Felicity Cloake

A month and a half after the event, I finally feel I’ve cogitated sufficiently on Pig Day to commit some words to screen on the subject. Yes, I’m about to cast my pearls of wisdom before the swine of Dingley Dell Farm. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Pig Day, let me quote Donald Edwards, one of the twin geniuses behind the festivities (see also, Rachel McCormack of Catalan Cooking):

And that’s how it happened. Kind of. Bleary-eyed after a drunken night of sausages and Scrabble, Alex and I rolled into Suffolk in no mood to slaughter anything, so it was fortunate that food safety regulations dictated that meat must be allowed to come down to chilling temperature before butchering – and thus the beast we were about to eat was already dead while we were still glugging wine and talking up our foodie credentials. (“Yeah, so, only a small glass, we’ve got to get up early and kill a pig”). More welcome, however, were the roast pork rolls awaiting us at Dingley Dell, which set off the Hayward bros’ talk about pig welfare very nicely indeed:

One thing that I took away from our little ride in the pig trailer, and our tour around the pig fields, was that pork labelling in this country is in need of reform. Pork can be sold as ‘produced in the UK’ as long as the last significant change to it took place in this country: so sausages made from, say, Irish pork (farrowing crates are still legal in the Republic, stalls so narrow the sow is hardly able to stand up, and certainly unable to turn round, to stop her accidentally crushing her pigletss) can still carry a British flag if they were processed in this country.

These silky little lovelies were about six hours old – their skins had the incredible translucent glow of creatures that had never breathed the cruel air of the outside world. (And yes, the question of sucking pigs did come up – they don’t do them at Dingley Dell; “it just doesn’t seem fair somehow.”)

Outside, marauding packs of slightly older little pigs galloped around, mischievously intent on disturbing the peace of their long suffering mothers.

The teenage pigs move into marquee-style enclosure with their peers a few weeks before slaughter – Mark says that there’s only a couple of truly free-range pig farms in the UK, simply because the cost, and unpredictability, of the final product puts off most retailers and restauranteurs. I’d like to think that one day this might change, but in any case, this lot – the upper fifth of boisterous pigdom – looked happy enough to this inexperienced eye. They were pretty shy at first, but once they got used to the presence of a load of cooing cameras, they gradually plucked up the courage to edge towards the branches we were proffering as bait.

Warning: here ends the cute bit. Only one pig features from now on, and it’s pretty dead, as you might imagine, given the next item on the schedule was a butchery demonstration from Wayne and Jim of Suffolk Meat Traders, who deftly sliced up our carcass while we scoffed some brekker:

And if anyone sees anything bizarre in the juxtaposition, I’m afraid you’re probably reading the wrong blog – all that tramping around the farm had really worked up an appetite.

Time to get cooking. I was put on to the morcilla team, making a sweetly spiced black pudding with a few buckets of blood Donald had procured from God knows where. Once I overcame my initial squeamishness (curious, how reluctant I was to taste it in its raw form, given cow’s blood is my absolute favourite chip dipping sauce), this was enormous fun, mixing paella rice, chopped onion, parsley, cloves, pig fat (so soft!), black pepper and lots of lots of gloopy blood And then we ate. How we ate. To be continued…

So, I’ve been away for a while. Five days cruising down the Rhine on a tidal wave of flammkuchen and Riesling, seven days in Croatia eating as much grilled squid as I could lay my lips on, and then a little hiatus of shock after receiving the rather incredible honour of two awards from the Guild of Food Writers: Food Journalist of the Year for my work for the Guardian and Fire & Knives, and the New Media award for my Guardian Word of Mouth column. I’m back in the land of the living now, having recovered sufficiently from the shock to dare put some scented stocks in one of the commemorative vases, and with a whole heap of photos to discuss here. Word of Mouth were kind enough to celebrate this with a little piece, to which I refer anyone interested, as I feel authentically British about the idea of boasting any further. But thank you, everyone. (AMAZING!!!! ahem.)

