Doing the dishes

photos © j.lowe 2009
The above image pretty much sums up my life right now.  My kitchen is far from being functional and “far from” means I have no sink, no oven, no counter tops.   This makes cooking impossible unless you count the weber grill as an alternative, which it is, but seeing as Michigan has only just granted us some warm weather, albeit thunder stormy, standing in the freezing cold building a fire is not so much fun.

I’ve been eating lots of bread and cheese.  Good bread and cheese mind you.  Living life like the French perhaps; a crusty fresh loaf, some soft cheese, a tomato, perhaps some olives and mais oui, a hearty bottle of wine.  This of course can be translated to breakfast, sans vino, and as I just returned from London with my favourite cookies (biscuits in my language) my early morning repast has been thus:

mmm, Digestive biscuits, sweet but not too sweet, crunchy, good texture and just like home.  This blog  has a very informative entry on the history and a recipe for them.

Easter Fare

I am in London on a brief visit to spend a few days with my mother who has just come out of hospital following neck surgery. She has a rather impressive line of staples in the back of her neck that would put Frankenstein to shame.

Today, Easter Sunday, we were treated to a cooked roast lunch, plated and delivered to our door by our lovely neighbour, Christine. Roast Lamb with mint sauce, roast potatoes, steamed carrots and runner beans, all gorgeously moistened by rich gravy. A dish of poached home grown rhubarb, gooseberry and blackberry, sweetened with sugar and accompanied with custard followed. We sat, the two of us, in Mummy’s crisp white bed, surrounded with the Sunday papers and the phone constantly a ringing.

What yum and how relaxing.

However, shame on me for not carrying my camera wherever I go. In my desire to travel light, so too is this posting, sadly imageless. So I leave it to your imaginations. Good old English grub in bed on a dreary day with much love and comfort.

Happy Easter.

Tasteful Tart buys a house

I’ve been a bad blogger.  

I’ve been trying to buy a house and oh my goodness what a to-do that is.  Time consuming is an under estimation.  Stressful, compromising and expensive is the upshot, but to finally be the proud owner of an 1857 federal style home is my triumph.  Not only this but I also get to reside in the lovely community of Buchanan MI……where the hell is that you say?  It’s 90 miles from Chicago, inland from the lake, a river town with lots of history.  I will be posting more in stages about the work on my house and history on the home and the area.  For now, here are some pictures of the house as it is now.

And what does this have to do with food you say?  I will be building my own kitchen. The original kitchen is tiny so I will be moving it into the dining room and converting the kitchen that was into a laundry/pantry room.  I have a certain struggle with the fact that the rooms have so many windows (oh poor me) so configuring appliances is going to be complicated but I have the benefit of brilliant local minds.  Alan Robandt, a former Chicago antique dealer,  now located on Front Street Buchanan, is a gentleman, a scholar and a pioneer and who I have to thank for inviting me to town; William Cameron, an architect; Pam O’Connor, historic preservationist and Peter Lysy, an archivist at Notre Dame University. If it weren’t for the interest and support from these people I don’t think this new venture of mine would have happened.

So, here’s some pictures of the house to be mine and check back in for updates to the development of a kitchen built from used and vintage furniture.

 

 

 

Rations

All photos © Derek Richmond 2008
Derek Richmond, a multi-faceted, cerebral and sensitive photographer who consistently spurs me on to think about creating personal work outside of my mostly full-time styling career engendered this post.  Given a precious Saturday or Sunday I curl up at home or in the bookstore and let my brain run amok, forgetting the travails of daily life to immerse myself in mental masturbation.  In thanks to him I post this blog entry.

Browsing through food magazines, trying to come up with said concept for a new photo shoot I came across a double page of two adverts; one a very foodie Jamie Oliver ad and the other showing a dirty post meal plate (I forget the advertiser).  For some reason this juxtaposition struck me and I began to think about the have’s and the have nots. In the strange way one’s mind works I started musing upon rationing in England during WWII.  It occurred to me that no matter what material riches a person might have had, the lack of available food created a democracy amongst people.  The following series of images were borne from this idea.  Basic foodstuff (tinned sardines, smelt, corned beef, evaporated milk, canned spinach, smoked fish, jello) juxtaposed with luxury  material items.  Enjoy.

