The missing ingredient

In excited anticipation of TLOML's return I am making gumbo. When I told TLOML I was going to make gumbo he did not make the usual 'mm-mmh' sound I like to hear. Instead he sounded almost worried.
'Okay',' he said. 'But you have to make sure it's good and hot.'
'Of course,'  I said.
'And you'll need to find okra,' he went on to insist. 'It's not gumbo without okra.'
'I know,' I said, a little sharply. 'Look, I'll just make a chicken pie if you think I can't do it right.'
Like the wise man he is, TLOML withdrew, insisted he was sure I'd do a great job, and we left it at that.

The terrible truth is that in his secret heart of hearts, TLOML does not believe a white person can make good spicy Cajun food. I beg to differ. I think I can transcend my Redcar (where an avocado was exotic as a child) roots. I think a good cook can make any food they enjoy. And I used to love the gumbo at Jack'n'Jills in LA. Plus I'm an American cook these days, blending cuisine cultures with ease. I hope. So with that in mind I'm making a gumbo. (And the chicken pie, just in case I need to redeem myself).

I started it today and so far it's going pretty well. I made some topnotch shrimp stock and patiently patiently stirred my roux for 50 minutes till it got nice and dark. The smell once the celery, green pepper and onion  - apparently the holy trinity of Cajun cuisine - hit the pan was reassuringly authentic. At least, it smelt like that gumbo I used to like at Jack'n'Jills. As I type this, the sausage, all manner of seasoning, tomatoes and stock have been bubbling away for twenty minutes or so, and it looks and tastes really good. Tomorrow when TLOML gets home I will toss crab, shrimp and clams in (no restraint on the seafood front as usual).

Here's how I hope mine will look this time tomorrow

There's just one problem which is eroding my confidence. There was one ingredient I could find anywhere. Attempts to find it resulted in helpful shop girls bringing me saffron, star anise, and salsify. None of which are the one ingredient I really needed. I won't tell you what it is, as I don't want TLOML to be sniffing out its absence. I have substituted it with a couple of other things which apparently have some similar qualities. Eeek... I wonder if he will notice.

Well, if it doesn't work out, there's always the chicken pie.

Everything is bigger in New England

More on the 'everything is bigger in America' riff. I'm not sure it's fair to compare the size of the clams, since the closest British equivalent is probably the cockle. So I'll restrict myself to a comment on the size of these clams, compared to any other clam or cockle from anywhere.

Look at these big juicy fellas, practically bursting out of their shells! That's TLOML's hand for scale, and he has fairly big islander hands. So respect the clam that fills the gap between that forefinger and thumb. We were in Rhode Island, home of the happy clam. Apparently it's to do with the muddy, silty sea floor there. To be precise, we were in Scales and Shells, Newport, RI, a restaurant TLOML visited over a decade ago and has been dreaming of ever since.

TLOML is of the view that there is no such thing as 'too big' where clams are concerned. I think these babies support his case. And our consumption of 50+ clams across 3 meals, in 24 hours, proves it too.

While we were in Newport waiting for Scales and Shells to open (we were there at 5pm on the dot two days in a row), we checked out some of the famous Newport mansions. Breakers, the Vanderbilt summer home, had 15 bedrooms and 20 bathrooms. Further evidence that many things are rather bigger in America.

Your very own can of tuna

A grey Monday, suffering a hangover fuelled by the toxic memory of one too many Cafe Noir margaritas could mean only one thing for TLOML. A Reuben.

A Reuben, for the benefit of my British readers, is a sandwich of beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese and thousand island dressing. No, not my choice of hangover fodder either, but it was just what TLOML was craving.

So we went to check out our local diner, the Chelsea Square. We already thought it might be a little divey, since it's open 24 hours, which is never a good sign. That suspicion was confirmed on reading the menu:

You know you're on thin ice when they mention by name the brand of the mass produced English muffin they use. And that brand is, well, pretty bog standard. I mean, we're not talking about Poilane here. Nor even La Brea Bakery or Delice de France.

And how about this for a treat: your very own can of tuna.

That's right, at Chelsea Square they aren't going to stiff you. They'll open up an entire tin of the fish of your choosing. I was tempted to order it just to see if the actual tin arrived.

Instead I stuck with the salad I had planned. Spinach and mushroom and very generous it was too. And TLOML got his reuben, which he described as 'exquisite'.

