Because Sweet Potato pie isn't the only game in town
Have you ever arrived home, to find a big, beat-up box of sweet potatoes perched on your doorstep? No? Well I'm sorry, but you're missing out! That's exactly what I discovered the other day, and I've been reaping the sweet rewards ever since.
A dear friend from Atlanta, GA took it upon himself to send both me and my sister, some of the best sweet potatoes the southeast has to offer, and since the day I opened the box, they've appeared in almost every meal I've made, served and eaten. I'm convinced that, by this point, the blood in my veins must be running sweet and orange to the tune of Alabama's 'Song of the South.' Just bring me peaches and call me Scarlet, dammit - it's all 'y'alls' and big hair over here.
From curried sweet potato and peanut stew, to sweet potato and gruyere gratin, to rich and creamy pie that proved a welcome respite from its pumpkin-y relative, I've found myself sneaking this highly nutritious and stupidly delicious root tuber into as much as I possibly can.
But you know, there comes a certain point, when you look at the last four sweet potatoes lying in a basket on your kitchen floor, and your mind draws a total blank. With whiskers quietly but certainly beginning to sprout, and skin puckering ever-so-slightly at either end, it's only a matter of time before what once was a complex carbohydrate, turns into a compost carbohydrate, and the sweet indulgence of a box shipped with care, turns decidedly sour.
Scrolling through my internal Scandinavian-meets-Southern girl index, I recalled a recipe I stumbled on not too long ago, and thought 'heck yes, y'all - that's it!'
Though the recipe I found for butternut squash muffins, was a great jumping-off point, I felt it could use a few tweaks - and given my current produce inventory, one such modification was staring me right in the face. With the addition of a crumbly nut topping, significantly less oil and the abandonment of butternut squash, these gluten-free, dairy-free muffins are light, airy and totally delicious.
(Recipe adapted from Paleo in PDX)
Yield: About 8 muffins
Set your oven to 350*F and line a muffin tin with cupcake/muffin liners.
Combine the mashed sweet potatoes, coconut flour, 1/3 cup coconut oil, honey, baking soda, salt, eggs and extract in a bowl and mix until a smooth batter has formed.
Using an ice cream scooper, for evenly-sized muffins, fill the liners almost all the way to the top. The muffins won't rise a great deal, so don't worry about them spilling over.
Mix together the brown sugar, chopped nuts and remaining tablespoon of coconut oil to create a crumbly topping, and divide it evenly over the muffins.
Bake the muffins for 20-25 minutes, until a tester comes out clean when inserted.
So, next time you find yourself with a big box of Mississippi reds (or any other sweet potato, for that matter), break out the mixing bowl, muffin tin and Southern drawl and get to it. You'll be glad you did.
Y'all come back now, y'hear!
No neon fruit, just lots of moist, rummy goodness
So, I called my sister yesterday, to tell her I'd just put the better part of ten cups of fruit and nuts to soak in a healthy dose of rum and port for Christmas cake - Christmas cake that I'd be bringing home for the holidays. Her response? 'Great! Uncle Martin and uncle Thomas will love that!' Now, as much as I'm thrilled at the idea of my uncles enjoying the heck out of some homemade, fruit-studded and rum-soaked cake, I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'oooh, I can't wait to try that!' All I heard was 'I'll pass on the fruitcake, thanks.'
Though she'll be getting a sideways glance or two from me this Christmas, if she doesn't at least try it, I'm not entirely surprised by her response. Fruitcake, for most, is a tradition best left in the past. It is a sweet 'treat' that is, more often than not, surreptitiously folded into a napkin under the table, and deftly maneuvered into the trash, amid concealing napkins and the wrappers of sweets more unanimously enjoyed.
It's fair to say that fruitcake has a bad rap.
Whenever I think of it, I think of being a child and peeking into the larder in my grandparents cellar, which bore a handwritten note with the words 'no goings in here' scrawled across it. (The 's' on the end of 'goings' has always baffled me, but is somehow so like my family, that I'd be even more bothered by it not being there.) As a prominent doctor in Copenhagen, my grandfather was a receiver of countless gifts, most of which were either in the form of booze or edible, and the walls of the larder were always lined with bottles of wine and port, boxes of cookies and chocolates, and come the end of the year, an inevitable fruitcake.