What to do with a glut of vegetables and sniffles

All photos © J. Lowe 2008

Oh woe is me, I have a cold.  I awoke Sunday morning with the sun streaming in my window and I felt wretched.  Before deciding to spend the day wallowing in self pity, which is a perfectly acceptable option mind you, I instead chose to deal with the matter in a more British stiff upper lip fashion.  I have a glut of food in the fridge which are in need of far more attention than my poor self.  I also have another of my lovely organic chickens and what better than chicken to feed the sniffling soul?

Mini Bartlett pears from Kismet Organic Farm, apples, purple potatoes, garlic and red onions are the Michigan bounty before you.

Now what to do with the chicken?  Since I love to take pictures as much as I love to cook I wanted to let the chicken do its’ thing whilst I concentrated on photographing the rest of the meal.  A one pan wonder of roasted goodness seemed ideal so I took my box of bounty and added curry powder, star anise and cardamon.  I need something fragrant to filter through my stuffy nose.

Bake chicken at 425 for half an hour then turn down temp to 325 until internal temp reads 165 then let it sit for 20 mins.  Baste it every 20 minutes.  You can cook the vegetables and fruit all at once in the pan for some great caramelised stuff or for prettiness, cook them separately and garnish afterward.

Aioli

 

Photographs © Derek Richmond 2008

Quail eggs seem rather posh.  Is it that a thing so small and expensive must be for the special and precious of this world?  Petit fours, tartlettes, canapés,  these diminutive dishes remind us of the upper class. 

Growing up in London and speaking rather proper English led others to assume I was posh and came from money.  Far from the fact, I came from modest beginnings, though did have rather superior taste thanks to parents who read well and paid attention to the world around them. At a young age I was introduced to the idea, if not the direct experience, of fine things.

Visiting Harrods was considered part of my education.  This gargantuan department store is sadly no longer the epitome of high class purveyance it once was.  Their food displays were a sight to behold and staff gave every customer their gracious time and attention.  Nowadays Harrods is a theme park.  But, it was where at 6 or 7 years old I came across this perfectly adorable child sized foodstuff, as precious and as diverse in appearance as my collection of marbles.

Quail eggs are creamy and delicate and delicious.  They are also beautiful to look at.  Once cracked or cooked and peeled, the interior shell colour is such a calm blue, the kind of hue I should like to put through my hair when I am old and gray.  

I digress.  I bought a dozen quail eggs and because my mood was “in for a penny in for a pound”, I decided to make some aioli also.

Aioli is a mayonnaise made with egg yolk, garlic, lemon juice and oil.  There is nothing quite like fresh mayonnaise and the process is ever so easy given a half hour of contemplative dribbling and pounding with a pestle and mortar.  I followed Rick Stein’s recipe from his book ‘English Seafood Cookery’.  He allows for the use of a food processor as an alternative to the pestle and mortar which I will too if you lack the latter but I hasten you to purchase one for it more simply returns you to the process of cooking.  

Rick Stein’s Aioli

8 cloves of garlic

2 fresh egg yolks

Juice of a quarter lemon

A good pinch of (coarse sea) salt

12 fl. oz of good virgin olive oil (I find extra virgin to be a little too bitter so I combine it with sunflower in a quantity of 2/3 to a 1/3)

Reduce the garlic to a puree with a pestle (this process is aided by adding your coarse sea salt at this stage), add egg yolks and lemon juice and beat in (with a whisk) the oil in (a very slow and) steady drizzle.(the additions in parenthesis are my additions to the recipe instructions)

I also added chopped fresh dill.

In researching aioli I came across a book that I will buy.  Richard Olney wrote ‘Simple French Food’ in 1974. He said, “By knowing and accepting rules, one frees oneself of rules’.  This is surely the basis of cooking and the crux of creativity.  

Know what you speak of and then speak your own mind.

