A RECIPE: Courgette mint & goats cheese frittata

I like to make the excuse that working on morning TV has turned me into somewhat of a morning person and a rather anti-social evening person. In truth, though, I’ve always been more keen to get going in the early hours of the morning and even more eager to snuggle under my douvet at the end of the day. 

In lieu of this, Don and I decided to throw a Saturday brunch over a late night dinner party after a series of hostess faux-pas at past ones’ we’ve thrown. I’m referring to the moments where I’ve found myself openly yawning at the table as I slouch further and further down my chair towards the end of the evening. Of course It doesn’t help that most of our guests these days are students, whose hours and lifestyles rather contradict mine- late night drinking binges have become somewhat of a foreign entity to me.

So brunch it was and it absolutely had to involve eggs. (It would have also involved Heinz baked beans if they weren’t so bloody expensive). I’ve relished in eating soft boiled eggs with soldiers since I was a little girl. My siblings and I used to play a trick on my mum and dad where we would turn over our empty egg shell in it’s egg cup to make it look like we had not eaten it and then either offer it to my father (who was always on the look out for leftovers) or ask mum to cut the top off before bursting into fits of giggles when they discovered the empty shell. I’m not sure who invented this trick but it proved to be an unending source of amusement- one that I recently couldn’t resist trying on my always-on-the-look-out-for-seconds-fiancé.

I cannot even begin to describe the joy that I feel, even now dunking a freshly buttered toast soldier into a gorgeously deep orange-coloured yolk. Soft boiled eggs are one of the few foods that I find acceptable to call sexy. But regardless of their sex-appeal, cooking eggs to order for ten people was not the kind of work I had in mind, even if they would have my guests gagging for more. Besides I was intent on trying out Rick Tramonto’s tip for a beautifully risen frittata- which happened to be a sexy little trick in itself.

Making a frittata does require a little more work than a soft boiled egg but you can make it in advance and if you’re lucky you’ll have some left over for lunched during the week. I filled this with what I had in the fridge but you could quite easily replace the veggies, herbs and cheeses- making sure that if you use slow-cooking veggies that you par-cook them in advance. I’ve omitted the standard flip and finished the frittata under the grill- because not only do they look nicer this way but it’s a lot easier-and who really wants to risk serving a frittata that’s broken in two from a fumbled flip? Plainly speaking, that would be such a turn-off.

A RECIPE: Apple & blue cheese clafouti

Sometimes I get a bit carried away in the moment and this always leads to me making bold statements, of which I have little intention to stick to. I can’t help it, I have drama in my blood. As a man who likes to discuss things in a civilised fashion- minus the fists and legs beating the floor, Don on occasion finds my flair for dramatics quite uncouth. Like the time when he was trying to propose on the Brooklyn promenade looking out over the Manhattan Skyline as the first snow flurries of winter came down.  Ignorant of his romantic plans, I was kicking up a fuss about the cold and found the only way to keep warm was by singing a rude song and dancing like a gypsy in an Eskimo suit. Now, there’s a man with patience.

Last week I claimed that I would no longer be cooking with apples be it not without the tart English Bramley and then I found myself over the course of the week fed up with sweet Honey crisps scattered over my porridge and dunked in peanut butter. Which led me to think that if no good desserts could be made of them, then how about something savoury? Too sweet for sweets but sweet enough for savoury- it’s a concept that even I whom madeth it am struggling to find sense in.

Sometimes I scare even myself.

I set about scouring my ever growing collection of food sources- hardbacks, paperbacks, bestsellers, magazines, tear-outs, work files. Somehow I still always find myself tapping into Google but the results were all certified teeth-rotters, nothing wholesome in the bunch. But the idea of a clafouti sans sucre sort of appealed. I love the way they look when they’re baking- like Yorkshire puddings rising up at the corners, out of the hot fat all golden and bubbly. I would never buy an oven without a viewing window – I find watching things rise in the oven more relaxing than yoga and more captivating than most cable TV . The combination wasn’t without potential pitfalls- could a clafouti work without sugar? Would apples and eggs go together? Well, what’s the worst that could happen? “Um, we might not get lunch?” Don, always to hand with the insightful comments- but it was too late I was already getting carried away unloading the contents of my fridge.

The result- a pastry-less quiche, tangy with blue cheese, rich with buttermilk, a hint of sweetness with the apples and crunch from the walnuts seasoned delicately with sage all bursting out of the egg casing. So, I apologise for being so stand-offish about American apples last week- it didn’t take to much pounding the floor with my fists to come around. Perhaps I’ll even give those Granny Smith’s another try. And no, I’m not getting carried away this time.

