The Gravy-Train to Panic-ville

I think I mentioned already having a mild panic attack about the impendingness of Christmas, back at the start of November.  Unfortunately that wasn’t repeated again, and for the past few weeks I’ve been a complete slack-ass who seemed to think that the elves were going to skip down the chimney and do everything on my behalf. 

Matters weren’t helped by us all being sick – AGAIN – in turns, so much so that the Boy developed a whole new medical (sort of) lexicon: “Mummy, I’m going to PUUUUUUUUUUUUUKE”; “Mummy, take my temp-a-chure.  Is it over 39?  Has it gone down?”; and when the Girl had a coughing fit yesterday – “Quick!  Get the bucket! She’s going to PUUUUUUUUUUUKE!” (I made it to the sink instead, which she filled with what looked like melted Solero bars.  Mmmmm.)

So anyway, nothing continued to get done, until I woke up shrouded in complete terror this morning, and have spent the day thundering about like a Euro-politician on speed. Calendar-watchers amongst you would be quick to point out that I still have ten days left, and why the panic?  Because the Man and I go away in the morning for a few days (ALONE!!) and won’t be back until Tuesday, then we head off to the wilds of Sweden on Wednesday.  Morning.  For Christmas.   So you see, I have NO TIME left.  A mere day to do some laundry and wrapping and packing, and THAT’S IT. 

But I did manage to get around to one (sort of) Christmassy task, at the same time jumping on the blog bandwagon, by making some gravy. Given that I am absolved from all Christmas cooking responsibilities (and even if I wasn’t, we’re having a Swedish Christmas this year, where the dinner table on the 24^th [Yes! The 24^th! Mad Swedes] will be fairly devoid of anything other than herring in a thousand guises, potatoes and schnapps), gravy and all ancillary Christmas fare is not high on my To Do list.  But everybody seems to get in a tizz over gravy for the Big Day so I thought I’d do my bit both for you, dear reader, and for God’s Baby Animals and proffer a very easy, very delicious, meat-free gravy.  And for those of you who can’t imagine gravy without meat bits (as the Man spluttered: “It’s not gravy, it’s SAUCE”), don’t fret;  it’s easily adapted to your carnivorous ways. 

I pinched this off Nigel Slater, and have made it several times, using whatever I have to hand (who has a bottle of Marsala hanging around?  Actually, anyone who has ever bought one bottle undoubtedly has the same bottle several years (and tiramisus) later).  He pairs it with roast pork, and adds the juices and meaty bits from the roasting dish to the gravy before serving.  I can’t testify to its suitability with turkey – or indeed any meat - but I’ve served to others twice with turkey and no one vomited into their shoes, so I think it works fine.  And I’d imagine that adding the remnants of the turkey roasting tin to the gravy would ensure the two marry very well.

Also, I’ve eaten it two days after I made it, and it was perfect – in fact it tastes better as it ages – so you can make it somewhat in advance, then, if you’re adding turkey juice, do so just before serving.

Really tho, it’s just a great everyday gravy SAUCE, perfect for jazzing up mashed potatoes (and, I’d imagine, bangers); and while it takes a bit of cooking time, there’s very little effort involved.  Unless, of course, you burn it.  Twice.  But even then it’s very forgiving. The tip to dealing with a burnt black mess is (a) not to wander off and get sucked into the laundry, having left the heat on high under the pan; (b) pick out any really burnt bits (if your lack of attention occurs during the Onion Cooking phase); and (c) if it occurs during the simmering phase, add some more stock to the pan, swish it gently around, then pour everything into a clean jug, without scraping off any of the burnt bits.  If it tastes a bit bitter / burnt, add the juice of a quarter of a lemon (or to taste) and a dash of salt.  Seriously. It works.   It tasted great.  But better really not to let it happen in the first place. 

Pretend Gravy (makes enough for 6, generously)

(Apologies for the picture.  Having burnt the pan black and rendering it unphotographable, I had to get creative with the visuals.)

You need:

·         Three medium onions, peeled and chopped into thickish wedges.

·         A big slug of olive oil (at least two tablespoons)

·         Two tablespoons of plain flour

·         Two glasses of wine – preferably marsala, but any type you have to hand works.

·         750ml of water or stock (marigold marigold marigold)

·         A teaspoon of mustard powder (just use regular mustard if you don’t have powder)

·         A tablespoon of any mustard, preferably grain, but really, any type works. 

·         Salt and pepper

Put the onions and the oil in a heavy pan, and set over a low heat for half an hour.  This will yield a panful of soft, glistening onions.  (Don’t be tempted to turn the heat up and wander off, or you’ll be picking out hard, black onion bits and burning your fingers.)

Add the flour to the pan, stir, and leave to cook for five minutes or so.

Add the wine then the stock, bring to the boil, season with salt, pepper and mustard powder (if using) then leave to simmer for about 20 mins or so.

Stir in the rest of the mustard and leave to simmer for another 5 mins.

Eat with pickled herring, smoked herring, preserved herring, fresh herring, putrified herring etc. 

The C-Word

No, not that one.  The really offensive one: Christmas*.  Well, maybe not offensive;  certainly stressful.  I had a full-blown panic attack last week at the overwhelming enormity of what lies ahead – the list-making, the aimless wandering around shops full of tat, the crowds, the queuing, the walking home with 82 plastic bags cutting off the circulation in your hands, the fighting with the sellotape, the panic and further shopping/crowds/dead-hand-walking-home/sticky-wrestling, the inevitable scrum at Sainsbury’s at 6pm on Christmas Eve,  and of course all that joy -  and loitered on the edge of sanity until the Man sensibly pointed out that it was only the first week in November.  Still, no time like the present to start facing my fears. 