Magic in Michigan

Photos © J. Lowe 2008

In planning a road trip to take me around northwestern Michigan and into the Upper Peninsula, I stumbled across some reviews on tripadvisor.com of a b&b in Northport on the western peninsula called the Old Mill Pond Inn.  These are snippets from some of the user reviews:

“our wives were actually frightened to stay there’

“straight out of a horror movie”

“something is definitely amiss at the Old Mill Pond. Run!!! “

“This is a FABULOUS and eclectic feast of a destination!”

Isn’t diversity great?  Sadly, most people in this world are really annoying and should just stay at home getting fat or fit in front of the television.  

The owner of the Old Mill Pond is David Chroback, an artist who has lived there for 25 years and has run his B&B for about that long too.  He also caters food and organises all sorts of events in the area.  As I travelled around visiting various farms and wineries, I would mention his name and people’s faces would light up with recognition.  By all accounts he is deeply respected by many people for miles around.   

I spent three nights at the Old Mill Pond Inn.  On approaching the driveway I was greeted by a replica Beefeater in his sentry box, self – proclaiming redundancy and in the distance on the lawn, a large breasted, bra and panty clad wooden cut-out woman declaring herself ready to whip me into shape.   The house and garden is an eclectic and passionate series of vignettes. He has amassed collections of objects, from the glittering to the kitsch, primitive to iconic, wacky to interesting.  David’s home and the six rooms he has for guests are a veritable circus of ideas.  With delightful irreverence, he moves gently and generously through the world creating magical scenes, gesturing opinion respectfully and shunning conformity politely.

    

Our breakfasts on his wrap around verandah were beautiful and delicious. 

French toast croissants, a delicate omelette, blueberry pancakes, each dish decorated with fresh fruit and a garnish from his beautiful garden.

      

He has an ingenious way of growing tomatoes in a hanging black bucket, using pipe and connectors as the means by which to hang the heavy receptacle.  Second year round he admitted is the much improved version.  Anyone with a spot of outdoors, be it acreage or balcony, could grow themselves a tricolore salad or a marinara dish by this method.

My experience at The Old MIll Pond Inn reminded me of how straight and narrow life can be sometimes.  I used to live in a town where the lawn police would come and stake the ground if the grass was over a certain length.  I don’t have a garden at all now, I just have 2 lovely window boxes full of herbs.  I’d kind of like a garden again some day, preferably roof top and I’ll be sure to remember David’s palace of imagination.

Journeyman By Way of Providence

Photos © J. Lowe 2008

                   

 

Last Saturday morning began with a drive to Providence Farms on #89 west of Fennville, MI to collect the three organic chickens I had ordered some weeks before.  The farm was busy with fellow collectors, rubber booted workers and lounging Labradors.  Short in supply of chicken parts (if not fava beans, then give me livers), another man gracefully gave up his bag to me so I might savour the first time joy of Providence poultry lobe on toast for my following Sunday brunch. Stowing my chickens in a cooler, off I went to Fennville proper to visit my most favourite restaurant in the scope of a few hundred miles.

From A to B with a garage sale in between (where I bought a Lyle Lovett cassette for 10¢) I moseyed down the road, the scent of lilac in my nose and the delightful sight, in classic Lynch ‘Straight Story’ style, of a man driving his ride-on mower, trundling along with his trusty canine companion who’s ears flapped perpendicular to his little body in the wind.

Journeyman Cafe, at 112 E.Main Street, is an example of purveyance, fortitude and very good taste.  Ingredients, sought locally and seasonally are used in balance and proportion.  The menu is complex in terms of one trying to make a meal choice, yet is simple in feel for the time of day and year.

I wanted to try all sorts of offerings but such is the solipsism of the lone eater.  Saturday lunchtime; is it house made fennel sausage with pappardelle, roasted peppers and onions, or is it soft scrambled eggs on garlic toast with, oh my still yearning love, sauteed morel mushrooms?

I chose a Quiche with ramps and smoky bacon.  Goodness, what a flavoursome plate.  When it arrived I smelled the warmth of it.  The pastry was buttery and short,  like an old fashioned pork pie from England. The egg was like a soufflé, rich but light and waffly like a scrambled calf brain dish I had way back when I was dating an Iranian guy.  The bacon had the smokiness of Lapsang souchong tea and the ramps were almost seaweedy in texture.  It came plated with a mixed leaf salad, drizzled with a simple vinaigrette.  At seating I was given some house made bread that had a salty crust and was peppered with caraway, black sesame and poppy seeds.  

