I Still Use Real Butter

What does this picture have to do with food?
A lot of things went into this body to get me to that starting line.
A lot of things stopped going into that body to get me to the starting line.

The decision to begin running was interesting. It was Steve’s first visit to America, so I chose Texas as the first port of entry. We spent two weeks split between Houston and Austin [family in Houston, friends in Austin]. We ate 3 meals a day, drank beer from noon and drove in a civilian tank we Christened “The Orange Avenger”.

Flicking through photos near the end of our trip, I noticed our skin getting darker, and our bellies getting larger. In a land without public houses or public transport, the social fabric is stitched with corn based foodstuffs and picante sauce. I met friends at restaurants and cafes and coffee shops and at houses where we ate or shared food or made snacks. Beer always. Clicking glasses filled my dreams. Always scoping the price of gasoline at filling stations and quickly popping in to check the price of a twelve pack of Shiner.

About a week in, Steve and I stayed behind at ours hostesses’ house as they readied for work. We slipped off to HEB and purchased a bulk package of spinach, $10 balsamic vinegar, some olive oil and cherry tomatoes. We retreated to the house and quietly devoured the leaves in silence like prisoners of war with a secret allotment.

We were both clearly overdosing on carbohydrates. I purchased some New Balance running shoes at a sporting goods emporium near my parent’s house in north Houston a few days before our return flight. I can’t remember the exact thought, but I knew I would push myself out of bed on our return to England and go running.

It was difficult in the beginning, to say the least. I’ve lived in my neighbourhood for 2 years now, but until two months ago, I couldn’t tell you the names of the streets around me. It took me a month to discover a huge park 5 minutes jog away from me.

I started by walking down a side street, and then heading towards Leyton Orient Football Stadium, I knew the road swung around the bottom towards the 2012 Olympic site, and double-backed on its self. I would use this road route until further notice. It’s not exactly pretty, and I’ve come to learn I’d rather not run in front of too many pedestrians, especially in this part of town. They’re…mouthy.

At first I was running the long stretches of road on my route; roughly 200 metres at most, then semi-collapsing into a semi-swift walk completely out of breath. It’s no surprise [except to my parents, maybe…uhm, sorry] that I’d been a smoker for 7 years.

Comparably, this is nothing. I know people who’ve been smoking for double my own life span, and again, comparably, they’re doing all right. And for all the debate surrounding smoker’s rights and “I can do whatever I want with my body” and half my friends being smokers themselves, I’d had enough. The past year I’d not been as committed to it as I had been before.

The trouble with smoking is, you can’t do it by halves. [This is something I’m learning with alcohol as well. I’m sure that won’t be a popular message either] I’d been on roll-ups for years, but in general smoker speak, unless you’re on at least half-a-pack-a-day, I find the lungs keep thinking they’re going to win the battle.

For a smoker, the lungs have to never get back up off the matt. If I’m constantly trying to clear my lungs out, that means I’m coughing all the time, and that means I’m actually getting ill more often than when I smoked a whole bunch more. The conventional head-in-the-sand wisdom of smokers being “Well, I’m creating an environment where no bugs can take hold.” And while this is probably bollocks, the truth is I never really got sick that often. But when I did get sick, I was out for the count. It was like getting Chicken Pox for the second time. It’s got to be that much stronger for it to come back.

Anyway, I’d finally kicked the smoking out of my routine. It was easy in the end. I just made the decision. Nicotine replacements seemed silly and counterproductive. But running helped take away the “oh-I-could-have-just-one” moments when out with other friends who only have one when they’re drinking. [These people are lethal, bless their hearts]

But I did find a running route which roughly equalled 3 miles, and when I finally ran around the whole way it was pretty special. And it was all about little goals and little pieces to this puzzle I’m trying to complete. And my eating habits have certainly changed. I’ve not shied away from carbohydrates, but now I’m actively seeking them out because I need the energy when I’m running. It’s similar [to a point] to when I was doing gardening work, and I would eat anything I could get my hands on because I required the caloric intake.

I’m learning all these new words like Tryptophan and Glucosamine and why they’re important and what foods they’re in. So I’m looking at food for both fuel and pleasure. But I’m after balance. I’m not trying to win races per se. I may not be smoking but I still use real butter.

Here's to balance.

Gin and Tonic, Splash of Angostura Bitters

Of the umpteen different books I’m reading at any given time [books I’ve abandoned midway up to three years ago I still consider being read] is a collection of M.F.K. Fisher’s culinary tomes entitled The Art of Eating.

