Happy Memories from Gothenburg

I’ve just spent a few hours rather tediously filling out forms associated with moving back from Sweden to the UK. Amazingly it is now nine months since I returned and whilst I am loving being back in London, I do get the odd yearning for the best bits of Sweden: such as rye bread; sizzlingly clear air; the rugged coastline; 5 minute walks to work; boatloads of fish; and a life less hectic.

I found myself looking back through my old Gothenburg 365 blog and thought I’d share some of my favourite pictures from it with you. Forgive my indulgence.

Liver with Brunost Cauliflower Cheese

Brunost (AKA Gjetost or Gudbrandsdalsost) is an amazing substance. It’s a Norwegian cheese that is typically made by mixing goat’s whey with goat’s cream and reducing it down until you get a dense, fudgy, sweet and savoury caremlised cheese that’s really hard to pin down. All Norwegians have a block or tube of it in their fridge which they eat on crackers and other snacks. It was considered healthy because of the high iron content, but it has since been downgraded to a health risk because of the high fat content.

It packs more calories than any other cheese, leaving even the mighty Parmesan in its wake. It’s like a cheesy Daim bar that has a powerful tang.

I first encountered it in Gothenburg when the 6 foot blond Swedish girl with an Irish accent on the cheese counter in the local market gave me a nibble of it and explained that people often lob a bit into the pan juices when they cook a steak or game to make a rich gravy. I gave it a pass at the time, but half a year later had a sudden hankering to try it out.

I asked a few Scandi friends who pointed me in the direction of a few recipes that suggest mixing a small amount with meat juices when cooking steak, elk, moose or venison. I figured that a nice piece of calf’s liver would be just as good and decided to accompany it with a rich Norwegian take on cauliflower cheese that was spiked with fudgy brunost.

Brunost Cauliflower Cheese

Ingredients:

1 head of cauliflower
1 knob of butter
1 tablespoon of flour
100g of gruyere
30g of brunost
150ml of stock or white wine
150ml of milk
Salt and pepper

Method:

Basically, make cauliflower cheese as you normally would by blanching some cauliflower and then smothering in a cheesy, béchamel based sauce, topped with grated brunost.

I like to mix the milk half and half with stock and find that gruyere is an ideal cheese. But what makes this special is the addition of brunost which gives the cauliflower cheese a sweet and sour kick that works brilliantly with the liver.



Simply grate the brunost over the cauliflower cheese and add a few lumps as well as you see fit. Season with salt and pepper and then throw it in the oven for 20 minutes until golden brown.

Then season the liver with salt and pepper, dust with flour and then sear in a very hot pan for a few minutes until the outside is browned and the inside is still pink. Allow to rest somewhere warm and in the meantime deglaze the pan with a spash of red wine. Then whisk in a knob of brunost and reduce until you have a thick, fudgy gravy. Taste as you go and adjust the seasoning.



Serve the liver adorned with brunost sauce and flanked by cauliflower cheese and spinach. For wine pairings for brunost dishes, check out Snooth, but you might be better with beer.

Hake a la Washing Machine

When our washing machine broke down, Cowie was spinning with rage, whilst I grinned to myself and said a quiet prayer to the Gods of domestic appliances, that it might be in a cookable state. I figured that if we had to buy a replacement, my lifelong ambition to cook in a washing machine would be within my grasp.

The engineer’s report indicated that the machine was in a fully functioning state, except that the drum just wouldn’t spin, so he advised us to get a replacement. I figured that this is the dream situation. I checked the internet to see if anyone had done anything like this before and discovered some Americans had, quite brilliantly, attempted to cook scrambled eggs inside whoopee cushions, with highly questionable results. I’ll leave you to ponder what talcum powder-cum-rubbery scrambled eggs would taste like.

When we’ve cooked in lateral ways in the past, we’ve found a sure-fire technique is to improvise a sous vide bag by using a Baco bag and simply throw in a fillet of fish along with some flavours before doing up the bag with an aggressive knot. This approach was a great success when we cooked a fillet of salmon with soy, ginger, chilli and garlic in the dishwasher and the bath.

