by John Crace
Tirsdag Vigdis serves fresh whale. The meat has a strong taste of iron, but I can reduce that by taking out the harpoon.
Onsdag Sverrir takes us out among the Greenland ice floes. The scallops caught at 35 metres are not good. I suggest we try somewhere deeper. We send a diver down to the seabed at 1,200 metres. He dies of the bends on the way up, but it is worth it. The flavour is exquisite. I place an order for several tonnes a year; Sverrir places an order for several hundred divers.
Bouillon of Steamed Birchwood, Chanterelles and Fresh Hazelnut Chop down one 12 metre birch tree and soak in an ice bath to lock in the flavours. Then boil for seven days until it is soggy. Macerate the remaining branches and boil for a further 10 days. Force the pulp through a fine sieve, then reduce the liquid until just 50ml remain. Add some chanterelles and garnish with a hazelnut.
Reindeer with Celeriac and Wild Herb Gel Shoot reindeer in back yard. Slice 200g of meat from the shoulder and the loin and preserve the hide. Vacuum-pack the shoulder and cook for three hours at 84°C. Poke it and cook for a further three hours at 87°C. Blend the loin with celeriac very quickly (no longer than 3.7 seconds) then put in thermomixer and add to the shoulder and poach for 14 minutes at 68°C. Boil up the reindeer hooves and wild herbs into a glue and stick the hide back on.
Sea Urchins and Frozen Milk, Cucumber and Dill Remove sea urchins from hyperbaric chamber and get junior member of staff to cut off spines so you don’t spike yourself. Poach the spines for seven hours in a water bath at 37°C then throw away. Rinse the orange urchin tongues before adding seven grains of Norwegian sand. Incinerate the cucumber until carbonised then crush into a powder. Separate the cream from the milk for 11 minutes before mixing them back together and freezing with liquid nitrogen. Mix everything together and blow-torch.
Snails and Moss Feed 32 snails on beetroot until they turn red. Boil them alive, making sure none escape. Scrape some moss from the side of a fjord and blanch until colourless. Then reform snails and moss into the Danish flag.
Blueberries surrounded by their Natural Environment Remove several large blueberry bushes from the garden, taking care to preserve as much of the root ball as possible. Reattach any blueberries that fell off while you were moving the plant with maltodextrin and xanthum gum. Bring Arctic foxes into kitchen and palpate their bladders until they have urinated on the blueberries. Repot the bushes in Greenland tundra and serve with vanilla Häagen-Dazs ice-cream.
Digested read, digested: Nochance.
Notes From My Kitchen Table
by Gwyneth Paltrow (2011)
This book is dedicated to the Wigmore-Reynolds, the Van Nices, the Turly-Burnses, the McCartney-Willises, the Nadal-Saxe-Coburgs, the Cameron-Cleggs and all the other little people with whom I have shared so many wonderful meals. But the biggest thank you goes to the trees who gave me their permission to be pulped.
I literally could not have written this book without the literal assistance of Julia Turshen who literally did all the cooking and writing while I literally did yoga classes and literally had my hair done for the photo-shoot.
‘Why,’ you may ask, ‘would the world’s greatest actress wish to share her kitchen secrets?’ It is because I have the secret of eternal life. When my beloved father, who taught me so much about cooking, was diagnosed with cancer in 1998, I became convinced I could cure him with a macrobiotic diet. Sadly he died, but only because he had eaten too much steak and chips when he was young. But with these recipes my children and possibly your children, if they have double-barrelled surnames, can live for ever, and if you think I’m going to mention my idiot husband Chris and his rubbish band then you’ve got another think coming – he’s never supported my ambition to be hailed as the new lifestyle goddess of those with too much time on their hands.
How to use this book Get a member of your staff to read it out loud while you are having a pedicure. If a recipe sounds tasty, ask him to cook it. If some ingredients are unavailable, call my favourite gourmet organic deli in Bel Air and have them flown over.
Vegetarian chilli When my daughter, Apple, was six months old she informed me she was a vegetarian. This is a recipe she has come to love. It’s really very easy. Feel the pain of the carrots as you dice them and fry gently. Add some beans until you have a sludge. Serve with rice. (NB: I only use wholegrain rice grown near the Tibet border. This takes four hours to cook, which is why I like to involve my children in the kitchen experience. Apple likes nothing more than staring at a saucepan while I nip out to phone Sting and Trudie.)
