"Wood Fired Oven" Bread

If anyone can help me answer this, I'd appreciate it. There was a cooking programme for kids on the BBC - must have been around 1989 - and it had a blonde lady presenting it. What was it? Anyway, she showed us all the wonder of toast, with butter - and that was my first ever solo cooking moment. Since then, I can safely say i have munched my way through more toast than anything else! Try it with Avocado and Marmite: sounds gross, tastes amazing!

There was a debate between Peter, Orlando and I regarding bread: was it the first foodstuff created by man? It was certainly one of the oldest - the ancient Egyptians used to buy a bread called 'ta' from stalls on dusty streets, and history even has a loaf of bread from the first century AD that survived the wrath of Mount Vesuvius. It looks a bit highly baked mind you.

All cultures have their own version of bread. The basic componants - water and grain flour - can be found in different forms all over the planet and these have given rise to Mexican Tortilla, Indian Chapati, Middle-Eastern Pita and Irish Soda Bread among others. It can be leavened or unleavened, toasted or eaten freshly baked, served with sweet or savoury and at any point during a meal. It's also a great leveller - all stratas of society enjoy bread be it a cheaper supermarket white slice job or an artisan, hand made sourdough. For what it's worth, my preference is for those achingly delicious Italian breads such as Foccacia and Ciabatta that are at their best (in my opinion) when stale and tossed through an amazng tomato salad.

Anyway, the reason for my ramblings is Orlando. He showed me a great technique where you bake a loaf of bread inside a casserole pot - giving it a wood fired oven finish. It really worked, and here is the (it's his not mine) recipe for you to try:

Raynaudes 'Wood-Fired Oven' Loaf
Makes 1 Loaf

Ingredients:

Walnut-sized piece of fresh yeast
300ml luke-warm water
450g strong flour
50g cornmeal
A heavy, oval casserole dish.

Method:

1. Dissolve the water in the yeast. Put the flour plus a touch of salt into a food processor, turn on. Gradually add your yeast mixture. Once it's all combined, mix for a minute or so, then stop. Remove and knead by hand for a minute.
2. Put the dough into a greased bowl, cover and let it rise until it has doubled in size.
3. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface, shape it into a rectangle. Roll up and fold under the edges - you should have a shape like a rugby ball.
4. Cut a piece of greaseproof paper about twice the size of the casserole pot, sprinkle with the cornmeal. Put your loaf onto it, then cover and leave to rise until it's one and a half times it's original size.
5. Put the empty casserole dish into an oven to heat - about 230 degrees centigrade.
6. Remove when the loaf has risen, quickly transfer the loaf, still on the paper, into the hot dish. Cover with the lid.
7. Bake for 30 mins, then remove the lid for a further 10 minutes.
8. Cool on a cooling rack. Do not eat until it's cold!

Grasshoppers and the Pyrenees (or Saturday at Raynaudes)

Returned from Orlando and Peter's place the other day to an interrogation from friends and family. Simple, thoughtful questions like: "Well, did you get the job or what?". Nothing about the sweeping French countryside, the 12th century bridges, the picture postcard hamlets dotted around any high ground people could lay their hands on, the 20 degree sunshine, lunches with the Pyrenees or the tyre-slashing dog owned by the neighbours that attacked me on Peter's bike! And nothing about the wonderful food. No, just "When are you going to pay some rent, poor boy?"

Arrival in Toulouse went as well as could be expected. After managing to locate the taxi desk, and mumbling my name in French, I was escorted (briskly) to a waiting bus along with the driver, and four other travellers - three office workers from Paris and a dark-haired, cigarette smoking girl from Marseilles. Very Betty Blue she was. They were all dropped off in Albi at which point the driver then checked where I was going. This was swiftly followed by much "mon dieu-ing" and huffing and puffing and fiddling of Tom-Tom. No, I didn't want to be dropped in Monesties, I needed to go to Raynaudes. Yes, Raynaudes. RAYNAUDES.