Pig Day, the Rhine and Croatia all deserve posts to themselves, so here’s a little pick and mix of other stuff I’ve enjoyed since getting back. First up, today’s excitement: a whole punnet of flat peaches courtesy of Whole Foods. (A rare bargain from my favourite pushers of organic acerola juice at only £2.99.) Flat peaches always make me feel happy for no apparent reason – I put it down to the miniature dachshund effect; squashed things just get the sympathy juices flowing. A sneak preview of next week’s column (wowzas) – tomato salsa stirred into some scrambled eggs for lunch. My post-university trip to Mexico yielded many great discoveries, from spiced hot chocolate to the fact that squid doesn’t only come deep fried, but the joy of chilli-laden breakfasts was one of my favourites – my abiding memory of Indian breakfasts is hostel peanut butter toast – and Huevos Mexicana is the king of the castle.  And this is kind of a knave version.

and yet another salsa in yet another setting:

Right, enough food self-indulgence. Next post will actually be informative, and hopefully a little bit interesting too. No promises though.

Throwing parties, and gawping at other people’s weddings are two of my very favourite things, so I was nearly as excited about 29th April as the happy couple themselves – especially once I’d managed to find someone generous enough to drive a massive television across London in time for the kick-off (well, we missed Rowan Atkinson’s arrival, but hey, that’s what Huw Edwards and his interminable highlights were there for). Guest of honour, of course, was HM herself, simultaneously resplendent in yellow at the Abbey, and blending in well with our very regal hallway light fitting.

As usual I was far too ambitious, given the inevitability of Things cropping up directly before any such event, and the trouble I had tracking down a bottle of Dubonnet to toast the Queen Mother with, or indeed any bunting, so eggs royale turned into scrambled eggs with Waitrose’s Heston Blumenthal Lapsang Souchong smoked salmon, muffins and hollandaise. By the time I’d gone through three boxes of eggs, I was too hungry to take a picture sadly. No time for the g & tea cocktail from the latest issue of delicious. magazine either: it was bucks fizz all the way.

Once the newlyweds were picking their painfully slow way to Buck House, we fell upon the buffet like Fergie on a News of the World petard. Above are the Parma ham and cheese sausage rolls which also feature in delicious. (I made them at 1am, so even I can see they’re not the prettiest of beasts) – I must admit to having been sceptical about the idea of either of these additions, but Sharon convinced me, and she was right. The ham added a delicious salty crispness to the pastry, and the cheese, well, cheese is cheese, and thus requires no further justification.

Clarence Court quails eggs with celery salt – I fussed about peeling these beforehand, but actually the slightly fiddly nature of them meant there were lots left over for me, which made me happy.

I wasn’t going to get away without producing perfect coronation chicken of course

but Liz very kindly brought a homemade pork pie

and Anna deftly knocked up some cucumber sandwiches as if to the manor born. That’s manor, as in Sandringham, rather than manor, as in ‘endz’. I always forget how good, made with proper bread, and a judicious amount of salted butter, these can be.

This Pimms jelly, from the latest issue of olive magazine, was a bit of a let down as far as I was concerned, although I did hear someone describe it as “boozy”. It tasted just like a glass of the stuff, but Pimms is, by design, a long and refreshing tipple, rather than an intensely flavoured one, so the general impression was just a bit boring. If I made it again, I’d do it with homemade lemonade, for a stronger, more citric sugar hit, and put in more alcohol. That solves most things, I find. (It’s that kind of attitude that makes you proud to be British eh?)

Having made grandiose claims about wedding cakes some weeks ago, my pride was saved by William’s alternative choice: a fridge cake made with McVities Rich Tea biscuits, recipe kindly supplied by Nigella Lawson in the Mail. It contained ruinous amounts of sugary milk chocolate (admittedly, this was my choice based on what I know about small boys’ tastebuds) and condensed milk, and was disconcertingly sticky, even after a night in the freezer, but my brandy-soaked fruit and the gold leaf left over from our Christmas party helped add a little, um, sophistication to proceedings. Remind me next time there’s a royal bash: keep it simple, and concentrate on the telly instead.

