Tales From a Zen Kitchen
Page 9
Lovage is in fashion again and I am glad. This old English herb is pure summer in your mouth.
I was first introduced to lovage around the time I came on my first retreat. I was running a country market in York and met Rachel who cooked with us for a while. We became friends and shared many culinary secrets. I remember hippy afternoons in The Menageries, playing in the woods, building bonfires, and eating hearty food picked from the huge kitchen garden. We made herby salads with cold-pressed sunflower oil dressing, and lovage was a key ingredient. I fell in love the first time I tasted it.
Lovage is from the celery family and it has a unique flavour. People often say it is a mix between parsley and celery, but I think that lovage tastes only like lovage. I associate it with love and abundance, with ancient herb gardens, and with potions and playfulness.
This parsley of love makes fantastic summer cordials, and can substitute for parsley in a lovage sauce which works beautifully with roast or boiled potatoes, nut roasts and steamed vegetables.
Lovage sauce
425 ml milk
3 cups chopped fresh lovage (I prefer just tearing it with my hands)
20 g plain flour
40 g butter
Nutmeg
Salt and freshly milled black pepper
Put the butter into a saucepan and heat until the butter has melted.
Gently add the flour and using a metal whisk start to mix the flour and butter almost immediately. This is a stage where speed is important, as you want to avoid the flour getting lumpy. Keep whisking.
When the flour has absorbed the butter and the mixture is smooth and homogeneous, begin adding the milk, a little at a time, continuing to stir the mixture. Use a wooden spoon this time, rather than a whisk. Each time you add some milk, wait for the sauce to come to a boil and for the sauce to thicken. The result should be a creamy and smooth white sauce with a firm texture. Season with salt, pepper and freshly grated nutmeg, and add the fresh, chopped lovage to the sauce and stir well. Adjust seasoning and serve.
Fresh lovage cordial
Makes a small bottle.
50 g fresh lovage
300 g sugar (any type is fine)
300 ml boiling water
Put the lovage leaves in a bowl, cover them with the sugar and begin pounding with a pestle to crush it all into a paste. Cover with the boiling water, stir well, cover and allow to infuse for a few hours, ideally until the liquid has cooled completely.
Sieve into a saucepan, squashing and pressing the lovage to extract as much flavour as possible.
Heat the pan over a moderate heat, stirring until the sugar has dissolved completely. Bring to the boil and allow it to boil for at least three minutes.
Pour into a warm sterilised bottle and seal. Leave it to cool before chilling. Shake before use and consume within one month.
Lovage works really well with mushrooms, especially wild, or mixed button and Portobello. I tend to make a stew of mushrooms and lovage on the first night of a retreat for supper, because it is relatively simple to prepare. Also, it is so meaty and rich that it comforts all the fearful carnivores who dread a week without their chops. The stew can also be turned into a mushroom and lovage pot pie by adding a sheet of flaky pastry and blasting it in a hot oven.
Mushroom and lovage stew
Serves 4
1 large punnet button mushrooms
4-6 large field or Portobello mushrooms, cleaned and cut into thick slices
⅓ cup tamari sauce
Extra virgin olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
3 carrots, chopped
4 garlic cloves
1 tbsp mirin
Fresh or dried lovage
Heat the olive oil in a wok or frying pan and sauté all the mushrooms in small batches, as this allows them to cook better. When they are cooked and softened, place them in a bowl until you have cooked them all. Mushrooms love oil so you might find that you have to keep adding oil while cooking.
Heat one tablespoon of olive oil in a casserole dish and fry the onions until soft and translucent. Add the carrots and celery and allow them to sweat. After a few minutes, add the mushrooms, then the garlic. Stir for a minute and add the tamari and the mirin.
If you want your stew to be very liquid, you might want to add some vegetable stock.
Allow the stew to cook for another twenty minutes and then let it rest so that the flavours seep into each other and the juices become inky. Check seasoning. Add the lovage just before serving.