Decades later I was greeted by Peter - tall, slim and understated. Orlando bounced in and fed me (I was STARVING by this point, so hungry I was shaking) a lovely pan-roasted chicken breast and wild mushrooms. Apparently in France, all pharmacists are trained in the art of mushroom foraging, so you can turn up with a bag you've picked yourself and they'll separate them into a 'Oui' and a 'Non' pile. How great is that???? There then followed a brief discussion about what I'd be doing over the weekend, but essentially this involved assisting wherever possible. Breakfast for the next three mornings, and the evening meal on Sunday, the last service of the season. And I'd be cooking lunch for them tomorrow.

7:30am, Saturday. Breakfasts were relatively straight-forward. Freshly baked croissants alongside a fruit salad and home made yogurts, cereals etc. Once again I was reminded that simplicity doesn't mean boring. Just make it the BEST fruit salad you possibly can - make sure the fruit is at room temperature, the grapefruit segmented properly, the pears ripe - and people will remember it. Just think of all the times you've stayed at a B&B and been given that grim, pappy excuse for bread. That's boring, not bread itself!

Lunch was a relaxed affair and deliberately so. I chose to concentrate on flavour combinations and a well planned menu, rather than anything technically NASA-esque in it's difficulty rating:

Spaghetti with Tomatoes, Capers and Mint
Lamb Cutlets with a Sherry Vinegar sauce and Wilted Greens
Warm Orange Salad with a Honey, Rosemary and Chilli Dressing

One major issue was the cooker. Orlando has a fancy hob with no discernible 'knobs' to twiddle or 'buttons' to press. Just a Star-Trek style panel that you apparently need to glide your finger over to achieve the desired effect. Needless to say I was prodding, fiddling, poking (swearing), and starting to look a bit frantic before Orlando showed me the way. Lesson 1: ensure you understand technology before trying to use it. All in all though, the food came out as I expected and I was happy with the end result. The weather was fantastic, the Pyrenees were standing proud representing the physical barrier with Spain, there were Grasshoppers jumping onto bone dry leaves, making a little 'thud' noise as they landed. Silence allows you to hear so much more. Maybe that's why we Brits love and hate France so much. We may mock their 35-hour weeks and general laziness, but how many of us wouldn't die for such a lifestyle?

Here is the pasta I cooked - fast, easy and utterly brilliant.

Spaghetti with Capers and Mint
Serves 4

Ingredients:
500g Dried Spaghetti
400g Fresh Tomatoes, skinned and de-seeded
200g Shallots, finely chopped
Olive Oil
Garlic Glove, lightly crushed
A small Handfull of Capers
A large handfull of Mint, shredded
Sea Salt, Cracked Black Pepper and Sugar

Method:
1. First skin your tomatoes. Put a little cross on the bottom of each one. Place them in a bowl of boiling water, leave for a minute or so and then remove. The skin should now rub off easily. The remove the eye and seeds. Roughly chop and set aside.
2. Heat your oil. Then add your garlic clove. Once it starts to brown, remove and discard. You'll now have a lovely Garlic Oil.
3. Add your shallots, soften. Then add your tomatoes. Taste and season. Don't be scared of adding sugar, it'll bring out the flavour of the tomatoes.
4. Let this simmer gently for 15-20 minutes. This will intensify the flavour.
5. When it's ready, cook your spaghetti, in a large pot of boiling, salted water.
6. As soon as the pasta is cooked, add the capers and mint to the sauce.
7. Drain your pasta and add to the sauce.
8. Eat straight away, serve with Parmesan or some other hard cheese such as Pecorino.

Le Manoir de Raynaudes

Yesterday, the journey began properly. I'm off for three days to visit my good friend Orlando at his wonderful and award-winning Manoir de Raynaudes in the wild, spartan region of south west France about an hour north-east of Toulouse. Ostensibly I'm there for a job interview - Orlando needs a cook for six months next summer - but I'm also looking forward to spending more time with him and to meet his partner, Peter, of whom he spoke whilst we were tucked away in Devon recently on a food writing course. Orlando was undoubtedly one of the stars of the show. As a tutor he gave us concrete, sometimes brutal ("...you may find at the end of this course you really DON'T want to be a writer!") feedback and he otherwise entertained us with his pianistic expertise and stories of his time as editor of the BBC Good Food magazine.