The portions are moderately perfect.  The service quietly nice.  The atmosphere casual yet grown up, unfussy but particular.

I wish I lived in Fennville, such that I could eat at Journeyman regularly around abouts’d times through each week to fully savour the menu.

They have recently opened a public house next door called ‘Rye’, which is the menu from which I chose.  On Friday nights they have live music.  The space is great.

   

The baked goods are precious.

       

I could go on, myriad details, but can’t.  I am poaching my Providence Farm chicken with fennel and it needs attention.

 

Morels et al – Part 3

photographs © J. Lowe

 

 

Following my recent and virgin morel experience (posted earlier) I have now been granted the special place amongst friends as the receiver of a morsel of morel from their private hunts. A precious little bag of 4 sturdy morels, about 4″ in length were given to me the other day. Oh joy of joys.

Last time I wrote about them I said I was going to do a creamy pillowy pasta dish but I would rather make the pasta by hand for that and the evening was so lovely and the outdoors was calling and the grill was beckoning……so I decided to stuff them, since they have a conveniently hollow core. Hmm, so is it goat cheese, is it spinach and ricotta, is it crabmeat a la Emeril?

What ho, I was in a new to me supermarket in my small town and they had Haloumi…..I have been longing for this cheese for ages.

Turns out that Haloumi and morels are fantastic together. Haloumi is salty and chewy. Morels are earthy and meaty. The two combined are like a rustic panini, the cheese adding the right amount of oil and the mushroom soaking up that said unctuousness. I added a sprig of fresh thyme and drizzled a teeny amount of garlic vinaigrette on the morel before placing on the bbq for a matter of minutes. 

Along with these I made prosciutto wrapped asparagus. The asparagus being got from my csa delivery last Wednesday.  What a beautiful bag of goodness.  As well as the spears, it included mixed spring lettuce, crisp sweet radish and baby spinach. I am so lucky to be able to have access to locally grown produce like this but, get this, I also collect it every week from the independent brew pub across the road!

             

I am also fortunate to work as a food stylist, such that I have the pleasure of tasting gourmet goodies every now and then, some of which I would hardly bestow upon myself even if I had the means.  Yes I admit I am granted the pleasure of a soupçon here and a plateful there;  for me to take that home is bounty.  

So, the asparagus, wrapped in prosciutto, grilled and drizzled with an aged balsamic must from Italy.

Pleasures like that in life are better in small doses.  They make for longing.

Hankering for home.

photographs © J. Lowe 2008

Ah, fish and chips. What is a Friday night in London after the pub if not followed by fish and chips? What is more conducive to describing Britishness than this? Soggy, greasy, battered fish doused with malt vinegar, smattered with salt, all wrapped in a besmirched section of paper and eaten whilst walking stumblingly to the bus stop.

Oh, that’s right, I’m in Michigan.  Now what’s a girl from London to do in dire need of edible nostalgia?  Hello Lake Perch. A local fish.  Mild in flavour, flakey and delicate.  Perfect.

Off I trot to the shops, purchase a deep fat fryer and excitedly return home in anticipation of creating a fish and chips dinner, reminiscent of my London days.  I have to say though, soggy and greasy is not my want.   I’m seeking crisp batter so I turn to the internet for recipes.

Much like my search on morel mushrooms, I found many a fish fry fanatic out there. This is the one I chose:

here’s a link to this site for other batter recipes.

Bloody hell, the deep fryer I bought did not work! I ended up getting out my trusty old heavy bottomed saucepan, filling it with oil and doing it the old fashioned way. The batter turned out fabulously crisp and delicious, the fish was light and moist and perfectly separated from the batter.  Coating the fish in flour prior to battering, which was not in the recipe, might have contributed to this.   I also used a pale ale instead of a light beer….good drinking too.  The batter was still crisp the following morning.  That’s almost unheard of.

I didn’t sit down to eat my meal. I stood at my kitchen island crunching through the crispyness, relishing the hot moistness beneath and imagining the wet streets of London beneath my feet with the long awaited No. 37 bus appearing in the distance.