Now, this was the kind of fruitcake you could see, even if the lights were off. The candied cherries, pineapple and green mystery fruit (still, to this day, I have no idea what that is, and it's probably better left to my imagination, at this point), glowed neon and bright, and practically lit the cake from within.
Some years, that cake would sit on a shelf through the entire holiday season, without so much as a modicum of attention being paid to it, and some years, someone (usually my grandmother), would take pity on the poor thing and bring it up from the depths for a taste.
Though well intentioned, the cake never satisfied. Dense, heavy, unnaturally fruity and hot with old liquor, this relic of yuletide tradition would be bitten into by a few brave souls, before promptly finding its way back onto the shelf from whence it came.
So, when my sister says she'll pass on the fruitcake, I remember that she, too, stuck her head into that dark room in the cellar all those years ago, and witnessed the glow of a cake not meant for human consumption, and that she, too, hoped we'd never be made to eat it again.
But, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Christmas cake, when made the right way, can be absolutely delicious! When you forsake the candied fruits and dry crumb, and replace them with plump, richly sweet and dried cherries, prunes, currants and raisins that have soaked, along with almonds and ginger, for a full week in dark, caramel-y rum and ruby red port, and then bake them into spiced and molasses-y cake that ages for three weeks or more, it can only be a good thing.
And when said cake disappears into the darkness of a wine-lined shelf, the moment the lights by the cellar door are turned off, you know this ain't your grandma's fruitcake.
After a lot of researching and reading, this Caribbean style 'black cake' is a new favorite. I adapted it from a recipe I found on Chowhound, when digging around, and I think you'll love it.
Makes two full-sized loaves plus a couple of mini loaves
(Note - the fruit in this cake soaks for a full week before you begin the baking process.)
For the fruit:
For the cake:
Combine all the fruit, nuts, ginger and peel in a bowl, add the rum and port, give it a good mix, and then seal it tightly. Place the bowl in a cool dark place for a full week.
A week later...
Heat your oven to 300*F and grease two 9x5-inch loaf pans, thoroughly.
In a bowl, combine all the dry ingredients and whisk together. Set the bowl aside.
In the bowl of a stand mixer (or if you're working on serious bicep strength, by all means, use a regular whisk and extreme patience) cream the butter and sugar until pale in color and fluffy (about 3 minutes) and then add the eggs, one at a time, until fully incorporated. Finally, add the vanilla.
With the speed on low, add in the flour mixture, the soaked fruit and all its rummy, porty goodness, and the burnt sugar syrup, and mix until just combined.
Fill both loaf pans until 3/4 of-the-way full. (The remainder can be used to make mini loaves to give away!) and bake the cakes for 2 hours. The tester should come out clean, but know that the cake will be very moist. Check it at 2 hours, if you feel like you need more cook time, add 10 more and see. Altitude, cake tins and a number of other factors can affect cook time on this one.
Let the cakes rest for 30 minutes in the pan, then turn them out to cool completely. Brush with a couple of extra tablespoons of rum.
This cake can be eaten right away, but if you really want to treat yourself, let it age. We've got just about four weeks left until Christmas, so take that time and get some age on your cake.
Wrap it in cheesecloth and store it in an airtight container or cake tin - not in plastic wrap! Every few days, you can brush a little more rum over it - if you're into that sort of thing!
It's the sort of cake your uncles will love, and your sister will be requesting next year!
*Burnt sugar syrup is also known as 'browning' and can be found in specialty stores. If you really can't find it, or order it online in the week while your fruit is soaking, substitute blackstrap molasses, though the flavor won't be quite the same.
For chilly mornings that need a little something extra
It's the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and it's cold and grey beyond the panes of my window. As a matter of fact, the rain is coming down in droves, and when I finally swung my legs out from beneath the covers and onto the bare wooden floor this morning, I promptly pulled them back up and safely under the covers. It's chilly, y'all!