I popped into Moxon’s on my way home and had one of the most surreal experiences I’ve had in a long time. As I was perusing the selection of fish looking for some hake, one of the fishmongers inquired what I was looking for. Rather absentmindedly, I explained that I was looking for the ideal fish to cook in the washing machine. Silence descended before the boss intervened and asked his colleague to see if they had any hake behind the counter. Luckily they did and I was sent on my way with the fishmongers wondering whether they should call the asylum.

I figured that hake steaks would work well because the bones would support the structure and help them to cook evenly. Also, hake’s firm flesh lends itself to this long and slow cooking method. Rather than the Asian approach, used in the bath and dishwasher, I thought a combination of fennel and saffron would make for an exotic change.





When it came to the big night we popped the fish in a Baco bag along with some fennel seeds, salt, pepper, a dash of olive oil and a few strands of saffron and then set the washing machine on a 90’C cycle.

The machine gushed with water and then started to fill up, with the little parcel gently bobbing in the hot water bath. We sat and watched as the drum thankfully refused to spin and the fish gently cooked. It's an odd sensation having your food locked away without being able to prod or check it.



An hour or so later, the door clicked and we were left with perfectly cooked fish, that delicately flaked with a pearly gloss that held together like an MI5 officer under enemy questioning. The only down side was that because I’d put two fillets in the same bag, one of the steaks had slightly distorted into a strange shape. So if you are doing this, use separate bags.

I made a quick dressing by heating the juices that collected in the bag with a touch of cream and a squeeze of lemon and then made a salad with mint and fennel. The salad showed off the pearly white flesh and saffron hued surface whilst the fennel and mint added some crunch and freshness.





I couldn’t believe how well this crazy little project turned out. I was worried that the fish would be overcooked or uncooked. I was really concerned it would just taste of washing powder. And I wasn’t sure if the drum would kick in and start spinning at random. But none of these things happened and it not only worked perfectly, but it cooked the hake better than I have ever managed using conventional methods!

So when you hear the death rattle from your washing machine, embrace it and send it off to white goods heaven with a decent final meal.

Marmalade Fetish from Blue Stockings Preserves

Photo from Slayer Photo via Creative Commons on Flickr

Living abroad makes you truly appreciate what you most value about your home culture. When I was living in Sweden I missed the comfort of eating pies and slow cooked meat dishes in cosy countryside pubs. I hankered after scotch eggs with gooey middles. I craved the ritual of reading the Observer with a pot of coffee. I gasped for a proper cup of PG Tips despite the tea in Sweden being really good. I occasionally had a Baked Beans Moment and even found myself celebrating my birthday with baked beans on toast at work for breakfast. And I also missed marmalade. Big time.

Although the word ‘marmalade’ pops up in lots of cultures, I’ve had far too many conversations with people overseas about marmalade which reveals that the stuff we know and love is dramatically different from what they think is marmalade. People seem to think it can contain any old oranges, rather than Seville. They are surprised when it has bits in it. Some even question whether non citrus fruit qualify. The truth is that what we call ‘marmalade’ in the Britain is peculiar to our culture and ‘marmalade’ in other countries has a looser frame of reference.

I can imagine an argument between Frege and Wittgenstein about what the word ‘marmalade’ refers to and some sort of baffling conclusion about the sticky problems of philosophy being caused by the incapacity of our bitty language to cope with such simple things as what we all mean by marmalade.

Putting this ridiculous issue to one side, Cowie and I decided to make three batches of marmalade. One classic fine marmalade. One batch with ginger and honey. And the last one with cardamom and honey, inspired by feedetgastro.

We used the same base recipe from Waitrose Magazine which called for overnight steeping, fine cut peel and a pair of Cowie’s stockings. OK. I made that last bit up.

We giggled to ourselves as Cowie filled her stockings with orange segments and invented our own jam company called “Blue Stockings Preserves” which impishly injects a bit of sex appeal into such a WI orientated world.