So, Lent – all 46 meat-free days of it – is done and dusted for another year, and I’m back on the good stuff. Or, at least, some of the good stuff; given how fond I was of vegetables already, there was never going to be any sort of Damescene moment at the end of this, tofu excepted (and I think that counts as only a partial conversion, although I do still have my chocolate tofu cake to make). After running to the new Turner gallery at Margate and back in the Saturday sunshine with my brother and brother-in-law, we tucked into James Elliot’s dry-cured bacon on Kentish sourdough (transported to Kent, naturally enough, from St Pancras) with a generous slick of English mustard. It was gone in minutes, and it felt like I’d never been away. No angelic choirs, no crying piglets, just business as usual.

I had more time to reflect upon lunch – fish and dripping chips with heaps of salt in the sun in Sandwich: check out that cascade of crisp batter on the end (which later went to my nephew Harry). Dinner was smoked salmon, followed by my dad’s cassoulet: confit duck, sausage and yet more bacon – bliss. I didn’t intend to go on as I started, but thanks to some wedding on Friday, for the past couple of days I’ve been eating coronation chicken until it comes out of my ears, and I’m beginning to feel some vegetables are in order. Step in, new season asparagus (hurrah!).

So, what have I learnt from the experience, apart from the (limited) acceptability of tofu? That there’s more than one way to cook green veg (although steamed then sauteed with garlic is still a winner). That aubergines can be steamed as well as fried. That Marmite is an acceptable substitute for anchovies in many, if not all, situations. And, most importantly, that I should be more adventurous in my everyday cookery. I don’t think that my eating habits will change significantly as a result, (although I am going to be firmer with myself when it comes to trying new recipes) given that I didn’t eat much meat to start with, but, after finally finishing Safran Foer’s Eating Animals on Saturday, I am going to make more of an effort to only eat meat I’m comfortable with. If someone invites me to dinner, I’m certainly not going to go through their bin to check the chicken is organic, but I won’t be buying any non-organic chicken or pork unless I know the suppliers (organic for me is more about the quality of life given to the animals, rather than the various chemicals involved). But what about the lamb kebabs which have been torturing me nightly as I cycle home through Dalston? Can one mistreat a lamb? And what about Byron burgers? They’re pretty damn tasty, but they’re not organic. I don’t, I’m afraid, have Safran Foer’s strength of character: I’m not willing to make that commitment, and that, I suspect, puts me in the same category as any common or garden fried chicken addict in his eyes. But it’s better than nothing.

Having come out the other end of my index alive (just), I feel compelled to post again just to reassure myself that I haven’t, in fact, given up – yet (and with only two days to go, and the bacon for Saturday morning’s breakfast already in the fridge, I don’t think it’s tempting to fate to say I smell victory, as well as broccoli, in the air). I haven’t been cooking much in the past fortnight, mostly because I’ve been chewing my own hand off (but not eating it) trying to remember if n comes before or after o and similarly complex issues. Above is the mighty Kappacasein cheese sandwich, with three sorts of allium (count em!) Sharon and I scoffed at Borough last Thursday lunchtime, well away from the heavenly scent of the Brinsida grill – enjoyable, but so overwhelmingly cheesy that next time I think I’ll go halves on one, and have a sausage as well. (Healthy eh?)

On Saturday night, I was confronted by a mighty rib of Dexter beef, brought down by John and Charlotte from their Northamptonshire farm, and expertly cooked by their daughter, my friend Alex, along with some broccoli with hazelnuts and lemon zest, carrots baked with cumin, and anya potatoes. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I felt quite sad, until I tasted the Sarah Raven spinach, Parmesan and pine nut quiche she’d made me (my heart is welling up at the memory – both because of the effort she’d gone to, and the amount of cream and cheese in the recipe). God it was good. I couldn’t honest regret the beef after tasting it. (Apologies for rubbish phone photos BTW – I’m too greedy to make a good food blogger.)

I cooked Ottolenghi’s grilled aubergines with yoghurt and lentils, except baked with chickpeas instead, earlier in the week to use up the last aubergines from the Sichuan feast, but let’s just say it isn’t the most photogenic of dishes, being mostly brown and textureless, so I’ll leave you to imagine it looking as nice as it tasted.

Last point: we bought some of these babies last weekend, for the simple reason I hadn’t a clue what they were, and the greengrocer didn’t know their English name. I’ve since found out, after eating one raw (ugh) that they’re medlars: sure my mum once made medlar jam, but any other ideas?

