Autumn this year

My chickens have started laying. I opened the lid of their house with great expectation this morning and was not disappointed – a small, buff, tapering egg lying there in the sawdust of the nest box. Good old Thelma and Louise.

Life is pretty good right now, and not just because of the little backyard bantams. I’ve been away in Kyrgyzstan for a month, climbing mountains and sampling the local cuisine. Smoked horse and fresh naan bread were highlights, fermented mares milk and horse fat/gristle sausage a particular low. I’ve been mushrooming in the New Forest, discovering the proud parasol, the coral like cauliflower fungus, the diminutive but fascinating hedgehog mushroom and the substantial and abundant bay boletes. Obviously, I’ve been frying them with bacon and eating with relish. I’ve been back in the bakery, pleased to be back with the familiar feeling of dough between my hands and pleased to be washing flour from my hair at the end of the day.

I’ve eaten out a bit more than I can afford: a shockingly bad meal at Cafe Maitreya and a superb one at the Three Coqs Brasserie to make up for it. I’ve been making jam and chutney and jars are jammed into every space on the kitchen shelves, with more planned – rosehip syrup this evening, sloe gin tomorrow, rowan jelly and apple butter when I find time, and quince cheese on wednesday. I feel like a WI lady preparing for a long winter.

I’ve been writing too, not on this blog (apologies) but for real magazines that are printed on paper, and I’m loving every second of it.

And I’ve been dreaming, oh yes, I’ve been dreaming. This month I’ve mostly been thinking about the next supper club date, about substantial charcuterie I’m going to tackle this autumn, about a larder to stack my jam jars in, and about the restaurant I want to open in a few years. In fact, I’ve been dreaming a lot about that last one. Menus, tables, paint, opening hours, it’s all planned out.

So that’s what I’ve been up to, and what I’ve been thinking about, and why I haven’t done any writing on here. So sorry. Tomorrow, I’ll have details of the next Southville Supper Club. It’ll be the best yet, if my dreams can become a reality.

The Supper Club

I probably should have got onto this straight away, but I didn’t. Marketing isn’t my strong point. A few weekends ago saw the second edition of the nicknamed Southville Supper Club, which was really very nice. Unfortunately I didn’t have as many guests as I’d have liked, but such is life. The food was (mostly) a success, and renouned food blogger Essex Eating has written a nice little review on his blog, as well as putting up some photos, which are most flattering. There will not be another until the autumn, while I explore Kyrgyzstan for unclimbed mountains and fermented yoghurt, but I can assure you I have plans brewing. I hope EE’s photos might whet your collective appetite  to come to the next one. Stay tuned.

Southville Supper Club returns

It has been a long while since I opened my doors for the first Southville Supper Club (as it seems to have become known). A combination of work and social life has booked up every weekend since then, so I am excited to have an unallocated weekend this week. I will be serving a six course tasting menu from 19:00 this Saturday.

Menu (subject to change):

Chilled beetroot soup and broad bean ice cream

Terrine, toast and pickled onions

Beetroot cured mackerel, pickled cucumber and horseradish mousse

Calves liver, onion mash and broad beans

Elderflower ice

Summer trifle and brittle

And all for the bargain price of a £20 donation.

If you would like to come, please make a reservation by emailing me at samjleach [AT] gmail [DOT] com. Last time some people cancelled at the last minute or didn’t turn up. If you are likely to do this, please don’t email.

Lost: daydreams.

I’m blaming the summer sunshine for a period of writing inactivity. At least a combination of summer sunshine and unfortunate wardrobe choices. My shorts, which I have been wearing a lot, are pocketless and so my trusty little notebook has been left, neglected, at home. It’s not that my daydreams have lulled, it’s just that they’ve been drifting off into the heady summer air uncaptured.

Which is a shame, because I’m pretty sure I’ve been thinking some good things. We’ll never know, I suppose.

