Nourish Me

chicken pie

Discussing respective xmas dinners late last year, I mentioned to Cath our now ritualistic chicken pie. She asked for the recipe so this is what I typed out while not eating one fasting day at werk. I am going to assume two things here: 1, that you will buy the best chicken you can afford and 2, that you will read the recipe through at least a couple of times before beginning. This pie is work, there is no other way of describing it, so save it for special occasions or when you have all day to potter about in the fug of your kitchen. Please note that a pie bird, despite the illustration above, isn't actually required, in fact the pie is not deep enough to warrant one, but I dunno, there's something rather charming about a bird bursting through a pastry crust.       

chicken pie

Poach a whole chook very gently with:

The green top of a leek, a peeled carrot, a stick of celery, some parsley and a splosh of white wine (optional). About an hour should do it - don't let it boil, let it putter away instead.

When cool enough to handle, remove the bird from the poaching liquor (but retain this) and tear flesh into long shreds, working with the grain. Spoon a little of the poaching liquor over chook and refrigerate while you make a stock with the bones and skin and remaining liquor. You want a rich, reduced stock of which you'll use but little, however leftover stock both freezes well and makes a nice starter. Strain and reserve when ready. 

To make pie:

Dice 1-2 carrots (peeled), a couple of stalks of celery; the white of a leek. Steam these until tender.

Mix chook flesh with steamed vegetables. Add salt and pepper to taste as well as at least 1/2 a cup of double cream and enough reduced chicken stock to bind things together - you want a loose but not a runny mixture. You will learn to feel your way along with this bit. Think pie filling and you'll know what I mean.

Spread mixture in the base of a ceramic gratin dish. You can pop the whole thing in the fridge at this stage, a  'make ahead' shortcut I rather like, a sheet of cling wrap smooshed right on top of the filling (a skin on anything other than a gratin dauphinoise make me gag). Top with a sheet of puff pastry you've cut to fit the dish. Make it pretty with leaves, etc, cut from the remaining pastry. Go all out here; I use Careme because it is, without doubt, the most luxurious (and puffy and buttery). Brush pastry with a beaten egg and bake at 180C for about 30 minutes - pastry should be puffed and deeply golden.

Super-nice with peas tossed in lemon and butter (thank you, Nigel Slater, for that genius idea).    

 

         

congee

Don't let the slightly spooky blue put you off; a bowl of leftover congee  makes a damned good breakfast after the sort of day that required something healing and non-challenging for dinner. Well, that is if you're the kind of person who prefers savoury over sweet in the mornings. That'd be me.

congee

Two very generous serves, one for a solo tea and another for breakfast the following day. From Simon Hopkinson’s excellent book, The Vegetarian Option.

In a heavy-based saucepan mix 125g (4oz) of basmati rice with 1 litre (1 quart) of stock. Add several (Hopkinson says 7, but if you've only got 5, so be it) thick slices of ginger to the pan and bring to a boil. Lid on tight, then lower the heat as far down as you can and leave to putter for at least 1 hour, probably more like 1½, until the rice has become, ‘overcooked almost to the point of submission’. You may need to add more liquid to achieve this so keep an eye on things.   

When porridge-y, discard the ginger and stir in 3 tablespoons of rice wine vinegar. Don’t forget the vinegar as it pulls everything together, balances the whole. Serve half of it in a deep bowl topped with:

Steamed leafy greens, protein of some kind, sliced spring onions, cashews or peanuts, tamari dribbled as artfully as you like across the surface and maybe, if you can stomach it, sliced chilli. Shredded ginger that's been steeped for at least an hour in rice vinegar is better than chilli in my opinion, but you do as you please. Save the rest for breakfast (in the fridge - rice goes off frighteningly fast, even in winter).    

 

Radicchio

Bitter leaves make me salivate, and none more so than the deep dark red variety. This has not always been the case, in fact it seems to be a fairly recent addiction, one borne of ageing (somewhat) gracefully, as though my taste buds have, at last, reached maturity. 

Bitter isn't easy. Bitter requires input, but then, why should things always be simple? The inclination toward habitually-sweet should be kicked out of every last one of us beyond the age of thirty, and the ability to balance flavours on a plate signals a fine cook at work. Spears of pale green witlof (endive, chicory) in a salad with mild blue cheese and brown-sugar roasted walnuts get you started, coaxing harshness to sweetness, a classic combination.

I dismissed The Vegetarian Option by Simon Hopkinson initially, thrown by the inclusion, second recipe in, of a chicken stock (says she who any quick perusal of her archive will reveal a beast of the very same ilk...). But, like the bitter I've grown to desire, his is sophisticated food, flesh-free, for the grown-ups. The crescendo of bitter must surely be the exquisite Wilted radicchio with green sauce on page 120, a dish tamed not by dairy (too easy), but by a herbal, mustard- and caper-based dressing, and served with very thin slices of hard-boiled egg, cut with the utmost of care, alongside. Elegant eating for two.

Seek the book out and give it some time; the worthwhile things in this life are rarely - if indeed ever - easy.