But the main reason I'm going there is to try and work with him next year. It would be a huge honour. Orlando has transformed himself from an amateur cook to passionate professional and in the Manoir has created a table widely considered one of the best in the south of France. He sources many of his ingredients from the fruit, vegetable and herb gardens he has established in the grounds of the Manoir and cooks them with love and attention. His intention, always, is to give people the "best meal of their lives." Not much to emulate then. Gulp.

I sit on a packed train from west Wales to Bristol, where I'll transfer onto a plane that'll whisk me to Toulouse. I feel very jet-set, if a little disorganised. I wonder if this is the future? An endless meandering from kitchen to kitchen, and if I will eventually settle on my own version of a gastronomic getaway? Or I am living a pipe-dream? I know I can cook, and cook well. I know I have a good palette and that I can season. But I can also get carried away, and probably need to learn a little control! I've been reading huge amounts of Skye Gyngell's work recently. She exemplifies what I see as a complete cook: respect for her ingredients, seasonal where possible, taste above presentation and simplicity over complication. She appears, at least, the embodiment of confidence, but I also wonder if all cooks are fundamentally insecure? They have an innate desire to please, to titillate and to satisfy, but do they ever really indulge in self-congratulation? After all, the day you stand still as a cook is the day you lose your edge. You can't hang around and marvel at your achievements. This is their adrenaline rush - that you are only as good as your last service, and that one bad meal can destroy a reputation.

So it's an exciting but terrifying world I am entering. First things first though, get myself to Toulouse, then scramble my way onto a bus that'll whisk me to the middle of nowhere, France. And all with no French. Did I tell you I only speak Welsh and English? No? Then let the adventure begin.

Hazelnut Tarts (and the French)

As usual, there's a story attached to this. A few years ago, in the early days of meeting an amazing woman, she presented a Hazelnut Tart for us to munch on as a mid-afternoon snack on a freaky October afternoon in Edinburgh. It was the "most wonderful" Hazelnut tart she had EVER TASTED, she said. Even though it was a pre-packaged job, I have to admit that the pastry was great, the filling moist and the result sumptuous. And then the killer. The tart had been acquired whilst on a trip to see a Frenchman. Pathetic, I know, but then the distance between food and sex, as far as I can see, is about the width of my little toe. I was most perturbed.

Since then, I've been on a mission to bake the ultimate Hazelnut Tart so that I may no longer be defeated by some suspicious, foreign effort. I would parade my creation down the Champs-Elysees shouting "la vie longue la tarte Galloise" in triumph. This would then go down in the annuls of history as the most important victory over the French since the Duke of Wellington spanked Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

If only it were that simple, however. Baking, I would admit, is not my first love. I'm certainly a highly competent pastry chef, but it doesn't come naturally to me in the way that say, a brothel is natural to a Parisian. But my time at Ballymaloe certainly provided me with some excellent ground rules, like ensuring all of your ingredients are chilled before making pastry, or the importance of blind baking. Baking, and dessert-making in general, is much more technically challenging than putting a stew or soup together. When a bread recipe calls for half a teaspoon of baking soda - that's what you use - any more and you'll end up with soapy yellow blotches through your end product. Such precision can feel stifling but it's further evidence that cooking is not all about "passion" or an innate "feel" for what flavour combinations work well. You must also have a level of technical skill to be a complete cook.

It's also important to be humble. You can't re-invent the wheel. And it seems to me that a confident cook will do very little to the ingredients that he is given, and let the ingredients speak for themselves. One such cook, whom I hugely admire is Skye Gyngell, head chef at Petersham Nurseries and this is her recipe (re-written by me) for a lovely Hazelnut Tart.

