There are several non-negotiable traditions in our family, and chief among them are Sunday morning waffles with maple syrup.
Nothing else, nothing more, nothing less. Waffles and maple syrup. Ever has it been, ever shall it be.
I fiddled around with a variety of recipes when we started out on this weekend ritual. I wanted to replicate Belgian waffles, but the whole thing was too involved for lazy Sunday mornings … yeast, stiffly beaten egg whites … just too much faff. I wanted/needed a recipe that could be knocked together in minutes almost robotically, with nothing to actually think about.
This is that recipe. It’s an understated thing, hidden at a dark corner of the BBC’s food website, self deprecatingly titled ‘awfully good waffles’.
It really is very good. Reliable, simple, forgiving and very quick.
I started cooking tonight’s dinner this morning at about half past eight, before anybody else was awake, and most importantly, before any of the neighbours had hung any washing out to dry.
Short beef ribs take a long, long time to cook, and they’re at their very best when they meet a little smoke. So, I made this introduction early on a Saturday morning, alone in the back garden, burning the dew off the grass with a serious pile of fire and a lot of oak scented smoke.
Beef ribs are everywhere at the moment, but the best place to get them is the market. The butcher had two great hunks of meat, each with two substantial ribs and a good ten centimetres of flesh, proud slabs of meat from an animal that had worked hard and eaten well. I bought both, about five kilos, about twice as much as I needed, and not cheap at about £25 for the pair. One piece fed four very well in the end, with plenty left over for late night fridge grazing and sandwiches.
The beef needs some flavour, so I sprinkled it liberally with a couple of tablespoons of a general multipurpose Cajun spice rub I make frequently and store in a jar. This is a magic standby, capable of transforming meat and fish into fiery, tasty goodness. It’s worth making a batch and keeping it to hand – the uses are endless.
This is an important dish for me.
Its one of the first curries I learnt to make, from an old and battered Madhur Jaffrey book. I used to make it in my mum’s kitchen, and we’d eat it outside on the old wooden table, the one with the benches, in the sun, by the hedge that hid a nest of benign wasps.
Saag aloo is a glorious thing, a simple dish of potato, onion and spinach. My version has evolved over the many years I’ve cooked it. It’s become more refined and less blunt, crisper and cleaner of flavour, more architectural.
I’ve toyed with the potato variety, and settled on the waxier end of the spectrum, cooking them on their own before adding them to fried onions and spices to soak up the flavour quickly and sharply. The spinach is now the last stage, where it started as the first, fresh and no longer frozen, all the better to cling onto that tang of bitterness.
I cook this dish by sight. There is no recipe anymore, and all measurements are instinctive and approximate. It doesn’t matter, for this is a curry that bends readily to your whims. More…
The best types of recipes use just one pot, the same one right through from the moment the first dice of onion hits hot olive oil right through to its placement at the centre of the table.
It’s efficient, streamlined, but to work properly, the pan itself is important, and that’s where heavy, solid cast iron cookware comes in.
My most used pan is a large, deep braising pan with a heavy lid, the type that will outlast generations. It has a weight and heft to it that’s quite satisfying, and the iron holds the heat in a way that no other material quite can.
And here, it’s perfect for a quick and simple North African tagine, a one-pot meal to lift the gloom of a late February day.
First, a chicken. More…
I spend a lot of time wandering around the market in Leeds. I go there at least a couple of times a week, mainly at lunchtime as an excuse to get away from my desk and see the city at its best.
I’ve shopped there for a while – getting the right things is a game … fruit and veg is generally a little B-grade (fine if it’s fresh but gnarly, not so fine when it’s already on the turn), meat is better than any supermarket, if you use the right butcher, but use the wrong one and it’s diabolical. Spice Corner is still the best place to buy huge bunches of flat leaved parsley to make you feel properly cheffy.
And then, there’s the fishmongers.
Now, landlocked Leeds has a motorway that stretches right to the East coast at Hull and Grimsby, where most of the local catch lands. Freshness is not a problem, and nor is variety. This time, the stall at the top of the row had a full hand of useful cephalopods – squid, cuttlefish and octopus.
All three of these are interchangeable to some extent, and they share similar characteristics. Squid is done a disservice if it doesn’t become calamari, cuttlefish lends itself to stuffing, but what about octopus?
Part of the reason I buy from the market is to freak out my colleagues with some random weird thing stashed in the office fridge. Live crab and lobster have been my highlight, but octopus is a new one, greeted with exactly the mix of terror and bemusement you might imagine. More …