Monday, February 11, 2008

A busy week

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been over a week since my last confession. But before you get the wrong idea, the week has not been spent on foodie regression; a seedy journey into the world of darkness and destruction, of kebabs and microwave pizzas. Don't even suggest it.
No, this week has seen me do more cooking than ever, with such a diverse array of meals as to bemuse even those with the most varied of diets. I have roasted guinea fowl, made a stock with its carcass, made a risotto with that (not good, tasting strongly and bitterly of some inedible offal that hadn't been so scrupulously removed - threw the whole load in the bin and went hungry that night). I have roasted a shoulder of lamb over faintly Greek-style potatoes, cooked up a Moroccan harira (soupy, spiced cheakpea and lamb soup - divine), baked rose-flavoured heart-shaped buns to take to my young cousins, divised a beautifully silky, rich sauce to smother over linguine, and finally polished off the blood orange granita that I made a little too long ago.
And yes, there has been a pizza. Ordered over the telephone, dropped off by a couple of decidedly non-Italian fellows (a betrayal of the company's name, 'Mario's/Luigini's/De Niro's Pizza, something like that), it was thick, bready, greasy - and perfect beyond compare after an evening spent at a grotty local bar, all 15inches of it soaking up the cheap gin and flat tonic.

On the plus side, there has been a trip to Borough (I go every week now), the most profitable yet. I bought more blood oranges, for juice, and some lemons and limes of course; as basic and necessary to me as salt and pepper. My cockles having been warmed by the recent Disney film of the same name, I had an overwhelming urge to make ratatouille, so I bought all those vegetables (aubergine, courgettes, peppers, tomatoes, onions and more garlic), wonderfully evocative of Provence in July. I re-stocked my supplies of chillis and lemongrass, and then went in search of the second fishmonger, which is to say not the one with the enormous counter displaying huge monkfish with their gaping, desperate jaws. My uncle had told me of the other, promising it was by far the superior, with the freshest fish possible. I wasn't diappointed.

I arrived when one of the guys was unpacking the fish and displaying it on the counter. The stall, by the way, is to be found around the corner from the organic stalls pushing wheatgrass shots like the Californian answer to the much less worky double espresso. This man was fantastic, as even though I'd explained that I wouldn't be able to buy that day due to a weekend away, he still spent a huge amount of time getting out various fish; stunning John Dory, or St. Peter's fish with the mark of the disciple on its side; gloriously fat, shiny mackerel and heaps of beautiful squid, their tentacles dribbling over the tiled floor. All the fish comes from their own boats in Dorset, and not from Billingsgate market, and the other guy there had hand-dived the scallops himself. Nothing could be better; this is the sort of thing we should fight for tooth and nail. What's more, it's not too expensive: the freshest, most glisteningy perfect stuff, like mackerel, £5.75 per kilo. Go there.

Finally, a quick foray into Neal's Yard for some Doorstone and Cornish Yarg, and a whizz by the Comte stall - such a fab cheese, I couldn't resist. Oh, and then a jasmine plant - there is sunlight now and it'll be beautifully abundant with some care. Moreover, it is the one scent my father, to whom I do not speak, could never stand, making it all the sweeter to me. Bittersweet perhaps, but not too bitter; I have my rich, velvety ratatouille to keep me sweet.

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