What can I remember from this mediterranean summer we’ve been having? A summer picnic by a river; a cornfield behind, the searing sun beating down upon our backs, the crisp tear of fresh bread, a sun ripened tomato, thin slices of saucisson glistening almost translucent in the heat. Things have been happening in the garden: the runner beans climbing the bannisters outside, picking peas, cutting the first courgettes, gathering large handfuls of leaves and herbs, conjuring meals from a few potatoes and what is outside. The garlic ending its seven month residence and drying in the sun. Foraging from in and around bristol, the heady fug of elderflower pollen and the sticky juice of tree ripened cherries on my fingers.

Eating out and eating in, trying new flavours and making my first jam: the summer so far has been fertile for the mind, but what a pity I haven’t captured it for good purpose. Stupid shorts.

Maltloaf

Earlier this week, Oliver Thring wrote a short piece for the WoM blog about Soreen Maltloaf. Soreen Maltloaf is a most splendid thing, the only bakery product worth buying from anywhere but a bakery, and (I stick my neck out here) quite possibly the best thing you can unwrap form a plastic packet.

In my love for the Soreen I found myself wholeheartedly agreeing with his every word until, that is, it came to the subject of toasting. Here we diverge, I’m afraid. I notice this anti toasting sentiment is attracting a growing following online, with blogger James Ramsden adding his bit to the debate. I know I normally write about daydreams and imagination, but I thought that, for once, I’d come back down to earth, stick my tongue in my cheek and fight the corner for one of my favorite tea time treat: a buttery toasted slice of Soreen’s finest.

To the doubters and haters, I say this: with the greatest respect, you’re just can’t be doing it right. Because if you do do it right, your slice won’t burn, and it won’t dry out. Indeed, it will be transported to new levels of sensation. Sensation that, quite frankly, the cold loaf cannot offer. And so I will give you some sort of instructions to guide you through the toasting process to smooth your transition to enlightenment.

It is possible to buy a sliced loaf, but I would urge you to avoid it. The cuts are square and clinical and the resulting surfaces are too smooth to be a toasty treat on the tongue. Buy a normal maltloaf and refrigerate it, this makes slicing easier. Ensure it is not squashed in transit. WIth a very good bread knife cut cm slices, making sure you don’t squash the slice in cutting it – saw, don’t press. Toast gently. The grill is better for this than the toaster – things get a bit sticky in there. You are aiming to grill quickly at high temp, and to achieve only gentle browning. Beware the dangers of browning a brown thing – it’s difficult to tell – test with your finger until the surface is crisp, then turn and grill the other side. When the second side is done, remove from the grill and slather in butter. This will melt, soaking into the slice. Re butter and then eat, quickly.

The maltloaf in its raw state truly is a wonderful thing – the last word in stodge, a convenient calorie booster and an excellent workout for the jaw. The perfect snack for a day’s climbing or after work treat; rip it and scoff it. But the toasted version, if done with care and an open mind, offers a much more rewarding prize. It is hot, the butter melts and oozes between your tastebuds. The crisp outer, wafer thin and crackling, gives way to the teeth exposing the centre, just as stodgy and sticky as cold, but now gently warm and oozing, and permeated with the salty lip-smack of the butter. The flavours at this lukewarm temperature are heightened. The textures multiplied and contrasting. Toasted maltloaf is to raw what a still warm soft boiled egg is to a cold hard one: both are great, but one is obviously better.

Free your minds and embrace the grill.

The Hungry Gap

Apologies for a writing drought, time has been a bit full with work and writing projects over the last few weeks. Will try and be more contientious.

Padding around the garden in bare feet, I can feel the heat of the sun warming my back. Shoots and new leaves are tentatively unfurling to bask in the gentle glare of the sun. Spring is here, it is official, and plants are waking up to greet the new growing season. But asparagus, in any real sense, is still sometime ahead of us, and aside from watercress, the odd pea shoot or a few bits and bobs under glass, the available veg is the dessicating remains of last season. Cranky, tired leeks and bloated forgotten fennel are still being pulled from earth which was bitten hard throughout the winter. The very last roots, now definitely past their best, are looking distinctly worse for wear, all wrinkle and wither now, months after digging.