Last week the nice people at Riverford Organics very kindly sent me a box full of their lovely muddy veg (carrots that actually smelt of … carrots when I peeled them. Incredible), and, thanks to the lovely weather, and being out a lot saying no to ham and meatballs and yes to sherry, I’ve been dealing mostly in salads this week. Baked beetroot with a mustardy vinaigrette, dill and sour cream (the fruits of the barszcz marathon) was Tuesday’s. It was inspired by a Diana Henry recipe, but I added the dressing myself, because I can’t bear beetroot without something acidic to balance all that woody sweetness. I blame it on the fact that, until I was about 14, I believed it grew pickled. Polish sour cream really is good by the way.

Don’t usually find myself eating fresh tomatoes as this time of year, but these, dressed in yet another mustardy vinaigrette, this time with rosemary, were surprisingly good – cool and savoury, rather than intense or sweet, but a welcome flavour of the summer to come.

Then tonight, in for the first time this week, I embarked upon something from Guy Watson and Jane Baxter’s Riverford Farm Cook Book. I was going to make a lemony salad (no mustard, promise) from the fine cauliflower that was the crowning glory of the box, but a girl can only eat so much raw stuff, so instead I went for Jane’s cauliflower and potato dal, inspired by her time in the all-female kitchen at the famous Hansa’s Gujerati in Leeds.

Dal never ever disappoints, and this, made by softening onions and celery (a surprising ingredient here, to my mind) with garlic, ginger, curry powder, nutmeg and black pepper, then adding yellow split peas and vegetable stock, then cubes of potato, and then, finally the cauliflower, and letting it all simmer until cooked through. The genius of the dish, I think, really lies in the ‘final frying’ as it’s referred to in the book: thin slices of shallots and garlic fried with mustard seeds and chilli flakes, laced with lemon juice and sugar and stirred through just before serving.

Lovely wholesome texture, with a nice contrast between the yielding spuds and pulses, and the slightly crunchy cauliflower, plus a unusually punchy flavour for a daal. Lucky I made enough for 4…

Vegetarian MaPo Tofu

One of my ambitions, when embarking upon this Lenten challenge, was to embrace beancurd. I’ve never really liked its slightly eggy texture, or milky blandness, but 40 days of vegetarianism seemed like ample opportunity to reconcile myself to the stuff. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I saw my opportunity – a friend on Twitter posted a link to a vegetarian version of a famous Sichuan dish, MaoPo tofu, traditionally made with pork or beef, by bloggers Yasmin at Le Sauce, and Jenny Gao of jing theory. Now, ever since hearing Fuchsia Dunlop speak at Taste of London a few years back, and devouring her seriously brilliant memoir of her time in the province, Sharks Fin and Sichuan Pepper,  I’ve been mildly obsessed with Sichuan food, whose virtues are amply displayed in the name of my favourite starter, hot and numbing beef. So this seemed promising.

Having gathered a motley mixture of tofu aficionados (Anna, Bethan and Liz), tofu takers or leavers (Rhys and Ian) and tofu deniers (Jot and myself), I set about planning my menu – because obviously I wasn’t going to put my trust entirely in beancurd. As well as Yasmin and Jenny’s MaoPo tofu, I made a selection of cold starters, in obedience to Fuchsia’s observation that ‘a Sichuanese feast always begins with a teasing spread of cold dishes to arouse the senses, open the stomach … and set the mood for the meal to come.’

So, with the help of her Sichuan Cookery, and five different Chinese grocers and supermarkets, I made the following:

Strange-flavour peanuts

The wonderfully named strange-flavour peanuts, encased in a ‘crisp fudgey paste’ made from salt, sugar, rice vinegar, chilli powder and roasted Sichuan pepper (which has a curious tingly, slightly citric flavour) …

Roasting sichuan peppercorns

I managed to get this wrong the first time – Fuchsia suggests heating the sugar solution to 125C, which, according to my (presumably faulty) thermometer, is a temperature more associated with black treacle than syrup, and resulted in an enormous bitter black hedgehog of nuts that went straight in the bin. The second time around, and running out of peanuts, I was perhaps a little too cautious, and the nuts, although tasty, weren’t terribly sticky. Next up, soy bean pods blanched with ginger, dried chillis and Sichuan pepper (discovering you could buy these things unpodded has saved me a fortune in itsu):