Hazlenut Tart
Serves 8-10

Ingredients (for the pastry):

250g Plain Flour
125g Unsalted Butter, grated
30g Caster Sugar
1 free-range Egg
1 free-range Egg Yolk
Zest of a Lemon
1/2 tsp Vanilla Extract

Ingredients (for the filling):

300g Shelled Hazelnuts
300g Caster Sugar
3 Whole Eggs
Zest of a Lemon
300g Unsalted Butter

Method (NB: this is my method):

1. Pre-heat the oven to 190 degrees centigrade, then toast your hazelnuts.
2. While they're toasting, make your pastry. Put all the WELL CHILLED ingredients into a food processor. Pulse, and eventually everything will come together to form a ball. If not add some ice-cold water, very sparingly. Wrap in cling film and chill in the fridge.
3. Meanwhile, make the filling. Put the nuts in a blender and pulse - keep them coarse, you want your end result to have some texture. Then add all your other ingredients and pulse until combined.
4. Now remove your pastry and roll on a lightly floured surface. Look for a thickness of about 3-4 mm.
5. Roll onto your pin and drape it over a ten-inch tin. Gently press into the sides. I leave pastry draping over the edge as it will shrink during cooking and you can trim it up afterwards.
6. Blind-bake for 15 minutes, or until almost cooked through. Remove and cool.
7. Finally, add your hazelnut filling, spreading it evenly. Bake for about 35 minutes, until golden and just firm to the touch.
8. Allow to cool and serve with fresh cream and raspberries.

Run Rabbit Run Rabbit....

....run, run, run. Here comes the farmer with his gun, gun, gun. And struggling to keep up, here comes Edward cheering on the farmer and keeping him supplied with pork pies, cheese sandwiches, and anything else he may need to sustain his bloodlust. For me, hunting is the purest form of food provision. Not only are there no welfare issues with sourcing meat this way (obviously) but also, be it fishing, shooting or trapping, there's little doubt that the taste of a wild animal is infinitely superior to that of a farmed equivalent and as I've said previously, taste is the number one consideration. I remember fondly the first time I ate wild salmon, having previously only encountered the regular, pale pink supermarket variety. I was dumb-founded that the flesh was a beautiful deep red, rather like that of a blood orange, and once I'd pan-roasted the fillet, gently seasoned it and taken my first bite, I was hooked. The flesh was sweet and complex no doubt due to the variety of foods the salmon had eaten during it's lifetime. You know that slightly devious look many women develop when they're munching on some chocolate - well that was me with the salmon. Since that moment I always try to eat wild produce where possible but there's no doubt that some products are more easily sourced than others. Regrettably many fish stocks are perilously low, and I would encourage anyone to try and buy with a consideration for what's sustainable where possible - more on this in future posts. However, it's not all doom and gloom. One can still enjoy parts of nature's bounty without feeling too guilty, without giving the bank manager a heart attack and without a huge knowledge of what game is in season (more on this in later posts too). Available almost all year is the (drum-roll!!) European Wild Rabbit.

Wild rabbit is an extremely lean meat and has a subtle, gamey flavour. Perhaps it's greatest strength is it's versatility. It works well with a myriad of different ingredients. The Italians use tomatoes and herbs, the south americans use chilli and the French use mustard and cream. But in Britain, although there are thousands of the critters all over the country, and despite the fact they're regarded as a pest by many farmers, we eat relatively little. It seems to me there are three reasons for this.

Firstly, during the Second World War, households were encouraged to keep rabbits for meat in an effort to feed the family during the dark days of rationing. No doubt there were many botched attempts at casseroles and pies, as the meat can go incredibly tough without a sufficient addition of fat. Cue a lifelong dislike of rabbit for the children subjected to that. Secondly, there was a highly successful attempt to cull the rabbit population during the 1950's through the introduction of Myxomatosis. This seems to have affected many - even my father recently admitted that he was "scarred by frothing mouths and convulsing bodies" in the fields he walked. And thirdly, there is the slightly contemptible "fluffy bunny brigade" for whom the idea of eating such a "cute" animal cannot be reconciled. It's also fairly hard to get your hands on some. Regrettably, most food is purchased in the supermarket, but when was the last time you actually saw Rabbit in the refrigeration cabinet?

