Winter warfare

It was all going fine. I was adjusting to winter with seasonal gastronomy. The days were starting to get cold, really cold, but I was winning the battle. Armed with warming, rustic food, food of real substance, I was keeping spirits up.

Moro cookbook’s Oxtail with rioja and chorizo was cooked over two days but landed a heavy blow in this war of attrition with a hit of spice and warmth which induced thoughts of warmer climates yet felt so appropriate to wintry Britain. Well worth the effort, the suspicious feeling that this winter’s gas bill could cause a stress related ulcer was softened by the economic sense of the dish; a cheap cut of meat cooked in such a way as to produce lots of gorgeously beefy and rioja-y stock with which to make other hearty (which for me often means chorizo based) soups and stews.

Further advances were made thanks to Hollowleg’s Mixed Mushroom Ragu with Cheesy Polenta recipe. My previous attempts at using polenta had all pretty much floundered but feeling inspired I ventured once more and found it to be a fantastic basis for a quick meal (I served it simply with sausages) on evenings that are getting increasingly shorter. Nothing puts a dent in the battle formation of winter weather more than a gooey and rich cheesy polenta, so mature I expected it to come out with war stories of it’s own.

All was going well. Then this happened.

Now on the back foot, suddenly out of ideas, fatigue and weariness setting in, I feel I’m losing the battle. There’s nothing for it but one last charge. Into the valley of death (an icy Tesco car park) I shall ride and either be vanquished (wheels spinning as my poor Punto struggles on the ice) or emerge revitalised, spicy sausage in hand, ready to cook on in this war.

Off the Scale

One of the biggest issues I’ve encountered moving out as a first time buyer is maintaining our successful, gastronomically interesting lives whilst having a less than desirably equipped kitchen.

 Rather than recede into the culinary wasteland I took this bull by the horns; using only my own powerful visual assessment. And if I do say so myself, I think it was quite a success. Recipes such as msmarmitelover's munchkin soufflé (above) and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstal's Welsh Rarebit (below used as a topping for a smoked haddock tart) didn’t suffer for having to eyeball 50g of flour or however much cheddar I decided was sufficient to satisfy my cheesy craving. 

In fact the imposition has been a blessing in disguise. It’s forced me to have patience and do things more carefully. Any idiot can blindly follow a recipe and bludgeon their way through. Mixing ingredients together slowly, dutifully stirring and tasting until you reach the desired result takes a lot more skill and technique. I for one have really enjoyed it.

That said, Christmas isn’t far away and I’m always awkward to shop for.

The First Roast

A 17 hour night shift, returning a neurotic dog to it’s owners, cleaning the house from top to bottom to rid it of the previously mentioned dog’s hair. Like many a pondered exam question I ask, what is the next step in the pattern? The answer, obviously, is attempt to cook my first roast dinner since moving in.

This may not sound that much of a challenge (the first roast bit anyway, not the rest) but using a unfamiliar oven and new roasting tin to make what is more or less my first full roast dinner ever felt pretty daunting. I had high standards to maintain as well, the better half’s mum’s roast are of legendary proportions both in quality and quantity and are, easily, restaurant standard (in fact I’ve eaten more than a few restaurants that she’d beat, and I get lashing of red wine gratis at Chez Gillie).

I was nervous to say the least. Could I keep the pork moist but get some decent crackling? Would the potatoes crisp up having already boiled them to the consistency of smash? I spent so much time watching the Yorkshires, willing them to rise, that the pattern of our kitchen flooring is permanently marked upon my knees. 

Rise they did. Although not a faultless success (some of the yorkies stuck a bit and the pork was slightly over done to my own, hypercritical, taste) there was plentiful crackling and I was given the imperious thumbs up from the better half. A Sunday roast dinner, especially now the weather is worsening and with the days getting shorter and shorter, is a sacred event; the warmth of the kitchen steaming up every window in the house, drinks shared by loved ones, with a chance to put the weeks events into perspective over comforting, unchallenging food. For me, this first roast will always be a success because it gave me that inner feeling of warmth and cosyness that a good roast should.

A Rather Agreeable Agreement

Having recently bought a house and moved in with my better half I have found myself taking part in a rather agreeable trading of skills. In return for doing the vast majority of the housework, the washing and ironing and all those other jobs that all men detest, I simply have to do the cooking and take care of the kitchen!

A little background. I am an aspiring foodie. I drive a clapped out old Punto, I shop at primarche, over time I’ve fashioned the world’s first pair of string boxers and I have kept pairs of trainers for several years after they stopped being waterproof but when eating out, money is no object in search of gastronomic excellence. I love eating tasty and comforting food, all the better if I’m the one who’s cooked it. If there was one thing that would make me love cooking and food even more, ensuring I don’t have to do a lot of the housework is definitely it!

Although the recently acquired mortgage will hinder eating out at many of the nation’s fine restaurants, those I endeavour to visit shall be chronicled here, as well as updates on my varying success at ensuring the better half’s sustenance.