Bitter leaf salad Few things are as good for your liver as bitter greens – they support its detoxification. When it’s cold and you feel like a hearty meal, there’s nothing better than a puntarelle or escarole head. Go easy on the anchovy vinaigrette, or you could bloat.
Stick insect pancakes After meditating with some of LA’s most profound mystics, I have come to realise that you are what you eat. If you eat pork, you will look like a pig. If you eat stick insects . . . just look at me. Place stick insects in cold water, then bring to boil while praying for their immortal souls. Add to pancake mix. Do not, under any circumstances, serve with sugar.
Asian portobello burgers I’ve come to realise that meals are a very special time when families come together. Ours is no exception, so my people have created a special app so that I can talk to Apple and Moses if I am in the gym when they are having lunch. As an American I have burgers in my DNA and there’s nothing quite like the thrill of telling kids you are cooking them burgers, then seeing the disappointment on their little faces when you serve them up a mushroom!
Duck ragu One year Jamie Oliver came round to cook me lunch on my birthday. I expect he does that for you, too. He cooked this amazing duck pasta and I have literally spent the last 250 years trying to perfect it. Get a surgeon to give another duck at the Malibu Center for Desperately Sick Mallards a chance of life by transplanting the heart of the duck you are going to eat. Roast duck for two hours, then discard all fat. Not that I have any. Serve with spaghetti.
Apple crumble Slice one Apple into quarters and sprinkle with a light crumble. Put in oven. (NB: Not suitable for vegetarians).
Digested read, digested: Thank you, thank you for . . . indulging me.
Gardening at Longmeadow:
Monty Don (2012)
I first saw this garden on a dank autumnal day in 1991. It was piled high with rubble and weeds, and there was nothing to suggest that one day it would be filled with lustily growing plants, or that two million women from the shires would tune in to Gardeners’ World each Friday to swoon at me running my fingers, scored with decades of Herefordshire loam, through my tangled, wayward curls.
Every year, I have an almost tangible sense of renewal in January. I can feel the light seeping back into the Jewel Garden as the snowdrops emerge and the days stretch out, longer minute by minute. But generally speaking, there’s sod all going on, so I’ll fill up the chapter with some stuff about cavolo nero and leeks.
February is my favourite month of the year and, if I listen carefully when I wake, I can hear the faint chattering of birds that heralds the first sounds of spring. On some days, I even like to sit outside and lean against a tree moodily while my photograph is taken. But beware! February can still be very cold, and it’s vital to keep your tenderest plants well-wrapped in their fleeces. Otherwise, there’s still next to nothing going on, but I can do a bit of digging if I’m bored.
As I get older, March has become my favourite month as there is a real sense of vibrant growth in the air. The stigmata on the trees are beginning to heal from their annual pruning – a necessary task that causes me far more pain than them – and I can start planting my cheerful bedding in the greenhouse. It’s also the time of year when my favourite flower of all appears: the gentle primrose, a plant as common and as humble as myself.
On reflection, April is my favourite month. It is a time of intense activity, and I feel possessed by the garden. The longer evenings, warmed by the first
genuine heat of the sun, are an ideal time to get my Jewel Garden, Coppice, Courtyard, Soft Fruit Garden, Walled Garden, Vegetable Garden and Writing Garden in order. Not to mention give the cricket pitch its first mow of the year. I guess some of you won’t be quite so busy.
There can be no more jubilant time in the calendar than May. Everything is bursting with life. Alliums, aquilegias ... I could go on through the plant alphabet. So I will. June and July are also months of intense joy, months that answer the questions that the rest of the year poses. Not least: ‘What shall I do with all the creepy-crawlies that are eating all my plants?’ I cannot condone killing aphids. They have as much right to life as any of us. Much better to join them in group therapy and work out a way we can share all the bounties nature has to offer.
