-house in the Lower Richmond Road - a shambling second-floor back which overhung the railway and rocked all day to the passing trains, while the hot meaty steam of boiling pies filtered up through cracks in the floor. </div>
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The café downstairs was a shadowy tunnel lined with high-backed wooden pews, carbolic-scrubbed and exclusively male, with all the comforts of a medieval refectory. My rent of twenty-five shillings a week included the furnished room and three café meals a day - a <i>carte blanche</i> arrangement which I exploited fully and which introduced me to new ways of eating. The blackboard menu, propped on the pavement outside, offered a list as immutable as the elements: 'Bubble. Squeak. Liver and B. Toad-in-the-Hole. Meat Pudding or Pie.' My favourite was the pie – a little basin of meat wrapped in a caul of suety dough which was kept boiling all day in a copper cauldron in a cupboard under the stairs. Turned out on the plate, it steamed like a sodden napkin, emitting a mournful odour of laundries; but once pricked with the fork it exploded magnificently with a rich lava of beefy juices. There must have been over a pound of meat in each separate pie - a complete working-man's meal, for sixpence. And remembering the thin days at home, when meat was only for Sundays, I ate at least one of them every day. Otherwise I was encouraged to ring the changes on the house's limited permutations - Squeak, Toad, Liver and B; or as a privilege, an occasional herring. A mug of tea at each meal was of course served without asking, and was so strong you could trot a mouse on it. As for afters, there was a postscript at the foot of the menu which seemed to be painted in permanent enamel: ´During the Present Hot Spell Why Not Try a Cold Sweet?´ Winter and summer, it was custard and prunes."</div>
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From <i>As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning</i> by Laurie Lee (1914 – 1997)</div>
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Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-161167186292830342010-10-05T09:00:00.011+00:002013-06-13T13:12:50.625+00:00A droolworthy feast, but just imagine the heartburn<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, "ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary."</div>
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A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was a round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges and American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according to the colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse green sashes.</div>
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Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having looked to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He felt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well-laden table.</div>
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"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he asked. "A wing or a slice of the breast?"</div>
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"Just a small slice of the breast."</div>
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"Miss Higgins, what for you?"</div>
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"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy."</div>
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While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of ham and spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dish of hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea and she had also suggested apple sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose without any apple sauce had always been good enough for her and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils and saw that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a great deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders and counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished the first round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly so that he compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he had found the carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking on each other's heels, getting in each other's way and giving each other unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them to sit down and eat their suppers and so did Gabriel but they said there was time enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general laughter.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">From "The Dead" by James Joyce</span>Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-54104126872555673922010-09-28T13:42:00.000+00:002013-06-13T13:12:16.833+00:00What a lovely picnic!<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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... he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.</div>
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From <i>The Wind in the Willows</i> by Kenneth Grahame</div>
Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-50394337815089204112010-08-17T21:00:00.017+00:002013-06-13T13:11:36.441+00:001940s party food<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I read <i>Onions in the Stew</i> by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betty_MacDonald">Betty MacDonald</a> some time last year and noted down some food quotations from the book to post on my book blog, but then I though they would be better suited to this blog. Here are some of her hilarious descriptions of 1940s party food. I can’t imagine any of it being good. Edibility may have been an optional extra in some cases.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">…I looked and looked at my salad trying to guess what it was. When it could not be avoided any longer I took a bite and it <i>was</i> tuna fish and marshmallows and walnuts and pimento (just for the pretty colour, our hostess explained later when she was giving up the recipe) and chunks of pure white lettuce and boiled dressing. I almost gagged, both Anne and Joan nudged me and giggled, but most of the other ladies shrieked ‘delicious!’ ‘heavenly!’ and ‘so different!’ (‘different’ was quite right) and so the beaming hostess gave us the recipe…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was at another baby shower that I first encountered a ring mould of mushroom soup, hardboiled eggs, canned shrimps (that special brand that taste like Lysol) and lime Jello, the centre heaped with chopped sweet pickles, the whole topped with a mustardy-sweet salad dressing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">An evening party during elections produced casual refreshments of large, cold, slightly sweet hamburger buns spread with relish, sweet salad dressing, dried beef and cheese, then whisked under the broiler just long enough to make the cheese gummy and the relish warm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At another shower (wedding I believe) we were served <i>tuna fish</i> chow mein with rancid noodles. A garden club meeting, creamed tuna fish and peanuts over canned asparagus. A hospital group dredged up a salad of elbow macaroni, pineapple chunks, Spanish peanuts, chopped cabbage, chopped marshmallows, ripe olives and salad dressing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I could go on and on <i>ad nauseam</i> and not even scratch the surface of the desserts which veer towards you ‘just take a devil’s food cake, make a filling of whipped cream, peanut brittle, chocolate chips and custard … and freeze’. I don’t know what is happening to the women of America but it ought to be stopped.</span></div>
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Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-42044052475926695052010-08-10T21:04:00.004+00:002017-03-16T10:30:23.334+00:00A sauce I'd like to try:<blockquote class="tr_bq">
His specialty, Meyer's Superior Cocktail Dip, is made with dry Chinese mustard moistened to the proper consistency with Tabasco sauce. The unsuspecting have been known to leap four feet straight up into the air after scooping up a tiny portion on a potato chip. Strong men have come down running and gone right through the wall when they missed the open doorway.</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Travis McGee, speaking of his friend Meyer, from <i>The Dreadful Lemon Sky</i> by John D. MacDonald.</span></span><br />
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Here's a<a href="http://www.recipesource.com/munchies/appetizers/meyers-fire1.html"> possible recipe</a>.</div>
Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-29033720141750065282010-06-10T22:49:00.004+00:002010-06-11T18:29:19.469+00:00Julie & JuliaLast night I rented and watched the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Julie & Julia</span>. For those not familiar with it, it is a biographical film of cookbook author and TV cook Julia Child, and of blogger Julie Powell, who rose to fame in the blogging world when she cooked every single recipe from Child’s <i>Mastering the Art of French Cooking</i> and wrote a deservedly popular blog about it.<br /><br />Unfortunately the two biographies were not created equal. Julia Child’s life in France and the writing of the cookbook she co-authored and that made her famous is contrasted with Julie Powell’s life in New York in the naughties and her struggle to find herself. It is possible to make an ordinary life interesting, but the film manages to make Powell’s story so utterly dull and <i>un</i>interesting by comparison with Child's that I wanted to shout every time the film cut from Child to Powell.<br /><br />Why couldn’t they just have made a biopic about Julia Child? Lord knows she deserves a full 2 hours to herself. With her war-time career, the romance with her husband, interesting characters, plenty of food porn, an interesting setting and era and Meryl Streep in the lead role it could and probably would, have been a hit. As it stands, the only way I will watch it again is with my finger on the fast forward button to get past the Julia Powell scenes.