Finally, after weeks of prematurely dressing for the season of cable knits and densely wovens, I find myself reaching for a sweater and scarf out of necessity, and not a feeling of confused obligation. It's the moment I've been longing for! Not only because, as a southern California resident, I crave seasons like a plant in dry soil craves water, but also because it signifies the beginning of days spent with family, of Holiday parties, and of efforts being made. It's the time of year when we find ourselves going the extra mile and speaking our hearts more freely. And, perhaps because of the cold, we find comfort and warmth in our friends and family as mush as we do in the balls of thick yarn that cloak us.
I'm three days away from going home, and I've already checked out. My bag is mentally packed (though not physically, of course - that'll happen at 2:00am before a 6:00am flight on Wednesday, at which point I'll undoubtedly forget underwear, my toothbrush and anything that actually comes together as an outfit, but hey, family doesn't care), I've stopped grocery shopping, and I find myself in an emotional holding pattern, just waiting to join in the fun. I'm already sat on the bed, late at night, gossiping with my sister and watching an episode of something scary that will inevitably have her passed out long before I dare close my eyes. (Cue the gentle nudging and the 'hey Alex, you're still awake, right?') I'm already listening to the clinking sound of my dad making the tiniest Manhattans in the biggest glasses, to which the follow up is a chorus of the popular tune 'let's have another!' And I'm certainly already elbow deep, seasoning the cavity of a turkey that'll feed an army, while my mother holds its legs unceremoniously in the air.
So, in an effort to tide myself over and indulge in a morning perfect for caramelized custard and syrupy apples, I whipped out my cast iron skillet and the scraps left over from an evening that ended before the baguette ran out, and made myself French toast. Because, why not.
And because it's the Holiday season, I threw in bourbon. (It's a three hour time change, after all, so even if it's not yet five o'clock here, the rest of my family is certainly breaking out the jiggers and shakers, and I'll be damned if I'm not participating, even if in the abstract.)
For French toast:
Heat your cast iron skillet to low-medium and add the coconut oil and butter to melt. Then add the apple slices, and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes until soft.
Meanwhile, whisk together the milk, eggs, maple syrup, bourbon, vanilla and salt to form the custard.
Dunk your baguette slices in the custard and submerge them fully, allowing them to really soak up the liquid. Set them aside, momentarily.
Once the apples are soft, stir in the cinnamon and maple syrup, and cook for a further minute. Then move the apples to the sides of the skillet, add another tablespoon of butter, and place a couple of slices of soaked bread in the center.
Cook the toast until golden, about 2-3 minutes per side.
Serve with more maple syrup and a little powdered sugar, and then enjoy the heck out of it!
No, I'm not yet able to join in the family fun, but I do take a little pleasure in knowing that the onslaught of bourbon French toast and the like, doesn't happen until I get there. So, as much as I'm looking forward to going home, they're most definitely looking forward to having me.
in the season of all things carnivorous, sometimes all you want for dinner is a big bowl of veggies
The Holiday season places a great emphasis on all things meat. From turkeys, to hams, to roasts that'll feed an army, November and December are rich with the offerings of your local butcher. More often than not, by the time January rolls around, many of us find ourselves suffering a hangover only a so-called 'meat coma' could induce. And though the proteins of the season surround themselves with a whole host of vegetable-based side dishes, they're inevitably dotted and laced with everything from smokey bacon to savory sausage. So, if you're seeking respite from the carnivorous staples of the Holiday table, it's not necessarily found in their plant-based accoutrements. (Seriously, bacon has become the 'salt, pepper and olive oil' of the Holiday season, and though I'm totally behind it, I can literally hear my arteries whispering 'help!' as they realize that the passing of Thanksgiving only gives way to the lead up to Christmas!)
Though the joys of November's turkey, December's ham, and the like, are annually anticipated with great fervor by those who cut their teeth omnivorously, even the most enthusiastic beast of prey could use a satisfying main course made entirely of vegetables, from time to time.
Thankfully, great comfort can be found in the hearty offerings of a stew rich with spice, toothsome produce and buttery peanuts. A stew this packed full of flavor and texture, will have even those staunchly tied to the idea that a meal is not a meal without a meat, a starch and a veg, feeling utterly satiated.