I usually serve it with polenta. I grew up eating polenta and I must admit I was never crazy about it. I didn’t like the texture or the blandness. In Argentina it is cheap and by no means as glamorous as it has become in the UK. The Italian settlers brought it with them at the end of the eighteenth century. The journey of maize had come full circle, returning in a different form from how it was used before the Europeans came to the new continent. For the Italians, it was their staple, their piatto unico, representative of the drudgery of the feudal land they had left behind. We tended to eat it at home at the end of the month, when we got to the back end of the pantry cupboard, and of the bank account.
Only my grandmother Fina’s polenta could tempt me: her meaty, slow-cooked tomato sauce, tons of butter and queso fresco topped the polenta. She told me how, in the farm where she grew up, they cooked polenta blanca in a three-legged cauldron in the yard, over embers. They stirred it with a thick, wooden stick which they held with two hands. The cooked polenta was then turned upside down onto a giant wooden board with a handle. They cut it into portions with a piece of string. Any leftovers either turned into toast, or were left to dry in the sun over a metal disc and made into biscuits. Now I love it, and I tend to make it on retreat. As I pour the polenta into the boiling water, first stirring with a whisk to avoid lumps and then heartily with a wooden spoon, I remember earlier times and different eras. The stirring not only brings out the sunshine of its colour, but also that bit of Italian peasant immigrant in me, as I cook in a tiny kitchen in the Welsh mountains, with my grandmother whispering me directions: “Add more salt, it’s too thin. What do you mean, no butter?”
After the work period I sat on the bench to think about what I had in the pantry and scribbled down possible dishes, and which vegetables from the boxes I brought to use for soup. I tend to alternate dishes I know work well and I can make with my eyes closed, with more experimental meals, in which I test a new ingredient, or put together something completely new. New dishes tend to be more time consuming.
In the old kitchen, having only the Rayburn’s tiny oven meant that I had to plan carefully for what needed baking and roasting throughout the day, as it takes a solid fuel cooker a long time to reach the desired temperature. Perhaps the new range cooker would allow me to be more spontaneous and adventurous, but I was still mourning the old layout.
I found it hard to remember what the pantry had looked like before the facelift; it was so light and functional now, ideal for working in the afternoon. The south-facing window felt more open, the whole space felt brighter. However, the new Rayburn was leaking fumes and I could not warm it up enough to bake. The fire pit was glowing yet the oven temperature would not exceed 150 degrees. But everything else was flowing beautifully: the lamps providing light with their hissing noise; open cookery books; chopping blocks; balsamic vinegar in bottles; compost buckets filling up twice a day and the same old kitchen smell.
For lunch the next day, I decided to make celeriac and parsnip soup. Celeriac is a relative of celery. What you eat is the root, which has rugged skin and root ends like hairy tails, which tuck in together at the base. It tastes a little like celery but it is nutty and sweet and has a wonderful fragrance. You can eat it raw in salads but I prefer it cooked, especially in autumn and winter soups. I soaked the peeled chunks in acidulated water (cold water with either lemon juice or vinegar). If you want to boil celeriac it cooks in 20 minutes. Roasting it wi
ll take 35-40. It makes a great gratin, and combines with other root vegetables to make a delicious mash.
Whilst lunch was being served, I took a tray to Tara and as I kneeled before her, a beautiful butterfly landed on my arm and tangled its legs on my woolly sweater. I started to notice the gifts of nature. What are they?
The weather kept inviting me to walk, so I followed the stream up the steep path, unhurriedly caressing the gentle old trees on the ledge half way up the hill. The sound of the water reminded me of Sally, a member of the WCF, who had died the previous year. Her ashes were scattered close to the stream by her family and friends. Sally had become part of the landscape and I reflected on the fact that we are always part of the landscape, never separate from it. Each breath I took reminded me that I was alive, as were the rocks and the bracken, the crows and the trees on the ledge.