<br />--<br /><br /><b>P.S.</b> Look for the occasional foodie movie review on this blog in the future.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-65745087377825585562010-03-26T23:04:00.002+00:002011-04-27T13:49:21.584+00:00Hungarian goulashI first tasted real goulash at a restaurant in the Czech capital, Prague (we have something called gúllas in Iceland, but it's really more like a version of ragout). My parents, with whom I was travelling, ordered something safe and generic (fried chicken if I recall rightly), but I was feeling adventurous and ordered the goulash. I was rewarded by a big smile from the waiter who was clearly delighted that the tourist had ordered something unexpected. The stew was excellent, and the dumplings were good, but lay heavy in my belly afterwards. Goulash may have originated in Hungary, but the Czechs have made it their own.<br /><br />Flash forward several years:<br /><br />One weekend not so long ago stewing beef was on discount at a local supermarket and I brought home a tray of it. I decided I wanted to make goulash, but for various reasons, mostly to do with unobtainable ingredients and/or the sheer number of ingredients in the recipes, I chose not to use one from <i>Hungarian Cuisine</i>, but instead went for one of my big mixed-cuisine cookbooks, namely <a href="http://cooking-challenge.blogspot.com/2007/10/cookbook-of-week-spice-cookbook.html">The Spice Cookbook</a>, which I have already reviewed and posted several recipes from. In it I found this excellent and simple recipe for goulash, (which I have altered a little bit):<br /><br />Round 1:<br />1 kg. (2 lbs) stewing beef<br />2 tbs. shortening (an absolutely authentic recipe would use lard)<br />2 medium-sized yellow onions, thinly sliced<br /><br />Round 2:<br />1 tsp. salt<br />1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper<br />2 tsp. Hungarian paprika powder<br />1/8 tsp. cayenne-pepper<br />1 cup water<br /><br />Round 3:<br />3 average-sized potatoes, cut into eights<br />1/3 cup green capsicum (bell pepper), chopped into small pieces (about 1 cm, 2/5 inch)<br /><br />Round 4.<br />1 tsp. Hungarian paprika powder<br /><br />Trim any fat off the meat and cut it into even-sized cubes, about 2,5 cm (1 inch) square. Melt half the shortening in a deep frying pan or saucepan and brown the meat on all sides. Remove from the pan, add the remaining shortening and gently fry the onions over low heat until golden. Return the meat to the pan and add the Round 2 ingredients.<br /><br />Simmer under a lid for 90 minutes or until the meat is almost tender enough to eat (will take less time if you use a nice, tender cut). Add the Round 3 ingredients and continue simmering under a lid for 30 minutes more, or until the potatoes are cooked through. Add the remaining paprika. Adjust flavour with salt and pepper if necessary.<br /><br />Serve warm with rice or Hungarian bread dumplings, and a salad.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Notes:</span><br /><ul><li>Good enough that I wrote it into my recipe notebook where I put recipes I have tested that have turned out good enough for me to make them again.</li><li>Works with lamb as well, but not as flavourful. I would use lamb or mutton shanks rather than cutlet meat if I try it again with lamb.</li></ul>Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-34083940648923314912009-10-25T09:00:00.000+00:002009-10-26T12:54:33.192+00:00Holiday noticeI am off to India for the next 5 weeks. I will not be posting anything during that time.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-44385626135618411692009-09-22T19:03:00.002+00:002011-04-27T13:49:21.586+00:00Hungarian ox-tail stewSome years ago I acquired a Hungarian cookbook, <i>Hungarian Cuisine: A complete cookery book</i> by József Venesz. Like many of my cookbooks it is second hand, but judging from its appearance, which is more shelf-worn than kitchen-worn, it hasn't been used much. There is a lovely bit of calligraphy on the fly-leaf, indicating that is was probably a birthday present, so it makes me wonder why the previous owner let it go. Perhaps she decided it was time it went to someone who might use it more?<br /><br />Whatever the reason, I am glad I acquired it, and now that I have tried one recipe from it, I will definitely be trying more. Here is the recipe, with my comments in square brackets:<br /><br /><b>Ox-tail with sour cream</b> (Tejfölös ököruszály)<br /><b><i>Ingredients:</i></b><br /><ul><li>2 kg (4 lb.) ox-tail</li><li>150 g (5 oz.) mixed vegetables (carrots, turnips, celeriac)</li><li>100 g (4 oz.) lard [my only substitution – I used butter because you can not get lard for love or money around here unless you personally know a butcher (which I do, but he lives on the other end of the country)]</li><li>A pinch of black pepper<br /></li><li>A pinch of thyme</li><li>2 bay leaves</li><li>60g (2 1/2 oz.) onions</li><li>100 ml (4 fl.oz.) white wine</li><li>1/2 lemon (both zest and juice)</li><li>300 ml (1/2 pt) sour cream</li><li>50 g (1 oz.) flour</li><li>30 g (1 oz.) mustard [it doesn‘t say what kind, so I used Dijon as I didn‘t have the dry type. It turned out really good]</li><li>20 g (3/4 oz.) sugar</li><li>1 tsp salt</li></ul><br />If it is whole, wash the ox-tail thoroughly in warm water, and then cold water, pat dry and cut into pieces 2-3 cm (1 – 1 1/2 inch) thick. Salt.