So this Holiday season, make room in your routine for a big pot of sweet potatoes, carrots and parsnips, spiced with mellow curry and made silken and smooth by a generous spoonful of earthy, creamy peanut butter. You won't feel cheated, I promise.
For garish: I like it with chopped, roasted peanuts. chopped cilantro and chimichurri sauce.
Add the coconut oil to a large pot set over medium heat. Add the curry powder and onion to the oil and sauté until the onions are soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic, cilantro stems and ginger, and sauté for a further minute.
Add the sweet potatoes, carrots and parsnips to the pot and stir to coat them with oil, about 1 minute. Then, add the vegetable stock, tomatoes. coconut milk and pepper flakes. If the vegetables are covered with 2 cups of stock, then that's plenty. If not, add the remaining cup.
Cook the stew for about 25 minutes until the vegetables are cooked through and soft, and the sauce has thickened.
Stir in the peanut butter, and cook for a further 5 minutes. Season the stew to taste, with salt and pepper.
I like this baby served up over brown rice with some steamed or sautéed cauliflower on the side, just for good measure. It's rich enough to make you feel like you're indulging, without as much as a slab of bacon in sight. Shocking, I know!
Because dessert's a whole lot sexier when it's forbidden
I think we can all agree that, when it comes to dessert, molten chocolate cake is sexy. Served up hot with vanilla ice cream, this deep, dark and rich dessert oozes with chocolatey goodness, and succumbs to the pressure of a fork with a melty tenderness that's second to none. Whether you're ordering or serving it up, this ooey-gooey chocolate cake screams 'I like it dark, silky and decadent, and I'm not afraid to say so.'
You know what's not sexy? Rice pudding.
When the dessert menu is presented at the end of a first date, it's really hard to pull off a sinful, come-hither wink as you utter the words 'ooh, let's share the rice pudding.' Luscious chocolate cake? Sure. Maybe even the creamy, dreamy crème brûlée. But when you're the girl who really, really wants a bowl of glorified gruel to round out an otherwise sophisticated meal, you better be wearing a great dress.
Needless to say, I'm that girl.
When it comes to dessert, I like it homey, rustic and simple. I like my crusts uneven and my baked fruits seeping, and I like to sense that whatever I ordered was made by the muscle memory of hands that create by feel and not measurement. Baked puddings, crusty crumbles and bowls of bubbling stone-fruit topped with cascading streams of crème Anglaise will always find my spoon long before a perfectly frosted cake even crosses my mind.
That being said, I refuse to identify my dessert preferences with a life lived in comfy sweats and perpetual coziness - I have uncomfortably high heels and great dresses to wear, and sinful winks to give, even if I'm not a champion of the oh-so-predictable molten chocolate cake.
In an effort to sex-up rice pudding (I know, I know, it's a stretch - just go with it), I substituted the usual white rice and milk for black rice and coconut milk. I used Chinese Forbidden rice for this (mainly because it said 'forbidden' on the packet, and felt it was thematically appropriate), but you can certainly use Thai black rice, which has a stickier nature when cooked.
In a medium pot, combine the rice, water, coconut milk, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla and a pinch of salt and bring it to a simmer over low-medium heat. Simmer for about 45 minutes, stirring frequently and adding more water if you feel like the rice is absorbing it too quickly.
It is finished when the consistency is creamy, soft and pudding-like and the rice is tender but not totally falling apart.
Serve the rice pudding hot with your desired toppings and enjoy it brazenly.
And let's be honest, if you're confident enough to order rice pudding over its more provocative counterpart, you don't even need a dress - you are the dress.
In the final run up to Thanksgiving and Christmas, planning and practice make perfect
You can't step on stage opening night without having learned your lines, you can't show up to game one of the World Series without having trained during the off-season, and you certainly can't wake up Thanksgiving morning without having practiced (or at least planned) your culinary lineup. (Two baseball references in one sentence - that probably won't happen again.) While the old adage that says 'practice makes perfect' may be a tad on the optimistic side (I gave up on cooking white rice 'perfectly' years ago), there's certainly something to be said for stepping into the ring with the weight of some serious training in your gloves. (I'm not quite sure where this is coming from. but somewhere I hear my father sighing in relief.)
