Chicken fatigue

I have been experiencing the cook’s equavilent of writer’s block. I have been cooking, but more out of necessity than desire, and while most of the stuff I've made has been OK, nothing really excited me. Most evenings in the past week I made mish-mash sort of curries using whatever vegetables were in the fridge and a jar of Madras paste and taking the leftovers to work for lunch, or made things using from bits of a chicken.

Last weekend I bought a whole small chicken to joint and use throughout the week. This was something I’d been meaning to do for ages since I knew it was far cheaper than buying pre-jointed pieces. Even though I don’t actually buy chicken very often I thought it would make a nice change, and when my housemate came back from Asda announcing that a whole chicken was only about 3p more expensive than a pair of breasts, I decided to give it a go. (Incidently a very small free-range, corn-fed bird was only about £4.)

I jointed the chicken, which I had tried a few times in the pat and made a mess of, but it was easier than I expected. The key is pulling the leg as far away from the body as possible, until it ‘pops’ slightly and then putting the knife through the joint. Wriggle around until you feel a slight dent - you should not be putting through very much bone, and shouldn’t need to press very hard.

On Saturday, the drumsticks and thighs went into a casserole with onions, bacon, white wine, cream, and lots of parsley added at then end. I was hoping the green freshness would somehow ‘cancel out’ all the cream and alcohol.

The leftover bones, and the carcass with the breasts still attached went into a pot with a broken up celery stick, a halved, unpeeled onion (the skin adds colour to the stock - in the Second World War women used onion skins to make a dye for their legs because they didn’t have stockings). I was surprised how long the breasts took to cook when they were attached to the bone, about 40 minutes. These were cut off and put away to be used at a later date: the carcass went back in to the pot for another hour or two.

The stock and some leftover rice made a vaguely south-east Asian soup which was probably the highlight of the week. I threw a small piece of star anise, a dried chilli and a big lump of ginger into the simmering stock to infuse while I chopped up some of the leftover breast meat, finely sliced a leek and chopped a handful of (admittedly quite old and droopy) cabbage. This all went into the stock with some cooked rice and just before I ate it I added more very finely chopped ginger, parsley and fish sauce. It was soothing but sprightly.

The last of the breast meat went into leeks and white sauce made with white wine and water instead of milk, some grain mustard and the tiniest drop of Worcester sauce. Nestled under some pastry it made a rather sweet looking pie for one. Interestingly I made the pastry (just normal shortcrust) quickly without paying much attention, and used margarine rather than butter, and it was the best I'd made in ages. Is margarine the answer, or maybe the need to make it quickly meant I didn't over handle it? The pie went down well with buttery steamed spinach and a not-too-bad white wine.

Looking back on this I think I have simply been suffering from chicken fatigue. I plan to rectify this with mackerel, possibly grilled with smoked paprika; fennel, whose medicinal scent seems just right after the excesses of December; and if I can get my hands on any I really fancy some salsify.

Beef and Guinness pie

I find cooking for large numbers of people terrifying. Partly because I've haven't done if much, although when I lived in France I once managed to make dinner for twelve people in my tiny studio flat with two hot plates and a microwave: chicken from the rotisserie down the road, ratatouille in a borrowed saucepan, about 4,000 baguettes, and a lot of wine.

Generally I find feeding crowds intimidating, I can’t judge quantities in large amounts and live in fear there not being enough to go around. But having lots of people for dinner is fun so I’ve decided I must face my fear.

Last weekend a friend from Bristol came to stay, and a few other people were going to come round in the evening. A few somehow turned into many and I began to panic about how to feed them all. Seeing as most of them were hungry boys - one once made the New Year's resolution of 'only one meal at a time' - something substantial was in order.

The stew part of a beef pie can simmer all afternoon, making the kitchen smell like all kitchens should, or be cooked a couple of days in advance meaning that when you want to eat all you need to do is make the pastry, put in a pie dish, drape the pastry over and bake it.