The previous night I had left a bowl of organic chickpeas soaking in cold water, so that today I could make harira. Harira makes me think of souks and Moroccan markets. There is something magical about markets. I can think of nothing better than walking around stalls full of produce, pulsating with the energy of the earth. I treasure the banter with the stallholder and the proximity to the ingredients. Shopping in markets is truly interactive: you can be offered suggestions; you can feel, taste and smell before buying. My senses awaken with the displays. Colour, contrast, quality and human contact are what make shopping at markets my most sensual way of buying food. Wherever I travel, it is the markets I first look for, where I get lost and touch and taste, and where I interact with locals.
One of my most memorable food journeys was a trip with friends to Morocco a couple of years ago. We took the car ferry from Spain and our first stop was a beautiful town by the sea called Asilah. In the morning, after a sociable breakfast of fresh mint tea, fresh orange juice, toast with olive oil and fresh, curdy goat’s cheese, we wandered around the market. It was my first visit to Morocco and I was fascinated by everything. The simplicity and perfection of the ingredients; the herb stalls; the women selling little blocks of musk; the bundles of artichoke stalks to be used in tagines; the rugged oranges with stalks and leaves; fresh strawberries, olives and dates; snails in slimy baskets; the intensity of smells; the vibrancy of the place; the aliveness.
Once we were inside the market, we each decided to stroll around in different directions and I came across a small man with the wrinkliest face. He was wearing a wool djellaba with a pointy qob, or hood. The weather was still cold and everyone was wearing heavy robes. I even saw a man using his qob as a shopping bag, carrying bread and vegetables inside it. The little man with the wrinkly face looked like a medieval monk and was pushing a granny’s trolley with a big stainless steel soup pot inside it. I stood next to him and watched as he interacted with two men who wanted to buy what was in his pot. He made some small paper cones and then opened the lid of the pot to fill the cones with warm, freshly-boiled, giant chickpeas. They looked so beautiful. I was not hungry, but very curious. He sensed my interest and handed me one with his spoon. How simple and tender, how wholesome and nutty, how perfect was that chickpea. I allowed it to melt slowly in my mouth. I have always known that food does not need to be fancy to be delicious, and in that moment the whole universe opened up in my mouth, as I tasted that simple example of its perfection.
Harira is a spicy chickpea soup from Morocco, and my recipes always vary, depending on what I have. Because it is rich, I like the fact that I can always improvise.
Every time I make it I think of that chickpea from Asilah and I return to that market. I have to plan ahead as cooking the chickpeas from scratch makes such a difference: tinned chickpeas are sweet and clammy in comparison. Sometimes I use little cubes of preserved lemons as their salty sharpness adds a punch which is a subtle yet noticeable top note as you taste the soup.
Harira
Harira always tastes better the day after; if you allow time for the flavours to develop, you will achieve a more substantial and richer taste. As I write this, I am staying with my friends Ceci and Victor in Tarifa, in southern Spain. The Moroccan women who work in Victor’s restaurant are currently fasting for Ramadan and they make harira. It never tastes the same twice. Some days it has lentils, or more vegetables, or coriander. It works wonders with broad beans. You have to tweak it to get the flavour you like.
You can always make it spicier by adding some harissa. I would not suggest adding it to the soup, but I normally serve harira with little dishes of harissa for people who like their food spicy.
Serves 4
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for serving
1 onion, chopped into small cubes
3 garlic cloves, finely sliced
1 stick celery, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
1 tsp fresh ginger, grated
2 tsp ground cumin
1 cinnamon stick
200 g chickpeas (dry weight), soaked overnight
A generous pinch of saffron strands, soaked in ¼ cup of boiling water
A preserved lemon cut in small cubes (optional)
1 dark vegetable stock cube
1 pinch cayenne
400g tomatoes, deseeded and roughly chopped
Half a large bunch of coriander, chopped
Half a large bunch of parsley, chopped
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Juice of half a lemon
2½ litres cold water
Soak the dried chickpeas overnight in plenty of cold water.
Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan and fry the onion until browned. Add the garlic, chilli, celery, carrot, ginger, cinnamon and cumin and fry for another minute.
Add the drained chickpeas, saffron and tomatoes. Crumble in the stock cube and heat until the mixture is bubbling gently, stirring to dissolve the stock cube. This should take about 5 minutes.
Now add the preserved lemon and the water. Bring to the boil and leave on a gentle heat to cook for over an hour, checking that the chickpeas are cooking and softening.
When you feel that the chickpeas are cooked, add half the coriander, the parsley, cayenne and salt and pepper. After five minutes or so, check the seasoning. You might need to add a little sugar to reduce the acidity of the tomatoes. Stir for a minute.
Add some lemon juice and check the taste. Remove from heat and leave to cool for a few minutes before serving. You can’t really taste food if it is too hot. Just before serving, drizzle with extra virgin olive oil, and add the rest of the coriander.
The retreat continued: the flow of the kitchen was different, and just as I had anticipated, having a gas cooker meant that I didn’t have to rely on the temperamental Rayburn to bake in, but the “new” Rayburn was behaving worse than the previous incumbent. I mourned the loss of the relationship I had developed with the old Rayburn. The biggest loss was the hard wood counter under the window. It was a sacred space, like an altar for preparation, where the light of the afternoon filtered perfectly as I prepared supper, enhancing colours, enlivening sometimes dull looking concoctions. It was here that alchemy occurred in unexplained circumstances. But I had to drop this attachment and find a way to work with the new arrangement. In the old setting there was a real sense of abandonment of self. In order for me to become one with the kitchen, the intuitive cook inside me had to come forward. Now cooking was more straightforward, but still full of challenges.
I found that I had more time to join in the Chan Hall, and above all I was not as tired. Perhaps the new kitchen was helping me to find more space, but I kept resisting it. This space felt unnecessary. Or was it that the modernisation of the kitchen had made the practice of cooking less challenging?
I reflected on this to John, at interview. He thought I was exaggerating, but I felt sure that I needed to push myself in a different way. I wanted a challenge from him. He annoyed me by suggesting that I change the menu. I came out of the interview fuming. I bashed th
e pots whilst I cooked lunch; my mind was raging. “Do something else, train in something else, you could do so much better than this. How dare he? I do not plan menus!” And yet, after I served lunch and saw everyone tucking in, I was able to see that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.
So far I was managing a walk a day. Every day, I made a mandala offering with things that I found on my walks. One day I made a beautiful circular offering with leaves, acorns, and some death cap mushrooms. Someone had picked the mushrooms on a walk and then left them for me on the kitchen counter as an offering, thinking that they were edible. I didn’t like the look of them and remembered Pam’s advice never to trust mushrooms people pick for the kitchen. She had said, “Put them on display but never touch them.” I kept looking at them and feeling my stomach crunch. I asked for a second opinion later: they were indeed death caps. Fortunately, I followed the teachings and my instincts, and did not put them in the stew!
I told John that I had seen a fairy. He knew exactly what I meant without having to explain. He got excited, and asked, “Where? Where?” Fairies are insects that I come across in moments when I am still and open. They are merely bugs, flying insects that I have never seen before, but somehow, when I see them, in my own perception I have gone beyond classifying them as an insect. I undress them of the word that defines them, and at that moment I begin to perceive an otherness, an intelligence, the simple magic of life. They are so beautiful, so aware and so utterly perfect. Tara always gives me these tiny moments, when I go to retrieve or offer the little dishes. I get nudged, caressed, touched by nature and life in ways that are overwhelming. I awaken to notice beauty in things to which I had used to pay no attention.
Today at lunchtime what caught me were the insects: the broken-winged fairy, which struggled to climb up Tara’s leg; a tiny yellow spider constructing a web, perhaps in preparation for the broken-winged bug; two ladybirds whose colour I had never seen before standing on Tara’s head. This is “it”, those moments are it, diving into “it”, being present with the bugs, my self being completely overtaken by their presence.