Soybeans with sichuan pepper - mao dou

…then spicy cucumber salad, which reeled me in with step 4, ‘heat a wok over a high heat … add the cucumber pieces and stir and toss for about 10 seconds.’ Cooked cucumber, an idea that’s intrigued me ever since reading Julie and Julia, was a shoe-in. These are some funny little ones I found in one of the local greengrocers:

I salted them, squeezed the excess water out, then briefly tossed with dried chillis and Sichuan pepper, and served drizzled with sesame oil.

Spicy cucumber salad

I absolutely love salted cucumbers, I’d definitely make this again.

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Steamed aubergines with chilli sauce

Steamed aubergines with chilli sauce – a bit of a hit. Never steamed an aubergine before, but, as someone (Liz?) pointed out, it’s a clever way to stop them sponging up vast amounts of oil. The sauce was made from light soy sauce, Chinkian vinegar, sugar, chilli and sesame oils. I’m guessing that it’s served as a dipping sauce for that very reason – toss them both together and you may as well have deep fried them (mmmm…)

Lettuce with sesame sauce: not the prettiest of dishes, I concede, but I’m a sucker for cooked lettuce. The sauce, made from light soy, sesame oil and tahini, added an oddly Ottolenghi-ish touch to the meal.

Finally the star attraction – the tofu. Fuchsia’s recipe included the traditional minced beef garnish, but Jenny and Yasmin’s cleverly substitutes mushrooms instead, which provide a similar depth of savoury flavour without offending my deep-set principles. With it we had Jasmine rice, and some stir-fried greens with copious amounts of garlic.

Stir-fried kai lan with garlic

I’m pleased to boast I am an utter convert to the joys of tofu in this specific context (I remain to be convinced more generally). The sauce is so intensely flavoured – aromatic, hot, savoury with femented beans – that any other protein would have been too much. The silky, creamy blandness of beancurd, however, sets it off beautifully. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that, the next evening, I ordered the same dish (well, without the mushrooms, but also without the meat) at Bar Shu (see, I told you I liked Sichuan food). In fact, everyone claimed to enjoy it; perhaps it was the Chinese beer I found on offer in Morrisons:

Last up, the dish I was secretly most excited about – pudding. I couldn’t find any Sichuan desserts that appealed (sweet potato cakes sounded like they’d go down like a carb balloon after that lot), so I cheated and skipped a few thousand miles south to recreate one of the jellies I loved so much in Singapore a couple of years ago.

These are made with appropriately lurid agar agar powder and coconut milk, flavoured with pandan leaf: although the set was disconcertingly firm (something I seem to remember was true at the time too), they went down a treat. (The recipe in my Singaporean recipe book called for me to fold a beaten egg white into the mixture, but this spoilt the slippery texture, so I didn’t bother for the green batch – not sure what benefit it would bring?)

Coconut and pandan leaf jelly

Poor Ian sadly couldn’t make it, on account of having inconveniently broken his jaw, so this picture is for him. (Hopefully he might have progressed on to something slightly more solid than jelly by this time.)

Mission accomplished. Finally I see the point of beancurd: ma po dou fu. Next stop, a chocolate tofu cake that came up in conversation on Saturday. It can’t be worse than our Delia’s efforts with instant mash, surely.

This weekend wasn’t very fruitful, in vegetarian terms. By which I don’t mean that I ate a big burger at the boat race, tempting as that was in the joy of victory (the last time I’ll mention it, but TROUNCED), but that I was out from 11am on Saturday until half ten on Sunday night, during which time my diet consisted mainly of Marmite-flavoured cashew nuts (turns out it’s quite possible to consume an entire bag with no ill effects), a superb breakfast at the Elk in the Woods in Angel, so good I didn’t even resent the sausages my companion was merrily using as soldiers for a fine-looking duck egg…

(That’s goat’s curd on some sort of lovely nutty rye bread with poached eggs and fancy leaves, since you ask.)