The meals prepared for Thanksgiving and Christmas (or any other major celebration, for that matter), are generally high-stress meals. Sure, in an ideal world and according to most of what comes out of Hollywood, we all stand around the stove, calmly and quietly stuffing turkeys, peeling potatoes and scratch-making pies worthy of some serious picture taking, while playfully pelting cranberries across the kitchen and sipping on cider stirred with cinnamon sticks and sobriety.
The last time I checked, however, the world wasn't ideal and mom and I stood sweaty-browed and hot-flashed in the kitchen, trying to time a turkey that cooked far faster than anticipated with six side dishes that all seemed to require the oven at the same time, while taking refuge in sips of cider so heavily laced with bourbon that if the tryptophan didn't get us, the brown stuff certainly would.
The idea that a meal with a year's worth of build up and anticipation behind it, should be anything less than nerve wracking, is overwhelmingly optimistic, to say the least.
That's why I'm a firm believer in rehearsal. I'm a firm believer in having your own back, and in giving yourself a leg up on the day. Game plans and strategies make you a much more agreeable host and much easier for your family to be around. (In my experience, turkeys, stuffings and gravies lend themselves to a whole host of expletives, otherwise absent from the average mealtime.)
While every year brings with it a series of standby's, without which the celebratory table would be incomplete, I try to introduce a few newcommers to the party, from time to time. Though you can't beat the classics, we'd still be eating canned pineapple ham, bathed in aspic, if people hadn't started sneaking in less gelatinous offerings, in acts of mild rebellion.
This year, I think I may add this squash and barley 'salad' to the mix, because aspic has no place on my table, and while it may be a Thursday, I'll only take #tbt so far.
Set your oven to 400*F.
On a lined baking sheet, toss together your squash and onion slices with the thyme spigs, garlic cloves, pepper flakes, olive oil, agave and salt to taste, and roast them for 20 minutes, tossing once, about half way through. Then allow them to cool to room temperature.
Meanwhile, cook your barley in salted water, according to the instructions on the packet. I used quick cooking pearl barley, which only took about 10 minutes. Spread the barley on a baking sheet or large plate, and allow it to cool to room temperature.
Discard the garlic cloves and thyme sprigs, and combine the barley and squash/onion mixture in a large bowl.
Melt the butter in a small pan until it starts to bubble, but be careful not to let it burn. Add the sage leaves and fry them until crisp – about 30 seconds. Place the sage leaves on a paper towel to drain off the excess butter.
Crumble the sage leaves into the barley mixture, add the crumbled goat cheese and season with salt and pepper. If you like, you can drizzle over a little extra olive oil and agave, and then toss everything to combine. Serve at room temperature.
In a sea of predictably heavy sides and scene stealers, this is a nod to a newer, lighter tradition. I've made it twice now, and I'm confident that it won't stress me out when the air conditioner fails, while four burners are on high, the oven's set to 400 and the bourbon, which was thought to be plentiful, runs out. This one, is in the bag.
*A Delicata squash is a long, almost tubular yellow squash, with green ridged lines running along it. You can eat the skin, which gives it a really lovely, almost chewy texture, so don't worry about peeling it.
Because sometimes, nothing beats a potato
Before you go getting the wrong idea, I just want to clarify something. Yes, I'm the girl who knows how to slow roast a pork shoulder, who swirls coconut cream artfully across the top of a bowl of homemade soup, and who makes almost everything from scratch (ugh, I know, sometimes I wanna punch me, too), but I'm also the girl who never has anything in the fridge, can call a tin of tuna and can of Pinot Noir dinner, and forgets that tequila, chips and guac do not a three course meal make.
