Don’t be fooled into buying the pale spring lamb that fills supermarket shelves as the daffodils tentatively raise their yellow heads, the “finest lamb in the world”- according to top Launceston butchers Philip Warren & Son – is actually mid-June to the end of August. And comes from Cornwall. Read More
Turn on the telly and you’re likely to catch a bearded man foraging on Channel 4 or a BBC fledgling MasterChef shouting about seasonal and local; look at your bookshelf and you’ve probably got at least one over-priced TV-endorsed cookbook which you’ve barely opened. Yet despite our recent ‘food renaissance’, some of the most obvious sources of local and seasonal food don’t feature in our shops, on our shopping lists or even on our culinary radars. Read More
Having recently finished founder of the Idler Society, Tom Hodgkinson’s medieval manifesto: How To Be Free, The Three Hungry Boys’ new book: How To Catch, Trap, Forage And Generally Blag Your Way To Survival In The Wild, made an excellent complement. Not only can I now be free and give up full-time work (thank you Tom) but I can dine on spear-gun-caught fish (line-caught is so passé), make my own butter, smoke a mackerel, skin a rabbit, make mayonnaise, build a shelter to sleep in and swim naked (no lessons needed there thank you).
Last week, the doors of middle class rural idylldom were thrown open to urban sprawl. River Cottage meet the city of Plymouth. A brave move and a welcome injection of provenance pedigree to a city that is upping its gastro stakes and in desperate need of some celebrity tender loving care. Read More
Ribs. Kidneys. Skin. Trotter. Knuckle. We don’t see them often enough. So ask for them. Change the butcher’s mind. Where there is demand there is supply. These particular ribs were a gift with some sausages and hefty pork chops that I got from @beckiePA’s lovely home-reared pigs. The real piggy deal. This shouldn’t be news but it is, our supermarkets are stacked so full of the bright pink stuff masquerading as bacon and screaming maltreated pigs, chemicals and leaking white stuff that real pig is headline news.
Ribs. Two hefty racks + family barbecue = sticky ribs. On Doug Mack’s ‘Cue Quest, he describes the flavour of the ultimate ribs as: “… at once vivacious and grounded, delightfully unexpected, yet elementally familiar, like a bass drum and a snare combining to make the most boogie-inducing jazz riff.”
A challenge had been laid but I knew I couldn’t take on the Americans. I perused a couple of recipes and absorbed a few ideas, the most intriguing being BBC Olive Food’s Dr. Pepper ribs (for the next gifted rack). So this is what I plumped for in the end:
It was a store cupboard motley crew marinade that ticked most of the boxes, the sherry adding an extra level of sweetness that worked. Be fickle about quantities, add ginger and garlic, stick your finger in to taste and you can’t really go too wrong. Best marinated up to 24 hours before barbecuing or roasting, but 20 mins is the absolute minimum.
Eat with fingers, get sticky and savour a hugely underrated piece of the pig that is fun, cheap, easy and delicious. Serve with Helen Graves’ astonishingly good Boston baked beans and there’s no real need to leave your garden. Ever. Again.
For a history of barbecuing read the excellent and erudite Mr Oliver Thring
Other rib recipes you may be interested in:
Reviewing the Whitechapel Gallery’s Dining Rooms last weekend, to which Gordon Ramsay protégée, Angela Hartnett, has recently lent her expertise, led me to thinking of the discrepancy between women in the kitchen and celebrity women chefs. Where are they? Or is it simply that behind every Heston, Jamie, Hugh (probably not Nigel) there is a great woman?
It is apparent that Angela had to prove herself under Gordon’s tutelage in a way that no man would have had to, speaking to The Telegraph she explains that: “I really had to show Gordon I could last in the kitchen like men could.” Apparently the kitchen blokes took bets on her not lasting even one day. She lasted just fine, now with an MBE and Michelin star to her name and in a position to break free from Ramsay’s influence by taking over Murano as her own, with plans to open other eateries in the offing.
Much is made of Hartnett’s single status, she herself admits that, “you have no time for a relationship, for a family.” Considering her own close-knit family, with Italian grandparents, the fact that she lives in a house with her sister, owned by her brother and has filled her cook book Cucina with family photos, not much relating to cookery, you’d imagine this to be a big sacrifice on her part. Yet the media manages to turn hard work and self-sacrifice on the part of a woman into anti-maternal, spinster-esque qualities, rather than the heroic depiction of our male chefs, who seem to have gone all Anglo-Saxon on the world, each fighting their own glory battles to save this, that, the fish and his school kids.
Women celebrity chefs, on the other hand, are either ex-models (don’t get me started on Sophie Dahl) fluffing up some cupcakes, rubbing themselves up against the fridge at night or slagged off for being ‘too male’ and taking a stance on fox hunting and even criticised for the lack of femininity deemed necessary to make it as a TV chef. Such Victorian, post-feminist media inconsistencies that sexualize and at the same time bemoan a lack of ‘sexiness’ mean that the best women chefs and foodies remain on the sidelines or confined to our newspaper columns: River Café’s Ruth Rogers, Delia Smith, Clarissa Dickson Wright (who was also a barrister by the way and the youngest woman ever to be called to the Bar) and Mary Berry to name just a few. Whenever I’m in a true kitchen pickle, such as when the farmer next door turns up with a leg of venison, it is to the wise words of Elizabeth David in French Provincial Cooking that I turn, not Gordon, or Jamie, never Heston (but possibly Hugh).
So it was a real treat to sit down to a simple, top quality menu in the Whitechapel Gallery last Saturday and savour a menu devised, advised and supervised by Angela Hartnett. It was unfussy, not too many choices, but ticked the offal (kidneys), unloved veg (cauliflower soup), unusual cuts (pig cheek) and indulgence boxes (chocolate pot) in a well-rounded, confident celebration of British with a twist of Italian that didn’t need to shout, show off, swear or change the world. And that is how I like my food. If only we could see a bit more of it on the telly.
…a cake that helps you to lose weight? Read More