I’ve discovered a very pleasant way of wasting entire afternoons. It’s the Good Food television channel and you can indulge yourself daily from noon till midnight without putting on an ounce of weight – unless tempted to snatch a snack from your own kitchen during a commercial break.
Every television chef you’ve ever heard of, from the Hairy Bikers cooking up a storm with a heart-attack on a plate, through Rick Stein doing interesting things with species of fish I’ve never heard of, to Jamie Oliver’s bish-bash-bosh 15 minute meals (only achievable if there’s an army of assistants off-screen peeling, chopping and grating.) Anyway, Jamie’s far too fond of drenching everything in olive oil for my taste.
Like many another aspirational cook I have a shelf of suspiciously clean cookery books bought on impulse for the sake of a single recipe – never made. Also an expandable file of tearings-out from magazines of dishes I might have cooked if I’d ever had all the ingredients at the same time. Meanwhile, I rely on half-a-dozen staple meals I can make with my eyes closed.
But that’s by the way. My current favourite television chef is Nigel Slater whose calm, unhurried presentation of ‘Simple Suppers’ is an unalloyed delight. ‘Supper’ being the new name for ‘dinner’ among the upper classes, rather than the cuppa tea an’ toast traditionally consumed before bedtime in humbler homes, though I’m wary of his suggestion that you toss together whatever you’ve left in the fridge.
Pears pan-fried in butter, served with a wedge of gorgonzola? I’m afraid my leftovers are more mundane than his. If he has a fault, it’s a tendency to gussy things up with spices. Remember how every 1980s newlyweds’ kitchen had a spice rack prominently displayed? Rows of little glass jars glowing with the exoticism of the Orient, only about three of them ever used. My quick cupboard check reveals 39 assorted herbs and spices, seven of them duplicates, most of them bought for dishes never cooked. Many are of pensionable age. Nigel’s herbs are from his own garden, though I draw the line at garnishing any dish with marigold petals.
Though my culinary credentials are impeccable (Domestic Science to ‘O’ level) I’m sound in theory, merely adequate in practice, but mostly I can’t be bothered. I’m serially shamed by friends who rustle up a batch of brownies and have a fruit cake in the oven by 11am and probably a washing out on the line. I blame my mother who couldn’t be doing with help in the kitchen, wouldn’t eat anything out of a tin except peaches and considered ‘bought’ cake the sign of a bad manager.
I never actually made a real dinner till I was 27. My grown-up sister however had a light hand with pastry. Her specialisms were apple tart and lemon meringue pie, served to visitors on the good china with pastry forks. I got to carry round the cream.
I grew up and married a man fond of his grub. Six days a week the wedding present Le Creuset casserole dish never cooled. I got adventurous on Sundays with a roast dinner. Things went swimmingly until Daughter Dear reached the age of reason and announced she was fed up eating Mexican Beef every Thursday. We never had it again till she left home.
Altruistic as it is to save the planet by altering our eating habits, I’m equivocal about the whole vegetarian/vegan thing. A newspaper article last week by a conservationist advocated using ‘waste’ vegetables to make stock. “Onion skins, potato peelings, carrot tops, wilted broccoli, cauliflower cores, celery roots and cabbage stalks – boil, strain and use as a base for soup.” Alternatively, pour it down the sink.
Vegetarian main courses taste curiously thin. Squash is bland and stringy, aubergine tasteless and flannel-y, courgettes flabby, peppers delicious but indigestible and if I thought I’d never sink my teeth into a succulent sirloin steak again, life wouldn’t be worth living. In a climate like ours, we need all the first-class protein we can get. Besides, life’s too short to stuff a mushroom.