We’re planning to launch “Seedy Strawberry”, “Raunchy Raspberry”, “Burlesque Blueberry” and “Fondlesome Fig” jams as well. The lids of the jars will be covered in blue stockings and tied down with an Agent Provacateur-esque ribbon. And the labels will be illustrated with beautifully smutty imagery that would probably be banned in Sainsbury’s and loved by Rihana. Imagine Innocent’s brand world, but corrupted by Lady Gaga into making fetishistic jam.

Ingredients for 6 normal sized jars

4 Seville oranges
2 kg of sugar
3 liters of water

Method:

Remove the peel from the oranges and cut the remaining fruit into segments. Cover the fruit pieces in 1.5 litres of water and leave to soak overnight.



Cut away any white pith from the peel and slice the zest into fine slithers. Add the excess white to the segments and cover the shredded zest in a further 1.5 litres of water.



The next day pour the zesty water into a large pan along with the water from the fruit segments and heat to a simmer. Feed the fruit segments into a stocking (not fishnet) and tie it at the top to stop the fruit escaping. Submerge in the pan and simmer for 2 hours.

During this time, heat your jars and lids through in the oven to sterilise them.

After 2 hours remove the stocking from the marmalade allow to cool. Once it is cool enough to handle squeeze out what juice you can and add it to the pan.

Pour the sugar into the pan and heat to a rolling boil. Allow to boil for 30-40 minutes until the liquid has taken on a golden glow. At this point do the saucer in the freezer test and prepare for bottling.

Pour the smoldering liquid into a measuring jug and decant into the super hot jars. Then leave to cool and once set seal with their lids.

Cut up an old shirt and secure to the lid with a rubber band. Or better still some blue stockings and a makeshift garter!



Ginger and Honey Marmalade:

As per the above classic recipe, but exchange 200g of sugar for 200g of honey. And add a jar of preserved ginger to the pan when you add the sugar.

Cardamom and Honey Marmalade:

As per the classic recipe but add a dozen crushed cardamom pods to the orange segments when they go inside the stocking. And exchange 200g of sugar for honey.

The honey has proved to be a great success. It seems to have helped give the marmalade a really gooey set which has a comforting oozing sensation on the tongue. And of all three the ginger and honey edition seems to be going down the quickest. The fine shred is quite a different experience from course cut marmalade - with a much lighter but still intense flavour. There's a time and a place for both, but for now Blue Stockings Preserves cutting it fine.

P.S. Sorry for the iPhone photos. Superheated syrup and nice cameras don't seem to like each other very much!

Smoky Somerset Horsebit

When we woke up we could see our breath billow out of our mouths as if we’d swallowed a smoke machine. Our bedroom windows were so cold they had silvery ice on both sides. And the horses in the stables looked out past icicles. The clear sky had invited the frost to paint its early morning picture and had left the grass twinkling in the light and crackling underfoot. At times like this winter is my favourite season.

After a bowl of raisin strewn porridge and some super-strong coffee I set off for a bike ride around the exhaustingly beautiful Somerset hills as part of my training for July’s Antwerp Half Iron Man. On days like this, cycling for a few hours in the clear English countryside air is a joy rather than a chore.

After forty or so miles I was almost home and treated myself to a trip to Lagan’s Farm Shop where I picked up some vintage smoked Somerset cheddar before buying a rye sourdough loaf from the excellent bakery At the Chapel in Bruton.

On my final few miles, as my fingers started to go numb as I passed the local hunt charging around on their horses, I tossed aside the thought of a simple ploughman’s and decided instead, to give the humble Welsh Rarebit a Somerset twist. With the combination of gooey smoked cheese, morcilla, horseradish, mustard, an egg and good bread, this was so much more than just cheese on toast. This was a Smoky Somerset Horsebit.

Ingredients:

2 thick slices of sourdough rye bread
200g of smoked cheddar
1 egg
1 dessert spoon of horseradish cream
1 teaspoon of strong mustard
Some crumbled smoked sausage (such as morcilla or chorizo)

Method:

Cut the bread thickly and toast.