Things aren’t great now on the British veg scene. While the sun shines, blossom explodes into the springtime air and all is vibrant, things are at their very worst in the kitchen gardens: ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the hungry gap. It seems a bitter irony that at this time of year, when the earliest taste of summer is in the air, that our vegetable supply should be so stuck in the dark ages. This year especially so; still reeling somewhat from an exceptionally harsh winter, things are later than ever. Now that I can pretty much sit outside to eat, I want fresh, light, vibrant food, all zing and crunch, not the comforting warmth and stodge of the winter past. But how does one achieve that, with what is available? It’s all in the delivery.

Put aside for one moment the obvious charms of watercress and any salad leaves which may have pulled through the winter. We’re not talking about an easy ride here, we’re talking about getting some spring time milage from the withered remnants of winter’s clamped roots – conjuring a little something special from unpromising ingredients. It’s been a long winter of roasted roots, and while they can be spruced into a spring salad with some lemon juice, wilted greens and chopped herbs from the greenhouse, it’s time to leave them behind.

So get your sharpest knife, your keenest eye and some roots – a beetroot and carrot for now. Peel them and slice into the thinnest, translucent slices physically possible, then slice across into fine julienne. Leave to soak in water to crisp up while you mix up a little dressing: soy sauce, sesame oil, lemon juice and a tiny bit of honey. Take some super fresh tuna and pop it in a bag with blood orange juice and seasoning. Let it ‘cook’ for a few minutes. Meanwhile, drain and dry the roots, then toss in the dressing – enough to coat it gently but not to drown it. Add a good bit of sesame seeds and incorporate, then serve on the plate – the roots on the bottom, the fish (sliced finely) on the top.

And there we go – I won’t cook it, but it could just be the spring on a plate you’re after.

Rhubarb

A romantic trip to London was a whirlwind tour of foodie treats: Borough Market, St John, Deptford’s myriad shops and the sublime chocolate of Paul Young. Inevitably, I am brimming with inspiration to take into the kitchen. Crackling breads and pungent cheeses; piles of mushrooms and neatly arranged fish; battalions of truffles with regimented garnishes, sticky-stodgy frangipani tartes, bone marrow and ox tongue: it must be said, when it comes to food, London is in a league of its own.

But one must pity the poor Londoner for their rhubarb: bright red, long and fat, with crisp linear ribs and a broad flanged base. Beautiful rhubarb it is true, but the sort of thing one might snap from the manure in late May, not the slender delicacy one expects from the candle lit sheds of Yorkshire’s rhubarb triangle. Proper forced rhubarb should be an anaemic pink, long, thin and floppy like an alien kelp. Forced rhubarb isn’t just a way of getting something in a crumble in the winter. Growing in the dark from strong crowns gives a very different product, not just in appearance but in the mouth: forced rhubarb has none of the pithy stringyness, none of the tooth etching astringency of its summer counterpart. A much more beautiful vegetable, which will reward gentle cooking, restrained sweetening and thoughtful spicing.

One can scarcely improve on baking it simply in foil with a little honey, cinnamon, star anise and orange zest: a topping for your breakfast yoghurt, a perfect accompaniment to creme brulee or a piquant partner to fatty meats or oily fish. But even if you can’t improve, it’s still nice to do something a bit different every once in a while. When I have an appropriate occasion, I will be making a rhubarb frangipani tart, the slender stems embedded next to one another like a fruity bar code. The top will be glazed with a jelly and it will be served with a flavoured cream.