… and a nice picnic in the sun, which I didn’t photograph, because I was too busy eating it. Oh, and my first beanburger, at a blues bar in Camden, which was every bit as it sounds. Texture wise, soft beans and soft bun do not an exciting dinner make. (This recipe, which comes with strong recommendations, is on my to-do list though.)

Anyway, back to the actual cookery. On Monday afternoon, I made the tart at the top of this post, featured in Denis Cotter’s Wild Garlic, Gooseberries and Me (which actually only contains 3 wild garlic recipes, but this is a good one: Cafe Paradiso is the best vegetarian restaurant I’ve ever been to, although admittedly, the list is not long). It has quite a workaday shortcrust base, lined with layers of blanched wild garlic, mixed with goat’s feta and toasted pine nuts, and thinly sliced potatoes – the whole, of course, held together by a beautiful marriage of eggs and double cream.

I ate it this evening (last night being pub quiz night, and a white onion soup, plus a rhubarb crumble to sweeten our outrageous defeat), with a salad. I digress, but these bags of organic stuff, available from the farmers’ market at the weekend, at at Whole Foods during the week, have changed the way I look at leaves. I’ve never been an enormous lettuce fan – the flavour just seems boring to me, but there’s always something interesting – peppery, mustardy, citric, even bitter – to eat here (although last week, a bit too much of the wild garlic):

I found the idea of pine nuts and potato odd, but actually, their subtly sweet, earthy sort of flavours work quite well together – ach, let’s be honest, I’m never going to kick a potato off the plate. Although I’d cooked the slices for 5 minutes in boiling salted water before adding them to the tart, some of them were still disconcertingly firm, which suggests I was probably lazy and cut them too thickly.

On the way home this evening, I stopped off in Chinatown to amass provisions for tomorrow’s tofu challenge. Here’s what I came home with:

As you can see, I’ve invested in some culinary insurance, just in case the beancurd doesn’t work out for me. Fingers crossed…

This evening I had to rush home from work – well, as much as one can rush when at the mercy of the London bus – and write up a wine feature I’ve been working on for the past fortnight, so, although this week hasn’t given me much chance to cook, I saw a chance to rectify the situation. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the contents of the fridge, on toast. Behold!

Yes, it’s steamed kale and purple sprouting broccoli, lightly sauteed with garlic, sprinkled with lemon zest and goat’s feta, and doused liberally in olive oil, then dumped on to some elderly sourdough and consumed at an indigestible pace while flicking through G2 and complaining to my flatmate about how much work I had to do. And then logging on to Facebook.

Ended up at Pizza East after last night’s Japanese beer fest – when you live near La Porchetta, it’s tough to find the motivation to try new pizza places, even when they’re not really new any more. The place smelled comfortingly of salami and, obviously, as per every review, the pizzas sounded amazing. Especially the ones with lardo, thyme and mozzarella, and rabbit, capers and olives.

Hen pointed out to me that there was a particularly delicious tagliatelle which would fit my bill (with chestnuts, kale and pecorino – she’s a bit obsessed with chestnuts after Noma I think) but I was at Pizza East and dammit I was going to eat pizza. Of course, the menu was far too trendily sparse to feature any vegetarian symbols, so we had to play a brief game of “cured meat or fancy cheese?” with the waitress before I settled on one which, in a place less cool, would have been called the four cheese. It’s been a few years since I ordered one of those. I did take some pictures, but the low lighting and the envy couldn’t even do a vegetarian pizza justice, so here a shot of the last time I went for aux quatre fromages – according to the caption, I’m looking mournfully at my dining companion’s steak tartare.

Anyway, suffice to say, mine looked absolutely rubbish compared to the rabbit and lardo-studded numbers opposite (Hen could hardly contain her utter delight, Ben was kinder), and I was quite grumpy, until I tasted the crust, and realised I’d missed the point. Any topping, whether white truffle and gold dust or chinese chicken and pineapple, was mere detail beside this beauty. Chewy, perfectly seasoned and crunchy with polenta, I couldn’t even find it in my heart to resent my dining companions. By which you may infer that I enjoyed myself.