Grate the cheese and mix together with the egg. Stir the horseradish cream, mustard and crumbled sausage into the cheesy-egg mixture and slather on top of the toast.

Grill for 5 minutes until the cheese has melted is starting to brown.

Serve with some chutney and a cup of tea.

The smokiness of the cheese and the horseradish elevate this from being just cheese on toast, to being something that you’d happily cycle all morning for. And the horseradish is a great way of jolting your body and mind back into life. The morcilla is optional, but it does help to make this a bit richer and more satisfying.

The Hardwick, Wales

Cowie and I always try to steal a fleeting weekend for ourselves before Christmas as a way of fluffing ourselves into the festive spirit and as something to look forward to during the manic rush of London life in December. It’s a time of false deadlines, mounting workloads and indulgent parties that cries out for a healthy dose of rural relaxation.

This year we decided to follow up on the success of trips to Y Polyn and the Felin Fach Griffin in Wales and this time head to The Hardwick near Abergavenny. It gets a great write up in Diana Henry’s Gastropub Cookbook so we could barely resist.

Cowie booked us into a phenomenal BnB which is on the Glanusk Estate which is one of the corners of the world that when you discover it you want to simultaneously tell everyone all about it, but also put people off visiting because you want to hoard the experience for yourself.

Ty’r Chanter looks across at the Brecon Beacons and up at the Black Mountains, with the River Usk roaring past in the valley below so loudly that you could easily convince someone living in Reading that it was the M4. But, whilst the motorway may be spirit sapping, this is the sort of multi sensory experience that lifts the soul. The view below, of the snow capped mountains, is from our bedroom window. And if this isn’t amazing enough, we saw a kite swoop to pluck a pheasant from the field for supper. If you are planning to stay somewhere in this part of the country, you'd be mad not to stay here.



Inspired by the view and with a major meal ahead of us, we decided to head out for a run. There’s nothing like a thirteen mile yomp through the Black Mountains past fields full of sheep and along the river Usk’s salmon rich banks, teeming with waterfalls to build up an appetite. It’s like doing a spinning class in the Ginger Pig in order to stimulate your yearning for a juicy steak, or doing some pilates in the Fromagerie to put you in the zone for a cheeseathon.











So we arrived at The Hardwick with enormous appetites and even bigger expectations. And left with the former negated and the latter more than exceeded. For this is a seriously impressive restaurant.

After spending so much time next to the Usk and having seen so many pictures in our BnB of people proudly holding enormous fish, it would have been criminal for one of us to have their locally smoked salmon and confit salmon to start. Cowie adored it. Iridescent slices of salmon were served with beetroot crisps, a mild horseradish cream and pea shoots that matched with our Gruner Veltliner/Pinot Blanc to perfection. Whilst the confit spoke for itself with a demure confidence, its smoked sibling showed off like a diva glamming up for a performance. Bold and sexy it lingered in the mouth and teased us with whisperings about what was to come next.

My salt cod belly with creamy beans and chorizo was another hit. Everything about the dish screamed try me and I couldn’t resist. The beans were soft by full of integrity, whilst the mild chorizo added a salty stockiness to the sauce. But the star was the slippery morsel of flaky white cod that sat on top that has to rank as one of my favourite tastes this year. It was rustic to look and somewhat out of place on a menu in hilly Wales, but it worked brilliantly and helped to lift the menu to a new level without being pretentiously chefy.

We toyed with the idea of sharing Dear for Two and the Taste of Local Beef for Two, but having seen so many deliciously fluffy sheep on our run, it seemed only right for us to share their iconic Baa Baa Blacksheep sharing dish. It arrived with a satisfying thud on our table and a grin from our waitress – as if to say we’d made a good choice. It was a tour de force in how to cook lamb which demonstrated amazing skill that showcased the different aspects that make this meat so special.

The highlights were the surprisingly juicy merguez sausage; the unctuous neck; the light as a balloon faggots; the decadent shepherd’s pie; and the pressed leg that came like a sheepy schnitzel. The only element that could have been better was the loin that could have done with less time over the coals. But we’re just being picky. It’s hard enough to cook lamb well one way. Let alone creating a postmodern bricolage that showcases the multifaceted essence of this magnificently local sheep.