I have come to appreciate August and September for their subtlety. Many gardeners think there is not much going on at these times, but a closer relationship with your lawn and a chance to smell the wild comfrey can be far more rewarding than a fortnight in your villa in Tuscany. Which is why I haven’t taken a summer holiday for years.
October, November and December used to fill me with dread. I could physically feel the closing-in of winter, a sense of impending horticultural anti-matter, but since I’ve been on Gardeners’ World, I’ve realised that things aren’t so bleak and that it’s never quite as dark outside as you think it is if you get the garden lighting right. And there’s lots to do, like picking the rotten apples off the ground and sweeping up leaves. Best of all, it’s a time to think ahead, to plan what I’m going to do with all the cash I’ve made from people buying this book as a Christmas present.
Digested read, digested: Quietly flows the Don.
Bread by Paul Hollywood (2013)
It’s time to take Paul Hollywood off the side-plate and put him back where he belongs: in the centre of the table. My book has two aims. First of all, I want to teach you how to groom the perfect ‘Lady Pleaser’ beard. It’s no coincidence I’m called ‘Hollywood’. Or ‘LA’ for short to my ‘Brazilian’ friends, if you get my drift. Feel free to lick the breadcrumbs from my Fifty Shades of Grey tache as I knead your shoulders ...
And then I want to teach you that Mary Berry is just so over. For far too long, I’ve had to work in her simpering, smiling shadow, looking on as she reassures some useless Middle Englander that their lemon meringue pie is acceptable. Well, let me tell you right now: there’s nothing safe or cosy about baking. Baking is dangerous. Baking is sexy. And it doesn’t come any more dangerous or sexy than when you’re baking bread with me.
OK. So we’re ready. We’ll start with something gentle. The bloomer. Take 500g of strong – and I mean strong – white flour. Add 10g of salt, 40ml of olive oil, 240ml water and then thrust your hands deeply into the mix. Manipulate till firm (you, not me) and the dough begins to ooze between my strong, manly fingers. Nice. Then leave to prove – baby, I can prove it all night – before taking a sharp knife and slashing some cuts into the top. Put in the oven for a bit and you have a loaf fit for Greggs.
Let’s move on to something a little harder. Rye, ale and oat bread. I first made this during a weekend voyage of discovery at the Totnes Bread and Fairy Cake Summer Solstice Festival. It went down well. As do I. The look of this loaf is important, so make sure you are wearing something appropriately artisan. A T-shirt made of organic cotton and some faded denim should do it. Then do much the same as you did for the bloomer, only add some rye, ale and oats.
Nothing oozes pheromones quite like a continental loaf. I know it’s hard not to associate a ciabatta with the spindly fingers of a metrosexual Italian. But, take it from me, in the right hands – mine – it is a bread that can be both powerfully manly and erotic. Just stretch out the dough to a magnificent 12 inches and then lie back on your banneton and close your eyes as I whisper ‘fougasse’ into your ear. Play your cards right and I might even add a raspberry before I focaccia. Mmm.
And that’s about it. There really doesn’t seem to be a lot more to say about baking bread, because it’s all pretty much the same. Flour, water, yeast, salt and anything else you care to throw in to spice it up. Have I mentioned spelt flour? I love the word ‘spelt’. It’s so sensuously exotic. It reminds me of intense orgasms on a lazy Sunday morning in bed.
Um ... I’ve been told we haven’t got quite enough material for a book, so I’ve been asked to pad it out a bit. So let me remind you that bread need not be the ‘missionary position’ of food. It can also be a French toast. Used creatively, bread can be used in countless other recipes. Here are a few of my favourites. The Ploughman’s: take a lump of cheddar, a pickled onion, some Branston pickle and a freshly baked sourdough loaf and you have a meal for a stud.
Then, for when you’re right out there on the sexual wire, there’s the Doner Kebab. Cut yourself a thick slice of mechanically recovered meat, wrap in a bit of pitta bread, and let the horse juices drip down your chin. Always be inventive. Dangerously inventive. Let your imagination go wild. Make a jelly. Wobbly, but not too wobbly. Place a cherry on top. And when your desire is irresistible and your senses are at near overload, cut yourself a slice of Mother’s Pride.
Digested read, digested: Feel the knead in me.