<br /><br />Cut the vegetables into thick slices and coarsely chop the onion. Melt the lard in an oven-proof dish and add the vegetables, onion, pepper, bay leaves and thyme. Add the ox-tail pieces and roast in the oven, stirring from time to time.<br /><br />When nicely browned, put everything in a saucepan, add the wine, the thinly pared lemon zest [you can grate it if you want to, but it doesn't really matter, as it will not be served with the finished dish] and a little stock or water. Cover and simmer slowly for 2-3 hours [or however long it takes for the ox-tail meat to become tender]. Add a little water from time to time. <br /><br />[At this point you will have a richly flavoured stew that could easily be served as it is. The next step will turn it into something delicious].<br /><br />When the meat is tender, mix together the sour cream and flour into a smooth paste and add to the stew, along with the mustard, sugar and lemon juice. Cook for another 10 minutes. Remove the meat pieces from the stew and put into another saucepan, straining the gravy over the meat. Bring to the boil, remove from the heat and serve hot with bread dumplings or macaroni. <br />[The gravy will be very thick. The butter floated up on top, but I'm guessing that the lard might stay mixed in??].<br /><br /><b>P.S.</b> The stuff that remains in the strainer is way too tasty not to eat it ...Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-2911892177286955802009-08-11T09:00:00.000+00:002011-04-27T13:49:21.589+00:00Greek roasted leg of lambI tried this with a rack of lamb, and it was delicious. I expect that a leg would be even better, because more of it would be actually cooked <i>in</i> the wine.<br /><br />To serve 8 (or 5-6 hungry Icelanders)<br /><br />1 leg of lamb, about 3 kilos<br />4 cloves garlic, slivered<br />2 tbs olive oil<br />1 tbs dried oregano<br />1 tbs coarsely ground black pepper<br />1 cup dry white wine<br /><br />Preheat the oven to 200°C.<br /><br />Cut small, deep slits all over the leg of lamb and insert the garlic slivers. Brush the meat with olive oil. Mix together the oregano and pepper and rub all over the meat.<br /><br />Put into a roasting pan and pour in the wine. Put in the oven and reduce the heat to 175°C and roast for about 90 minutes (for rare meat), basting occasionally. If you use a meat thermometer, rare meat should read 60°C. If you prefer it better done, follow the instructions that should have come with the thermometer, or give the meat 30 minutes more.<br /><br />Let the meat rest for 10 minutes before serving. Strain the pan juices, skim off the fat and serve the juices with the meat.<br /><br />The recipe originally came from Sheila Lukins' (of Silver Palate fame) <i>All Around the World Cookbook</i>, a hefty volume that another BookMooch member was kind enough to ship to me from Canada.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126220423063677437.post-4373272484493644382009-08-04T19:11:00.003+00:002011-04-27T13:49:21.591+00:00Thai grilled chickenThis is a refreshingly fresh, medium hot marinade for chicken that I tried recently: <br /><br />To serve 4:<br /><br />4 fresh red chili peppers, sliced, stem and seeds removed<br />2 cloves of garlic, chopped<br />5 shallots, thinly sliced<br />2 tsp crumbled palm sugar<br />150 ml <a href="http://www.foodsubs.com/Nondairy.html">coconut cream</a> (not cream of coconut!)<br />2 tsp fish sauce<br />1 tbs tamarind water (see recipe below)<br />4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless<br /><br />Pulp the chili pepper, garlic and shallots using a mortar and pestle or food processor. Add the palm sugar, coconut cream, fish sauce and tamarind water.<br /><br />Cut 4 shallow slits in each chicken breast with a sharp knife. Put the chicken breasts on a shallow dish and pour the marinade over them. Turn over in the marinade to coat well. Cover the dish and set aside for an hour or so.<br /><br />Preheat the grill. Put the marinated chicken breasts on aluminium foil and put under the grill for 4 minutes, turn over and grill the other side for 4 minutes as well (the breasts I used needed 7 minutes on each side), brushing occasionally with the marinade. Garnish with basil or cilantro leaves.<br /><br />Serve with rice.<br /><br /><b>Recipe for tamarind water</b>: <br />Pour 60 ml boiling water over 5 g tamarind pulp. Soak for a few minutes, break up with a spoon and let soak for 30 minutes. Pour the liquid through a strainer and press as much of the pulp through it as possible. Discard the remaining pulp.Bibliophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10960676264710788969noreply@blogger.com0