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Posts Tagged ‘Sunday dinner’

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Hot pastrami on rye, Ben’s Best, Queens.

It’s not like it ever stops, but lately it seems societal angst about food has been escalating, spinning off madly into illogic. It’s worrisome, and it’s not necessary.

Here’s the thing, and I’m speaking as someone who knows from illness (most of my 30s) that kept me from eating a lot of foods, and from being overweight (through high school and college). I learned a lot from being fat and from being sick. The answers are actually pretty simple, so let’s not make it any harder than it has to be.

1) Food is about balance. It’s not about eliminating entire food groups, or about denouncing natural ingredients, or about imposing senseless deprivation upon ourselves. Let’s keep sugar, fats, and carbs off the cosmic dartboard. That’s no way to live.

The body can manage short bouts of overdoing the fat and calories. While in Scotland for a week I watched my ex eat a classic UK breakfast: bangers, buttered toast, eggs, the works. This meal was for centuries the rich but wholesome foundation of a working farmer’s day, and that farmer needed every calorie. My ex is not a farmer. Yet he survived. For a week, the body can handle almost anything.

Historically, the human race has more or less structured their lives around eating moderate portions of wholesome foods plus the odd treat during the week, and blowing the lid off a bit on weekends (Sunday dinner) and holidays (eggnog). This system worked pretty well. It’s when we started to eat as if every day was a weekend, as if every day was a holiday, that we got ourselves into trouble.

Now a lot of people hand out stickers on Halloween instead of candy. This is a tragedy and a travesty, an adulterated—and I use that word deliberately—slam in the face of tradition. Part of the euphoria kids feel on Halloween is based on indulging in treats—treats that, during the year, they’re only allowed on occasion. Adults need to act like adults again. We need to re-establish moderation, to maintain balance in everyday eating. Lose the damn stickers. For one night a year, bring back the Milky Ways.

2) Food is pleasure. There is nothing quite like experience of eating the first slurpy peach of the season, or a warm fat heirloom tomato pulled off the vine. But neither is there anything quite like Aunt Rosemary’s lasagna fresh from the oven, or Mom’s sour cream coffee cake. These foods deserve honor, not our projected castigation and reproach. Too much of anything is no good, be it Pop-Tarts or fresh blueberries. Enjoy rich foods, every single mouthful. Eat them slowly. Appreciate them. Write about it and describe it passionately, if you’re as nutty as I am. Treat them like the treats they are. 

3) Food is connection. Food is not just for silencing hunger. Other hungers are fed as well: our need to express love and to feel loved, to protect and to feel safe, to share memories and to remember. I love cooking for people, and I love tasting other people’s gifts of food. Everybody gets so excited. It’s powerful. I love sharing what I’m eating and being offered bits of my friends’ food. Some people hate that, but not me. It’s a sign of intimacy. When you go out a lot to eat with actors, food gets passed around. I have one friend who never wants his pickle, so I take it. Recently I picked all of the peaches out of his fruit cocktail with my fingers. It’s not classy, but it’s home—even if you’re away from it.

Go easy on yourselves, everybody. Keep balance in your eating. Enjoy everything. We’re supposed to be happy on this planet.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a peanut butter moose tracks cone. And I’ll live.

 

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I’m writing this with the taste of the above incredible dish still in my mouth, which, as decisions go, isn’t a half bad one.

The name and recipe are an adaptation of the much-beloved English dish, Toad-in-the-Hole. It was generously offered to me for my cooking project by Mike Batho, an English breadmaker*.

My also much-beloved Cooking of the British Isles (1969) says the dish was created as a way to use up meat left on the joint from Sunday dinner. Today, though, it’s usually enjoyed with sausages plopped into the center of Yorkshire pudding batter.

Huh? says the average American layman. Right, imagine a popover, that eggy, addictively yummy half roll, half souffle. Now imagine it saturated in rosemary oil and meat drippings so it crackles when you bite into it, making the staunchest vegetarian want to pounce face first into the pan like a manic Shih-Tzu. There it is.

A word about the sausages: I wanted a plain sausage for this. It’s not as easy to find in the contemporary U.S. as you might think. Not that there’s anything wrong with Sun-dried Tomato or Mild Italian or Apple Chardonnay—okay, fine, there’s something wrong with that last one—but I wanted to taste this in a traditional way. So I went with all-natural, local breakfast sausages, seasoned only with salt and pepper. Totally didn’t fail me.

And a note: bake this in a big enough pan. I used a pie dish, which made the oil pool up and drizzle into the oven in an unappetizing manner. (You’d think I would have remembered the events of this debacle. Didn’t). If you, too, are more charmed by your yellow Le Creuset ceramic pie dish than by practicality, set a rimmed cookie sheet underneath it.

The dish comes together very quickly. The batter takes about 5 minutes, then it goes into the fridge to relax. Once you’re ready to cook, it takes about 20 minutes.

Mike’s comments are in parentheses; mine are in brackets.

For the Yorkshire pudding mix I used approximately 200g {1 cup} of plain flour, 200ml {about a cup} milk (I used semi) and 4 large free range eggs. Whisk everything together until smooth, & season with salt & pepper. I made the batter a good few hours in advance as it benefits from sitting in the fridge a while. You can make it the night before if you like.

In a small saucepan, heat a mixture of olive & sunflower oils & add a few sprigs of rosemary*. You want about an inch of oil in a small milk pan. When the rosemary has become crisp and has infused the oil, turn off the heat & let it stand until you’re ready to cook.

Heat the oven to 200g {about 400 degrees F}. Place your sausages in the bottom of a large, shallow ovenproof dish. Allow them to colour in the oven for about 15 minutes. Add your rosemary oil to the dish & return to the oven until smoking hot. Pour over your batter and cook for 20 – 25 minutes or until it’s puffed up & golden. Don’t open the oven for at least 20 minutes or you might have a disastrous collapsed pud.

Serve with whatever veggies you like. {Sauteed mushrooms for me.} We had ours with a huge mound of colcannon & red onion gravy. {Though I would not quibble with this.} Bleeding marvellous it was too.

*

Here in the States we’d call this oeuvre something like freaking amazing, but I am an Anglophile, so I’d have to echo Mike’s review.

And just to gild the pud with bacon drippings or however the saying goes, I read Good Omens (Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett), classic English novel, while eating this classic English dish.

Cheers, Mike!

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*Mike Batho

Manchester, England

breadstead.co.uk/test-2/

**I went to the store to buy this, and by went to the store I mean I walked six blocks to my old apartment where I planted herbs out front 15 years ago, and plucked a sprig. The next recipe that calls for oregano will have the same outcome.

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