TRAVEL
Down Under
by Bill Bryson (2000)
Gee. Australia is a very, very big country and no one knows much about it. Especially Americans. Which makes it the ideal spot for another of my homey little travelogues.
So what else can I tell you by way of background? Well, it’s very, very big, there are loads of deadly creepy crawlies (yuck!!), it was colonised by convicts (imagine!!) and the present inhabitants can be fairly chippy. But let me say, right here, right now, that I love Australians.
So where shall I start my trip? A colour magazine is paying me to turn around a quick piece on the Sydney-to-Perth Express so that seems as good a place as any. The train stops at Broken Hill. Pause, while I read up the history books and repeat some amusing anecdotes. We go for a day’s driving out in the bush and when I get back I look at the map and see we’ve hardly moved out of Broken Hill.
Gee, it’s a big country. The next leg of the train ride goes smoothly. I go in the cab for a bit and then I slum it in third class for a couple of hours. Scar-ry. And this is Perth, but I can’t stick around as I’ve got another job to do in the Middle East.
Hi. I’m back. But not for long as I’ve only got a month and I’m hoping to cover the whole of the south-east corner, so we’d better get going.
Hey, look, there’s a pet food shop that sells porno out the back. That’s really neat. And, wow, the cricket on the car radio really cracks me up. ‘I wonder if he’ll chance an offside drop scone here or go for the quick legover.’ Crazy. Why can’t all these guys play exactly the same games as the rest of us? Such as American football.
Here’s Adelaide (pause for some historical anecdotes) and there’s the fascinating museum. Unfortunately it’s closed for the day and my schedule’s too tight to hang on.
Oh, and that might have been Melbourne and, wow, I must be back in Sydney and I’m outta here.
Right, I’m back for a few days so we’re going up north. Ah, it’s the rainy season. I hadn’t thought of that. So Cairns is as far as I get. Let’s take the plane to Darwin (not very nice) and drive to Alice Springs. Now, I’ll just nip to Ayers Rock for a couple of hours as I’ve forgotten to book a hotel, then it’s over to Perth for a suntan and Bob’s your uncle. My cheque’s in the bank.
Digested read, digested: Bill goes walkabout and sees everything and nothing.
Stephen Fry in America
by Stephen Fry (2008)
I was so nearly an American. I was that close. In the 1950s my father went on holiday to the USA and had quite a nice time. If he had stayed, and if my mother had been stupid enough to join him, I might have been christened Steve, not Stephen. So who better than me to have a six-month holiday at the BBC’s expense?
‘Don’t worry,’ I tol
d the producers. ‘It won’t be yet another documentary series presented by some clever clogs that tells us next to nothing we didn’t already know about the USA through a series of choreographed set pieces.’ ‘Oh yes it will,’ they said, ‘but we don’t care because you’re a national treasure.’ Mirabile dictu.
So it was with a light heart that I began my journey in Maine to travel through all 50 states in a London taxi and went in search of my first spontaneously pre-arranged encounter. Ouch! I’ve been bitten by a lobster. What a silly arse I am! This fishing business is hard work and I’m completely won over by the uncomplaining heroism of the men who risk their lives on the sea.
I drive through the eastern states meeting the ordinary people who have shaped the character of this great country; people like presidential hopeful Mitt Romney and Oatsie Charles, grande dame of Rhode Island society. Eventually, I make my way to upstate New York to go hunting deer.
‘This hat is rather a sudden orange,’ I complain.
‘Hunting orange, they call it,’ says Tom. ‘Other huntsmen know not to shoot you.’
‘Please take it off then,’ the film crew beg me.
New Jersey is very working-class, so that won’t detain me long and I drive to Pennsylvania for a cup of Twinings and to listen to my own recording of the Gettysburg Address that never fails to move me to tears. In Tennessee and Kentucky, I meet more fascinating rich people with horses before I find my first black person in South Carolina. What a pleasure for her.
Florida restored a sense of bien-être as I blew the budget swimming with dolphins and taking an airboat on the Everglades. But then I had to take a short break in Amazonia to allow me to earn a few quid making another documentary and the team to organise some more adventures on my behalf and, silly billy that I am, I broke my arm, so I entered Louisiana in a sling.