We finished with a jar of crackly lemon pudding with curds and meringue and were impressed to see the chef walk the room after his stint at the stove. This final touch may seem frivolous. But when you make an effort to try a chef’s cooking, it makes a big difference psychologically when they are actually in the restaurant. Thinking back to other memorable meals, it certainly made our meal more special when we spoke to Heston Blumnthal at the Fat Duck and also when we were given a quick tour of El Bulli’s kitchen’s by Feran Adria. It’s not that we have got a chef fetish, but seeing Stephen Terry did help to round off a memorable meal.

We are going to return in the spring to learn to fish on the Usk, cycle up and down the Black Mountains and most importantly to eat more of The Hardwick's soulful food.

Squash + Quiche = Squiche

We hosted a big dinner party for Cowie’s birthday recently which involved us catering for 22 people. We decided on the menu about a month beforehand which had to balance taste, generosity and budget. A large joint of meat was an option, but with this number of people it would have been hard to have cooked it just right and have fun ourselves. So we opted instead, to have some X rated fun with the sausage maker.

My first batch of what I had termed Somerset Sausages, involved mustard, cider and sage. I thought they gave the mighty Cumberland Sausage a run for its money, but Cowie thought they smelled of sick. So we jettisoned the unfortunate sage and dialed up the thyme and added some chunks of apple and a slosh of cider brandy. The result was a rich, herby, apply taste of Somerset. All we had to do now was to make enough sausages for 22 people. Gulp.

And for our starter we popped down to Mere Fish Farm to collect a dozen trout which we planned to smoke over apple wood chips and serve with a horseradish crème fraiche sauce, slices of cooked beetroot and a handful of local watercress.

With the meat and fish courses sorted we sat down and smugly gulped down some coffee. But something felt wrong. Oh God. We’ve forgotten about our vegetarian friends! Having gone to so much effort with the starter and main course we had to cook them something on a par – at least in terms of effort – but hopefully from a taste point of view as well.

The punning side of my brain kicked in as it often does in times of crisis. How about we serve a pastry-less veggie strewn quiche inside a squash and called it a squiche? Bingo.

The dinner party went brilliantly and we have subsequently made a squiche for a midweek supper together which is detailed below.

Ingredients

1 squash – Butternut, Crown Prince or any other firm textured but creamy medium sized squash
5 eggs
150g of rehydrated wild mushrooms
2 garlic cloves
1 roasted courgette
1 flamed red pepper
100g goats’ cheese
100ml cream
50g mixed chops nuts
Tarragon
Salt and pepper

Method

Cut the squash in half and scoop out the brains. Smear with olive oil and sprinkle with chopped nuts and pop a garlic clove, still in its skin, into each squash half. Season. Roast for 40 minutes until the flesh is cooked but well before it starts to lose its structural integrity.



Then make the quiche mixture as you would do normally and feel free to meddle this combination of flavours. Roast the courgette in smallish pieces and blacken the pepper over a flame before peeling the charred skin off and cutting into small pieces. Then beat the eggs and add the cream. Then mix in the tarragon, vegetables and rehydrated wild mushrooms. Add a splash or two of the mushroom liquor which will add some woody depth. Then plop in goats’ cheese in chunks and give it all a good mix.





Remove the garlic cloves and pour the quiche mixture into the squash halves. You may need to find a way of balancing the squashes so they don’t topple over and cause chaos.
Season and cook in a medium oven for 30 minutes. The egg mixture should be firm to the touch but have some springiness to it. Serve whole or in slices with a watercress salad and lentils.





So if you are struggling for ideas of what to cook a vegetarian friend, or even are wondering how to cut back on meat whist still eating something interesting, give the squiche a bash. You could give it an exotic Moroccan twist by using cumin, chilli and a scattering of nuts… or keep it more simple and let the squash speak for itself along with some complimentary ingredients from the Flavour Thesaurus.