So a couple of nights ago I decided to share the panic joy by blighting the Boy’s innocence. It was time for my first parental conversation:  the story of the Night Before Christmas. I must say that it went alot easier than I was expecting; if someone came to me and asked me to believe that a large man with a beard and a flying reindeer was going to break into my house – via the chimney – I think I’d raise a few queries.  But the Boy took it all in his stride, his only slight concern being how Santa and the flying reindeer and all the toys were going to fit on an airplane from London to Sweden.  That was easy to answer, except now he wants a magic sleigh for Christmas.

In fact it went so well I gave half a second’s thought to sowing the seed of religion, and feeding him the True Story of Christmas  – but we’re committed atheist consumerists, and in our house Christmas = foolish drunken behaviour and eye-watering credit card bills only. So we left it at Santa Clause.  (Who, incidentally, has now replaced The Man Who Owns the House as the best carrot ever for inducing good behaviour.  If only Santa owned the house.) 

So that’s one thing off the Christmas list.  Another thing I can cross off – hurrah! – is Christmas cooking.  I’m a big fan of cooking, but on my own terms, in my own time. Christmas cooking makes me weep.  So much so that last year the Man – whose culinary skills don’t extent much beyond a mug of tea (sorry Man) – did most of the cooking (the results of which are STILL in the bottom drawer of the freezer.  I told him a 20lb turkey was too big for four people – one of whom doesn’t eat meat).  This year we’ve gotten around the problem of having no more room in our freezer by dumping ourselves and our offspring on his parents.  This has the advantage of being (a) in Sweden and (b) catered for by my mother-in-law.  Tidings of comfort and joy, indeed.

So to repay her the anticipated kindness, while she was visiting this week I dug out “The Silver Spoon: Pasta” book which she gave me a few Christmases ago (see the theme I’m running with here?) and chose a dish completely at random. The Silver Spoon Pasta is an absolute beast of a book.  It’s got about four million pasta recipes, almost all of which sound either dull and blah (taglierini with ricotta; mushroom tortellini; vermicelli with eggs and butter) or – worse – just plain weird  (macaroni with turnips; bigoli with onions; penne with lettuce).  But at the same time you just know they’re all going to be bloody fantastic, in the way that the weirdest, plainest-sounding pastas in Italy always are. (I suspect that the liberal use of several different types of cheese and lashings of cream and butter per recipe also assists in this culinary elevation).  The recipe I chose was Bucatini with Mozzarella and Aubergine (the randomness of my choice curtailed somewhat by the availability in my barren cupboards of appropriate ingredients).  Needless to say I didn’t really follow the recipe to the letter: Bucatini is a long pasta, so I substituted Linguini. The recipe also calls for pancetta or bacon, which I left out; I suspect that if you’re fond of the piggies, it would have  made the dish even better. And I made a few changes here and there to suit what I had.  It still worked.

Bucatini with Mozzarella and Aubergine

You need:  (For 3, comfortably (without seconds)

• 1 aubergine, cut into julienne strips (ie, matchsticks.  This was a pain in the arse and I really wouldn’t bother again.  Although it did make the finished dish loook pretty.  Just dice it.)
• 5 tablespoons of olive oil (or just lug it in, as much as you think works.)
• About 3 oz of pancetta or bacon OR one clove of garlic
• 4 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped (Seriously?  Just use a standard tin of plum tomatoes. With the juice.)
• 3½ oz mozzarella, diced
• ½ a fresh chile seeded and chopped
• 12 oz bucatini / other long dried pasta
• 1 hard-boiled egg, finely chopped (I know!  Completely mad. Do it anyway.)

Start with the thankless task of cutting the aubergine into fiddly little matchsticks – completely pointless, and added nothing to the dish, so really I wouldn’t bother again – then layer them in a colander with salt, and leave to drain for half an hour.  (This really isn’t necessary any longer to reduce the bitterness in aubergines, but it’s thought to reduce their tendency to absorb oil, so if that’s a consideration for you, and you have half an hour to hand, by all means hog up your sink as necessary. Otherwise just chop the fucker into cubes and jump to the next step.)

Heat the oil in a pan and add the aubergine pieces for about 5-8 minutes, until lightly browned.

Remove from the pan, and, if using, cook the pancetta / bacon without any oil.  Otherwise, slice the garlic, add a glug of fresh oil to the pan, and  heat through until the garlic starts to sizzle.  (Note - you don't need the garlic if you're using Mr Pig.)

Add the tomatoes  and the chopped chilli to the pan, then lower the heat and simmer for 15 mins.

If, like me, you don’t have a hard-boiled egg knocking around your house, now’s the time to do it.  Put it in a small pan,  cover with cold water, bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 7 mins. Plonk it in cold water until you’re ready to use it.

Add the aubergine to the tomato sauce and leave to simmer for a few more minutes.

Turn off the heat, and add the mozzarella cubes. Leave it to sit while you cook the pasta.

Silver Spoon then instructs you to dirty a serving dish by adding the drained pasta, topping with the sauce, and then sprinkling with the chopped egg, before serving.  I’d suggest that you just mix the sauce and the pasta in one of the cooking pans, serve up and sprinkle the egg on top. 

The egg makes it, by the way.

Which reminds me:  egg-nog.  Actually, maybe the C-word is looking up...

*There I was, thinking I was all smart and funny with this expression. Then I read this. Clearly I am just as smart and funny as Knackered Mother, not dull and predictable.