It's all about checks and balances. I've certainly lived years of making sure the fridge was stocked and preparing three square meals a day (somehow I managed to be a child of the 80's and a 1950's housewife all rolled into one), but these days, breakfast is the only guarantee – the rest of the day I make no promises to myself. Sometimes I'm a put-together 33 year old who eats like she lives in the pages of a glossy food magazine, and sometimes I'm a college student who calls coffee and seven almonds, lunch. (Ok, so in college I probably would have skipped the almonds and opted for a packet of wine gums instead, but you know, older, wiser, etc...)
I'm great at cooking for others, when company's coming and when inspiration strikes – I'm just not so great at the moments in between. I forget that treating myself to what I am capable of is as important as sharing it with others. (I feel, perhaps, that there is a greater life lesson to be learned here, but I'm running on two scoops of almond butter and black coffee, after having shed a probable 40% of my water weight in a hot yoga class, so I'm not thinking bigger than my pruned self can handle right now.)
In an effort to do my mind and body a solid, I will occasionally make a big batch of something to have in the fridge, so that in those moments of irresponsible, non-adulting, I have satisfying and healthy nourishment at arms-reach. And once that batch is made, I can spend a full week eating it. Fortunately, if something's good and I'm into it, I'm slow to bore.
Between Halloween, a couple of late nights that led to late mornings, and work, this past week was a bit of a struggle. And when I struggle, all I can think of, is soup. From butternutty, to brothy, to roasted and tomatoey, a big pot of something steaming, soulful and savory is just about the only thing I want or want to make. For me, comfort is bowl-shaped and served with a spoon, and my state of mind is, more often than not, evidenced by the contents of my dish rack.
Having already gone down the butternut squash route last week, I shifted my focus to another classic: Leek and potato.. I've always loved this combination - it's simple, hearty and totally satisfying. Unfortunately, it's often laced with heavy cream or half and half, and delicious as that may be, it just doesn't sit right with me.
So I decided to skip the dairy and amp up the flavor by adding sweet potatoes instead. The soup is not overwhelmingly sweet, as the russets balance it out, but if has a depth of flavor that is needed in the absence of white gold.
Coarsely chop your cleaned leeks. Make sure all the grit and sand is rinsed out - these guys are deceptively dirty!
Add your bacon to a large, non-stick pot, over low-medium heat and render the fat until the bacon is cooked but not crispy.
Add the butter or oil to the pot and then add the leeks and sauté, moving them around occasionally so they don't burn, for about 10 minutes until soft. Add the minced garlic and cook for a further minute.
Add both the russet and the sweet potatoes and move them around the pot, to coat them with oil.
Finally, add in your vegetable stock, increase the temperature to achieve a firm, steady simmer, and cook the potatoes until soft - about 20 minutes.
Remove and discard the bacon, and working in batches or with an immersion blender, blend the soup to your desired texture. I like to leave a few little bits and pieces whole, but if you like it smooth - make it smooth! Season the soup with a healthy dose of salt and pepper.
To top it off, you can add a little sour cream, crème fraîche, or (in my case) goat's milk yogurt, some crumbled bacon and chopped chives.
I can't say that it cured me of a stressful week or one (very mild) hangover (awful but effective blue Powerade and 3 Advil did that), but it certainly gave me great comfort and the feeling that I was taking care of myself properly. Well, ish.
Now where's a pack of wine gums when you need 'em?
*If you want to stay vegetarian, simply skip this, and add about a tablespoon more of butter or coconut oil.
**It took six cups for me - but depending on the size of your potatoes it may take a little more. You want them completely covered with stock when boiling. And you want there to be enough liquid in the pot to achieve soup and not potato purée. Any time I make soup, I like to have an extra carton or batch of stock on hand, just in case.
Because when your home smells like roasting garlic, rosemary and Thyme, all is right in the world
There were many things I loved about my time spent living in London - the rain (yes, the rain!), the people, and the ability to step out my front door and straight into life, to name a few. (In Los Angeles we step out our front doors and straight into permitted parking zones and streets devoid of actual human beings, and if we want life, we must seek it out and valet.) But more than anything else, what I loved about London life, was the general sense of community at the end of every day and of ritual at the end of every week.