While I am unable to elucidate in the manor of a great and learned gastronome such as Mrs. Fisher, I giggle with delight when I read her. She is a recent discovery; a purchase from the lovely Skylight bookshop in Los Feliz [Los Angeles]. As a side note, I applaud their commitment to the small press [their periodical/zine section was immense].

Mrs. Fisher’s books [written in the 50’s] border on the whimsical, and her style loose and free. Anecdotes from friends, a wine reminding her of a bold combination of ingredients. casting her mind back through subjects Like the smoke from the after dinner cigarette, she wafts through memory and story tenderly and with great poise.

But I digress. Herewith a quote within in a quote I found most modern. In the chapter “I Arise Resigned” from her book Serve it Forth, we find her on the subject of the last drink. The first part is Mrs. Fisher, then she quotes from the French painter, literary critic and Gourmet Paul Reboux.

“There is a recipe in one of Paul Reboux’s entertaining cookbooks which explains this custom of pre-lethal drinking not too inappropriately. He is discussing the preparation of a rabbit for execution.

‘Many people,’ he says, ‘whose stomachs are more demanding than their hearts are tender, raise rabbit only to eat them.

‘This is in itself an act of human energy which I would not know how to accomplish. Intimate family life with a rabbit, strengthened by our daily relations, would make me no more capable of devouring my little animal than I would be of eating one of my friends.

‘However, if your sense of realism be strong enough, and if you want your rabbit to be even better than your neighbour’s, take care to nourish it---‘

“Monsieur Reboux tells with his own detached care the schedule for feeding: warm milk while the beastie is still nursing from its mother, tender lettuce and meadow salads as it grows older, a few succulent carrots and grains of corn. And herbs, of course, to perfume its flesh before it is cooked rather than after.

“It will enjoy leek soup, he advises, and rich hot potato broth with bread. And even, on Sundays, a little bowl of café au lait!

‘Finally, the day of the execution, give him a glass of good marc to drink. Rum, although traditional for such occasions, will render him less careless of his fate. After this, you will without scruple be able to give to his little neck the final and decisive blow. Your rabbit will already be in such a state of anaesthesia that nothing can matter to him.

‘Thus you are assured of having given him a beautiful life, and a beautiful death!’”

For Melisa

A few years ago, this plant was the subject of yet another British/American Moment of Extreme Embarrassment when I exclaimed loudly the little green leaf was called cilantro. Not, what did you say? Coriander?

I know spend my time clearing cultural mind fields. Americans should know where not to step. I can be your guide. It’s called Coriander over here. Cilantro back home. That’s about as cartographic as I’m going to get. I never said I was a good guide. But now we know what its name, we can use it to save Fantasia! Oh Atreyu!

[ten points for spotting the reference above]

Of the thousand of uses for coriander, my most recent concoction is a simple salad to be eaten with humus. Yum!

The Tool Kit:

Handful of flat parsley leaves
Half the size handful of Coriander leaves
Juice of half a lemon
smidgen of Olive oil

Roughly chop or tear the leaves into a nice pile and add the lemon juice. Sprinkle with a bit of olive oil and serve with crusty or flat bread and humus.

This takes 2 minutes, and tends to be an “Oh sh*t” moment solution when you’ve had that extra drop of sherry before finishing off the dinner.

YUM = ???

Risotto!! And it's yummy!

I like wine. I like wine a whole lot. A way to ceremoniously offer some wine to the little liver god is to make risotto. Risotto is a good guest to have for dinner, as he only wants one glass of white wine. Cheap date, even cheaper dinner.

Risotto takes about 30 minutes. I know some people can do it quicker, but this is how long it takes me. And this recipe is for 2.

Best to start with some unsalted butter. You're wanting to slowly fry up some thinly chopped onions, and the unsalted butter means:

1. You can raise it to a higher temp w/o burning
2. You have more control over the salt content, which will become important in a minute

Once the onions are soft [5 min] add a coffee mug's worth of Risotto Rice. [This rice tends to have a high starch content, hence the creamy texture at the end.] Stir all this together to coat the rice with butter [another 3 min]

Okay, if you haven't popped the cork yet, now's the time. You want a glass of white wine in with the rice. You can pour it in slowly, or all at once. Whatever way you want to make the offering. Once this starts to cook and soak into the rice, you'll recognise that smell which gives Risotto it's distinct flavour.

Alternate letting this simmer and stirring until it both evaporates and soaks into the rice. Then you'll want about 2 pints of chicken or vegetable stock. Here's where the salt bit comes in. Most stock has lots of sodium in it. Unless you've just boiled a chicken yourself, or even if you had, salt will be in there somewhere. So just watch out. You can always add more.