Now I just need to find a huge tart tin…

Pop up

After many weeks waiting for the right day, I am pleased to announce The Daydream Kitchen’s first real-life appearance in pop up supper club form. This Saturday night (the 20th), I am throwing open my South Bristol front door (gently, to keep the heat in) to the general public and serving up a three course meal, and all for a bargain basement recommended donation of ten squids. The menu is yet to be finalised, but it will most certainly not be imaginary…

To make a reservation, please email me at samjleach {AT} googlemail {DOT} com and I will get back to you with the lowdown.

EDIT: We are fully booked for this Saturday, thanks for all the interest. Keep an eye out for the next one.

EDIT: Due to a cancellation, there are places available. Please contact at the above address if interested.

Meat

I seem to have been spending a lot of time thinking about meat lately. Which is unusual for me – I don’t eat much meat at all, perhaps once a week. But there is just so much scope in the kitchen with meat, and I feel I have barely scratched the surface of all that I’d like to try. One of my (very) loose new year resolutions was to try new things, particularly get to grips with the gaps in my meat knowledge. I’ve cooked most obvious roasting/stewing cuts before, so I want to explore the more esoteric bits and processes – offal, head meats, trotters, ears, tails, sausage making and curing. 

I firmly believe that it is right to use up every piece of an animal: it is efficient with resources – the less food that is thrown away, the less that is needed to be grown, and thus the less impact there is on the environment; secondly, it is respectful of the animal to ensure that the most value is garnered from the premature end to its life. It is therefore doubly important to try to use up the less popular pieces of carcass which are so often being thrown away.

And so it is that my attention is turned to the next item on my offal to-do list: tripe. Not the most appealing of the organs, it must be said, and not entirely surprising that liver, hearts and kidneys have all been ticked off first, some time ago. The pale, folded, honeycomb is not the best looker on the slab, wobbling gently next to the livers and hearts. Factor in its slightly faecal odour and you have a pretty unattractive starting point for a meal. But I like a challenge, and I am convinced that it can be made delicious, even if that means a recipe which tones it down (or even, perish the thought, tries to hide it a bit). I’m not sure I can quite face the pale, insipid sounding tripe in milk as my first go at it, and so I think I will try using the pincer attack of deliciously browning frying and gentle slow simmering in a tomato sauce. It’s a classic Italian way of dealing with the stomach, and it sounds like it might just be very delicious. The tripe is sliced finely with onions, and fried in a hot pan with butter to give it some colour, before deglazing with wine and adding tomato sauce. This is then simmered very slowly, for a very long time, before serving with tagliatelle. 

I’m salivating already…

Garlic

My garden gets little sun. Only in the afternoon does the sun heave around to the west and cast a few barely warm photons over the garden steps: the small raised beds sleep the winter away in frigid shade. The recent snows persevered on the beds long after the thaw: over breakfasts, I could glance through the windows to see a thick blanket covering the recently planted garlic.

Now stripped of their covers, I finally made the effort to put on some shoes, go outside and look. From the damp, papery skins have burst forth firm, deep green spears, a statement of intent for the growing season ahead. 

Although it is still early, I cannot help but close my eyes and dream of these spears shooting skywards and exploding like a firework into a vivid purple flower head. With any luck, these cold days will ensure fat bulbs come June: fat bulbs to be laid out to dry on rusting steel steps behind the kitchen; to be tied up in a string and hung where the remains of last year’s shallots are; to be roasted whole until the little nuggets of sticky garlic caramel can be popped out with the back of a knife and smeared over bruschetta, eating in the garden under the full heat of the midsummer sun. 

They may only be the smallest signs of growth, but they are the start of a process: the first inches of green in the new season. I can’t help but dream of the good things that will be happening by the time the garlic explodes into flower: fresh peppery salads; new potatoes; French beans weaving up the garden steps; lush, acrid basil; the crisp snap of a mange tout.

Winter, I do love you, but I’m ready to let go now – I’ve moved on and I need the gentle warmth and unfurling excitement of spring.

It’s not you, it’s me.