If you'd like to secure some rabbits, ask a good local butcher. They'll be able to remove the head (fluffy bunny brigade), skin the animal and gut it for you. I would certainly recommend this. The first time I prepared a rabbit for use, the animal evacuated it's bowels all over my forearm, resulting in much sniggering amongst the boys and loud screams from the girls. Joking aside, it wasn't an overly pleasant experience, so save yourself the bother. I then cooked the whole lot up in a vague "coq au vin-esque" manner. Needless to say it was tough and inedible. Thankfully I've developed since then, and my take on a classic warming autumnal rabbit stew is below. Try some rabbit today - it's cheap, different, tasty and extremely good for you.



Cider Braised Rabbit & Apple
Serves 6

I like to eat this very simply with a hunk of crusty bread, but I've also served it with Polenta. Use a good quality dry cider, as opposed to a sweet mass-produced one. It's one drawback is a lack of colour, so make sure you sprinkle some chopped parsley over it before serving.

Ingredients:

Olive Oil
4 Large Shallots, Sliced
400g Pork Belly, Diced
2 Wild Rabbits, Skinned & Jointed
100g Plain Flour, Seasoned
450 mls Cider
200 mls Double Cream
4 Bay Leaves
4 Eating Apples, Halved, Cored & Sliced
A handful of Flat Leaf Parsley, Finely chopped
Sea Salt & Cracked Black Pepper

1. Find a good quality heavy casserole dish. Add a glug of olive oil and add your shallots. Soften and remove.
2. In the same pan, add the diced pork belly. Brown and remove.
3. Take your seasoned flour and put it in a plastic bag. Add the rabbit joints and shake until covered. Remove the rabbit and shake off the excess. Then brown in the oil and rendered pork fat. You will probably need to do this in batches. Once the rabbit is well browned, return the shallots and pork belly to the pan.
4. Now add your cider, cream and bay leaves. Stir, and bring to a simmer.
5. Finally add your apples. Keep the stew ticking over on a simmer for a good hour. You'll know it's ready when the sauce has reduced and the meat is tender.
6. Season to taste.

October Leaves Falling

One of the most pleasing things about autumn is the aesthetic pleasure it gives the eye. Leaves turn from greens to browns, reds and oranges before falling to the ground and making the underfoot squelchy and slippy. Nature then stands before you, naked but not vulnerable - and re-invents itself in a few months time looking fresher and more youthful than ever. We, being top of the food chain, reap the reward of the seasons but will only gain true pleasure by working with them, not grating against them.

Think about Strawberries in May. They pack much more flavour, are cheaper because there's a glut of them and you can get them locally. Now compare that with buying them during the winter months. Bland, strangely watery, an anaemic interior and only palatable with huge quantities of sugar and/or Cointreau. That was NOT a suggestion -wait for the food to come to you. I guarantee the anticipation of food in season will make it taste all the better.

Thinking of the falling leaves, some that you get your hands on right now are the Nasturtium - or Tropaeolum to give them their official name - and they can be used in a variety of ways, the most common being mixing through salads. They have a distinctive peppery, slightly mustard-like taste and their flowers, whilst lacking on taste are incredibly decorative. You can also make soups from them, or toss them through a stir-fry for added nutrition. This is how I like to use them.

Tempura Nasturtium Salad with Goats Cheese
Serves 2

This salad can be served as a snack-lunch or a starter for a dinner party. It utilises all parts of the perennial Nasturtium plant. When picking, remove the flower heads and soak in water for ten minutes before using. Check them well for Earwigs, who seem to love hiding around the stamen. Once you're happy that they are clear, drain them on some kitchen paper. When serving, choose a light dressing as the goats cheese is quite rich. Finally, don't go mad on the seasoning, the leaves are peppery enough as it is!