This continues for another 20 minutes or so, until all the stock is gone. Then add whatever you want. Chopped tommies, peppers, broccoli, frozen veg, PEAS PEAS PEAS are a must. Little Parmesan to finish [again, salty!!] and season to taste.

Good winter fair. Good hangover food. Good with a salad when you wanna stuff your face.

Nice.

AN AMERICAN CLASSIC

Root Beer, or Sasparilla to the rest of you, is an amazing substance. It kind of tastes like EUTHYMOL. But I wouldn't put Euthymol on my ice cream, which one can do with Root Beer!

I hear one can acquire A&W brand Root Beer from one of the China Town convenient stores in Soho for the normal price of a canned beverage. Other than this, I'm not sure where to get it. It seems a taste unfamiliar to the British tongue, and when offered in a way similar to Marmite pushers, can be met with considerable hostility.

It is an old flavor. Spicy, but not reedy. There is a nasal component to the drink which perhaps only Americans can appreciate, being the nasal speakers that we are. The Root Beer Float is yet another step away from the European sensibility. It's an honest, messy and unrefined treat. It comes in a large glass mug. Root Beer poured from a fountain yields the best results; there being too many bubbles in the canned and bottled variety. A heaping spoonful of Vanilla ice cream is then lowered into the mug, bubbling and frothing up around the rim and overflowing the sticky contents onto the expecting napkins.

The Root Beer Float is a quick pint on the way home. It's full of empty calories and requires a minimum 7-10 minutes of my time. I must stop and reflect. My busy day compartmentalized into little freezing bites and slurps. Towards the end, I can down the last bits of melted ice cream and foam in the same continuous movement I finish a Guinness. And with my cheeks full I pause, take in the room, place my glass down on the bar and stand. Bag in hand I walk out the door feeling neutral and smooth, like a hinge recently greased.

THE GREAT AMERICAN ESCAPADE BEGINS

I'm in Chicago! For less than 24 hours! Then on to Houston. Land of rediculously fat people.

I've woken up early and decided that, although I have yet to purchase a camera, I can still post stories about food! Here's one I read in the Chicago Tribune today.

It's difficult for me to explain to a non-American audience the sobriety with which eating contests are referred to here. People routinely look past the symbolism of carelessly stuffing one's face with cheap, sponsored foodstuffs. It remains, it seems, ingrained in the American psyche that feats of physical ability, no matter how grotesque, will forever be enabled and applauded. Even if said physical feat impairs one's ability to compete in all other physical activity.

Walnut Bread

Feeds: Small army
Prep Time: 20 – 30 minutes plus 2 – 3 hours rising time
Cook Time: 45 minutes

Walnut Bread
15g fresh yeast; or
2 tsp dried yeast plus
1 tsp sugar; or 1 sachet
easy-blend dried yeast
500ml lukewarm water
1 Tbs honey
375g wholemeal flour
175g strong white flour
2 tsp salt
Butter for greasing
125g walnuts, chopped

[glaze]
1 medium egg, beaten with ½ tsp salt

1. Dissolve sugar and honey in the water [this feeds the yeast] and add yeast. Leave for 15 minutes to froth up. If using easy-blend yeast, add it straight to the flour.
2. Toss the flour and salt into a bowl, making a well in the centre for the yeasty water [or plain water if using the sachet].
3. Stir with a wooden spoon to form a dough. Try and keep the dough as moist as possible. I know it’s difficult, but resist temptation to add more flour.
4. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead for about 10 minutes. Flour your hands if need be. Work until smooth and stretchy.
5. Butter up a bowl, plop in the dough and cover with cling film. I then put mine under the radiator, but anywhere warm will do. Leave for 90 – 120 minutes.
6. You’ll have enough dough for two separate 18cm cake tins [but any baking dish about that size will do]. Give the dough a good punch to disperse the air inside and knead in the walnuts.
7. Divide the dough into your two buttered up tins or dishes and cover loosely with cling film. You are wanting it to almost double in size again, so put back under the radiator for about half an hour.
8. Preheat the oven to 220°C.
9. Slash the top of each loaf then brush on some glaze. This makes it all shiny.
10. Bake for a quarter of an hour, then drop the oven temperature to 190°C and bake for half an hour. Let it cool on a rack on the counter and the whole house will smell divine.


The loaf above was devoured by 2 people at work in as many hours. Lightly toasted with a bit of honey makes it taste like a cookie. The top will inevitably get slightly scorched, but if you’re like me you’ll steal all the walnuts off the top anyway.