A RECIPE: Cheese & walnut gougeres

This weekend my parents are throwing their third annual office party and for the third year in a row I’m heading over to Kentucky for an evening of unpaid but highly appreciated work. It’s really a simple affair- buffet style, and my expertise isn’t at all necessary but my mother would rather not deal with the stress of cooking and my father likes to claim that he’s flown in his private Chef. The fact that I’m not a chef and never have been is ignored and for one evening a year I’m The London (now New York) Chef. This year I will be accompanied my very own tried and tested wine waiter- my boyfriend. For a ‘wears-a-suit-to-work’ kind of guy- he’s extraordinarily good at playing the more subordinate and helping role of a bar waiter. So, now my father can proudly boast he’s flying in his Chef and Bar tender.

The problem is- seeing as I’m always cooking other peoples’ recipes, I tend to get carried away with the menu. If you’ve read any of my previous posts and recipes then you’ll know that I’m a simple cook, though I do like to add a few extra ingredients here and there. In other words, you wouldn’t find me bringing plain hot dogs and buns to a BBQ. I sent the proposed menu to my mother weeks ago:
Slow cooked leg of lamb, feta and herb salad, cod poached in olive oil with gremolata, roasted garlic and tomato tart…

“Sounds delicious. We’ll use salmon and put it on the grill”, my mother said.

“What’s lamb?”, asked my father’s secretary.

Being fed-up with making burgers at work all summer, I pleaded to my mother to allow me some creative liscence and go with the lamb

“Oh, don’t worry- it tastes a lot like beef when it’s slow cooked” my mother replied.

Organic leg of lamb cooked for seven hours in stock and wine at a low simmer until it peals off the bone in tender strands of succulence- and you want to say it’s BEEF!

Dessert is another headache altogether. This crowd loves desserts, which tend to be the main event and no matter how many I make the the FHB (Family Hold Back) rule always comes into effect. I make proper puddings (which are not as an American thinks- custards thickened with corn flour- or should I say corn starch?). Convincing the crowd isn’t hard- explaining what it is can be! Last year I made a summer pudding, hand picked berries and all. It was stared at a little ominously, until I cut into its glistening bread casing and the fruit came tumbling out. I had to called my peach and raspberry crumble a cobbler but the chocolate éclairs were devoured instantly and I was thanked very much for making such wonderful “cream puffs”. But how can I complain? They all enjoy my food and even if the lambs not quite tender enough for me, or my meringue crisp enough- I know that I will get huge compliments. What’s in a name anyway?

A RECIPE: American Pancakes

I’m struggling with a chronic state of indecision. It used to pain me as a kid that my sister could never decide over what flavour ice cream to get and now here I am unable to decide what I really want to eat for breakfast- when I’m hung-over. Last week I was asked where to go for a good English breakfast in New York and it got me thinking- a dangerous mind-set. So far I’ve managed to stand on one side of the pond over all food related issues, whether it be the London bias or the New York bias. But all I could come up with this time was ‘I love New York Diners- but I could murder an English now that you’ve mentioned it’!

I suppose it is possible to love two things equally- indeed when I’ve been questioned in the past on which country I love best I’ve been lost for an answer. But when I set out to write this blog I wanted to state my opinions about which country is better for what and I wasn’t prepared to be stumped only 3 months in.

That is until I started going out for breakfast in New York. After a boozy night out in London who can resist a tasty fry-up- eggs dripping in bacon fat, bread fried in bacon fat, bacon in bacon fat, tomatoes… mushrooms…beans (naturally); you get my drift. But in New York, post-drinking you can go to breakfast and order stacks of pancakes topped with fried eggs, waffles mounded with fruit and yogurt, French toast drenched in syrup or a freshly baked bagel stuffed full of eggs and processed cheese. I could even enjoy this option sober and hangover-free. And yet, I’m torn. I could sit and argue that boiled eggs and soldiers are better in London or that Crispy bacon is better in New York than London but those are just components of the bigger issue.

So, in my troubled little head I’ve been laying out the criteria for what is required for breakfast having visited the Porcelain God the night before (whether it was you paying penance or holding back the hair of your friend as they do.) A hangover breakfast needs to be fat based. Both score ten’s here. They need some sort of fruit or vegetable (so you don’t feel too guilty), both score full marks again. They need carbohydrate to absorb any leftover vodka shots swirling around your belly. Tied. They need to be drenched in sauce for ease of swallowing, draw. You need a limited choice because too much thinking is not desirable to a delicate head. Ah hah- perhaps there is something to be said for the UK- all you need to say is ‘full English’. In a diner you are faced with far too many choices, including lunch options and it’s all rather a headache- which you already have. In New York you do get unlimited coffee refills- but fall headfirst when it comes to making a good cup of brew. I think what I’m trying to say here is that I can’t make a decision here- but please don’t loose faith I can assure you that my opinionated self will return for my next instalment.

I’m leaving you with a pancake recipe- not because I’m biased but because I can’t write a recipe for and English fry-up (but you can check out Good Food January 2007 issue for my one pan English breakfast recipe!).

These pancakes are fluffy and filling and perfect served with raspberries, bacon and maple syrup (and there you have all the main food groups). Buy grade B maple syrup, as it’s less refined giving it more flavour- it’s also cheaper (now I’ve got you taking note.)