Perhaps to the detriment of many mornings, most evenings ended with a gathering at the pub. Whether you were a hopelessly broke student, insulting the bartender by ordering a soda water and Rose's lime for a nickel (yes, 10p got you a neon green glass of diluted cordial and a look of distain), or living large on a deposit your parents made into your account that week, you'd make a pitstop at the pub on your way home, and decompress with friends after a long day of vocal exercises, learning lines and practicing the questionably useful art of fencing (#theaterstudent #mycollegeexperiencewasbetterthanyours). Your 'local' was a place not only for drinking, but somewhere you'd park yourself for a while, simply to be social. It was a place where you could always run into someone you knew between the hours of 5 and 7, if you needed to spend a couple of hours connecting in just a little too much stage makeup and character shoes.
But the highlight for me, occurred on the seventh day, following six evenings of convening over chips, vodka Slimline's and headshot contact sheets - the highlight for me was the habitual Sunday roast. Whether you spent a day padding back and forth, from the kitchen to the couch, basting, nursing and monitoring a leg of lamb, or dragged yourself down the block to the same pub you'd spent the previous evening in, and ordered a full Sunday lunch, you were sure to have a meal that had taken time and care to prepare.
Personally, I loved preparing it myself. I loved ambling down the road to the supermarket on a Sunday morning and picking up whatever large cut of meat was being offered at a reasonable price, the sides and trimmings and bottle of red to pair with them, then heading home to spend a day marinating in the fragrant air that wafted from my tiny (and I mean tiiiny) kitchen.
I'd make small slits into lamb and beef roasts, stuff them with whole garlic cloves and rosemary sprigs, bathe them in olive oil and a healthy shower of cracked pepper and salt, and slide them into my oven to blister, render and roast. Sundays were perfect. (Until I walked back into the kitchen at the end of the night, only to be reminded of the fact that I didn't have a dishwasher. Bubble, burst.)
So, in the spirit of my London days and in an effort to take full advantage of an overcast, drizzly day to match them, I decided to spend last Sunday roasting a pork shoulder. With wine-bearing company scheduled for 7:30 and nothing else on the roster, I seized the opportunity to languish in the smell of roasting garlic, rosemary, thyme and pork while soaking potatoes and binging on the third season of Netflix's The Fall. Sunday was perfect.
For three and a half hours, my apartment smelled like actual heaven, and for the next three days, I'll have leftovers to remind me of it.
Tender, rich and incredibly flavorful, this pork roast is everything you need to end your week on a positive note. Throw in some crispy roasted potatoes, shaved brussel sprouts and a vibrant chimichurri sauce, and your place will beat any pub in town - hands down.
Set your oven to 275*F.
In a food processor or blender, combine the herbs, fennel seeds, garlic, chili flakes, salt, pepper and olive oil and blend until combined and a spreadable paste is achieved.
Pat your pork shoulder dry with a paper towel, and spread the paste all over the meat. Make sure you get into all the little crevices and cover the entire cut. This will create a beautiful crust and flavor the meat wonderfully.
Using butcher twine, tie the roast, so that it cooks evenly. You can YouTube a video on how to do this! Just type in 'how to tie a roast' and you'll be a pro in no time.
Place your roast, fatty side up. (In case that's not obvious, it's the smooth side of the roast, not the side the bone was removed from), in a roasting dish, greased with a little olive oil. Place the dish in the center of the oven and set your timer for three and a half hours. Walk away.
You'll want the temperature of your meat to read about 145/150*F when it comes out of the oven (use a meat thermometer), and then let it rest. Don't cook it past this temperature, as it will continue to cook an extra ten degrees or so, while resting. I let mine sit on the counter, covered in foil and a tea towel, for about 30 minutes.
Then slice this baby up and serve it with a little homemade (or store-bought) chimichurri sauce and your favorite sides. De-lish.
(You'll be happy to know that it's equally amazing the following day, sliced and served up on a sandwich!)
I try to get back to London as often as I can, but it's nice to know that I can recreate a sense of it right here in my own California kitchen. Trying to get a nostalgic neon soda and lime in a city of all-organic, farm-fresh, pressed-juice wholesomeness though, well that's another story.