Pie for ten:

For the filling

1kg stewing beef, preferably shin, in bite sized pieces

3 large onions

5 large carrots

Oil or beef dripping

1 tbs flour

A few sprigs of dried thyme and bay leaves

2 cans of Guinness

1tbs brown sugar

You can brown the meat for this but I didn’t brown the meat for this, mostly because I was feeling lazy, and decided that the Guinness and sugar would make up for any loss of caramelised meat favours.

Slice the onions and cook over a low heat for about 20-30 minutes until they’re a soft, pale brown mass. I used olive oil but beef dripping, if I’d had any, would have been even better. Add the carrots, cuts into slices, and cook for a further ten minutes.

Turn up the heat, add the beef and stir until it loses it loses its raw appearance. Add the flour and cook for a minute or two before adding the herbs, Guinness and sugar. Cover, turn the heat as low as it will go, and leave it to bubble very gently for at least two hours. Add some water if it starts to look too dry, but it shouldn’t be soupy either. This is the sort of thing that actually improves if you leave it for a day.

You could use any dark ale instead of Guinness, or any beer at all. One day I’m going to try making a Belgian inspired stew using a dark beer such as Chimay or Leffe Brun, a bit of sugar and the sweet gingerbread spices called pain d’epice.

For the pastry

100g butter cut into cubes

200g plan flour

Pinch of salt

As per normal shortcrust, rub the butter into the flour and salt until it looks a bit like porridge oats. Stir in very cold water with a knife (I’m not sure why I always make pastry with a knife but it just feels right) until begins to come together into a lump, but isn’t too sticky. Beware that sometimes the flour mixture looks really dry but if you carry on stirring it then suddenly it starts to cohere into a ball.

Quickly knead the pastry into a ball and chill it in the fridge for half and hour or so. Decant the stew mixture into a large dish then roll out the pastry to the thickness of a pound coin and place over the dish. Press the pastry into the rim with your fingers to make a scalloped pattern then trim away the excess.

If the filling was hot when you put it in the dish then you just need to cook the pastry – about 20 minutes at 200°C – but if it starts off cold then cook it at 150°C for 45 minutes, covering the top with foil if the pastry begins to look too dark. Best eaten with lots of buttery mashed potato, and some cabbage if you feel the need for something green.

Green pie

It is a familiar situation: I had decided to take food to work rather than buy it at the overpriced canteen, but it was getting late and I couldn't find anything in the house I would have wanted to eat the following lunchtime. All I could find was some eggs and salad, and although egg salad would do in an emergency, I wasn't feeling excited by it.

Then I remembered some spinach and peas in the freezer, and that with some flour and butter I could make pastry. Spinach and pea quiche it was, then.

I make fairly awful pasty. This doesn't seem very fair when my Mum makes some of the best pastry I've ever tasted. Maybe pastry-making ability skips a generation, like twins. So I crumbled the butter into the flour, trying to think light thoughts while I did it, then slowly mixed in some cold water.

While that rested in the fridge I put a handful of frozen peas and four spheres of frozen spinach into a pan with a lump of butter and put it over a low heat to warm through. Rather than rolling out the pastry I'd heard of people just pressing it out in the pan with their fingers until the bottom and sides were covered evenly. This was easier than it sounds, and more fun than struggling with a rolling pin!

Two beaten eggs were mixed into the pea and spinach mixture along with a teaspoon on pesto and a tablespoon of crumbled Lancashire cheese. This went into the pastry case and I intended to bake it for about forty minutes, but got distracted and eventually retrieved it after about an hour. Amazing it wasn't burned and I think the firmer texture made it better suited to being shaken about in a box on the way to work.

A slice of this, with some green salad and sun-dried tomatoes (halved cherry tomatoes, tossed in oil, in the oven on gas mark one for five hours) made a really satisfying lunch that was far better than anything on offer in the canteen. Next time I might not bother using any peas though as they didn't add much.