Ingredients:

9 Nasturtium Flower Heads
200g Soft Goat's Cheese
4 Small Anchovy Fillets
A Good Handful of Thyme Leaves, Chopped
10-12 Nasturtium Leaves, Shredded
3 Good Handfuls of Watercress
100g Plain Flour
200 mls Ice-Cold Carbonated Water
1 Medium Egg
Sunflower Oil

Method:

1. Wash the Nasturtium flowers as directed above.
2. While they are soaking, cream the cheese, anchovy and thyme leaves together to make a paste.
3. Using either a teaspoon or piping bag, fill six of the flowers with the mixture. Do not overfill. Place in fridge to chill.
4. Pre-heat a fryer to 180 degrees centigrade. Use a flavourless oil like Sunflower Oil.
5. Make the batter. Whisk the egg and add the ice-cold water. Then gradually add the flour. Don't over do the whisking and don't worry if there are a few lumps.
6. Toss the leaves in your dressing of choice. Pick the colouful leaves from the remaining Nasturtium flowers and mix through. Season and arrange in the centre of a plate. Try to get some height involved here.
7. Remove the flower heads from the fridge and dip in the batter, coating lightly. Then fry until they are golden and bobbing on the oil like a boat on the ocean. Remove and drain.
8. Serve with the salad leaves.

"Grow Your Own": Broad Beans

As a cook I consistently try to use top quality ingredients. A rather famous TV chef once said to me - "You're only as good as your ingredients, Ed. I can't make a joyous meal out of tinned spaghetti and frozen prawns..." - and that simply confirmed to me what I already felt. Growing up in Carmarthenshire, I was lucky to be surrounded by fantastic local produce. The area is historically associated with livestock, and in particular lamb, but we also have the most amazing pork products, some award winning cheeses, access to the Irish Sea as well as inland rivers that are (relatively) brimming with Salmon and Trout. You could easily eat for the rest of your life out of one small part of west Wales. So why we're importing lamb from New Zealand, I have no idea.

Of course there are certain things we don't produce in abundance, but that's where the green fingers come out and you start to grow your own. I'm not going to get completely sanctimonious and pretend I'm an environmentalist - I'm not. I'm interested in taste first. I'm afraid the rising waters of the oceans are a secondary concern to "what the hell am I going to do with all these apples falling everywhere? I've already made pies, crumbles, compotes, jellies and apple juice." But it does stand to reason that if you grow vegetables in your garden, or on your windowsill, or on a shared allotment, they will taste infinitely better than if they have been sitting around on a supermarket shelf for a week, and will have helped reduce your carbon footprint too.

October is a bleak time in the garden. The weather is closing in and there is very little to plant for next year. You harvest apples all day long, you dig up the last of the carrots and potatoes. The thrill of new life is in short supply. But you can keep yourself going by planting one of my favourite vegetables - the Broad Bean. There can be surely no more comfortable bean, than the broad bean. By the time spring is upon us, they will be dangling thick, heavy and proud whilst nestled in a soft white jacket. They look so cosy in there! But I digress. Right now, you need to plant them about 5cm deep, roughly 10cm apart, in parallel rows that are themselves 25cm apart.

I planted mine (Bunyards Exhibition and Red Epicure) two weeks ago, and the little beggars are already sprouting. Broad beans are renowned for being a hardy plant, but if a frost is on the cards over the winter you must cover them, just to be on the safe side. Other than that you just give them a stake to cling onto once they become seedlings, and all should be well. Give them a try!

Whole Roast Onions with Marjoram
Serves 4

October is also the time of year when one has an abundance of onions. Try this as a yummy lunchtime snack, with some crusty bread and a glass of crisp white wine.

Ingredients:

4 Large White Onions
100g Butter
A Handful of Marjoram, Chopped
Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

Method:

1. Pre-heat your oven to 220 degrees centigrade.
2. Place the onions in a baking tray, transfer to oven. Cook until very soft and juicy.
3. Meanwhile, soften your butter and add your chopped Marjoram.
4. Once the onions are cooked, remove and gently peel the first few outer layers of the skin. You must leave some behind though, so the onion will hold it's shape. Slice the top of each onion away, as if you were scalping a boiled egg, and then lather the onion with the Marjoram butter.
5. Once the butter has melted, season well and enjoy!