So all in all, a good showing for the Chelsea Square, which bodes well for the eggy breakfasts and late night cheese toasties that lie in our future. It just goes to prove the eternal truth - in search of hangover food, go divey.

Rampant consumerism

Tallinn should have been a shoestring budget break. It is a very inexpensive city. Entrance to BURLESQU, Estonia's only 'burlesque-style', is only a tenner. Don't ask me how I know. I suspect it's the cheapness, rather than the World Heritage site status, that makes it so popular with British stag parties.

Still, true to form, TLOML and I managed to unnecessarily spend a bit of cash. Me on a fabulous scarf with pompoms on it, which the seven year old girl in me could not deny.

And TLOML on a Soviet submarine clock. It's a 24 hour clock because they didn't know if it was day or night down there. We thought it was cool and therefore had to have it.

We avoided the darker depths of those funky old junk shops: it's a slippery slope once you start buying clocks with pictures of Stalin on... and the bottom of that slope is Nazi memorabilia.


Then we went to Oxford to do some light wedmin. And then we began to learn just how incredibly easy it is to make snap decisions which will cost us thousands, when we're talking about a party that's a year away.

'Drinks in this fabulous historic venue will only cost three times as much as that perfectly serviceable bar... shall we...?' 'Well, it is quite fabulous and historic... and after all it is our wedding' Boom! just like that two months' rent vanish into thin air.

'It's really not worth spending money on music, no-one will hear it on the lawns.' 'Unless we hire a 12 piece marching band and get them to parade around!' Boom! And we may get married barefoot so we can pay for the band.

So when we returned to NYC, we embarked on a thrift kick. We launched it by going to the Lobster Place in Chelsea Market to buy fish for dinner.

The Lobster Place is truly my favourite shop in all of Manhattan. They sell all the fresh, smoked and steamed fish and shellfish you could imagine. Including random stuff like that weird dried mullet roe, and little sachets of squid ink. So we felt we were models of restraint...

...but having gone in for a piece of mackerel, we emerged with a dozen little neck clams, a dozen oysters, squid salad, and seaweed. And just like that our simple fish supper became a four course fish extravaganza.

Note to self: saving for the wedding might be easier (less tempting) if we shop at Gristedes instead of Chelsea Market. There's something about madheads talking to themselves in the fresh produce aisle that reins in my desire to splurge on the food.

Stages that take ages

A lot of people told me when we move to New York I won't cook anymore. We won't even need a kitchen, apparently. We'll mostly be eating in some hip hotspot. Or if that's too much effort, we'll have take out delivered.

To quote Liz Lemon, my second favourite New Yorker, 'opposite!'. Eating isn't always about instant gratification (or hipness).

Sometimes, I want to make something oldschool and comforting, in many separate stages which take ages to prepare and then assemble. Something which takes about twenty times as long to make as it does to eat.

The return of TLOML after five days away was such a time.

I made posh fish pie. My method involves ten different steps, five pans, and two hours of conference calls.

1. Boiling potatoes.
2. Making cheesy spring onion mash.
3. Boiling eggs.
4. Softening some leeks.
5. Poaching the fish in lemony, peppery milk.
6. Taking the smoked salmon out of its package.
7. Plunging the eggs in ice cold water so they don't get green edges (a little tip I picked up on that crazy devilled eggs site). Slicing them up.
8.  Fishing capers out of the jar.
9. Making a white sauce with the fishy lemony peppery milk.
10. Assembling. Licking fingers.

Okay, I might be pushing it a bit with the smoked salmon and the capers steps. But you get the point. It takes a while.

For pudding I made a special banoffee pie. Special because TLOML does not like cream, but does like custard. Which takes way longer to make than whipping up some cream. Banofee pie only involves five steps, but oh, it's hours and hours in the making:

1. Graham cracker base (suddenly missing digestives!) - ten minutes to make, thirty minutes to set
2. Sliced bananas - five minutes flat. I'm handy with a knife.
3. Dulce de leche - three hours of boiling that little can, topping up the water every twenty minutes. And overnight to chill and set.
4. Proper English custard - thirty minutes to make. And a couple of hours to chill and set.
5. Topping the dulce deliciousness with the chilled custard and some sliced banana.

I loved spending all that calming, satisfying time in the kitchen.

A good store of patience is the key to enjoying such a job. Patience and an appreciation of the deep satisfaction that comes from making things in many different pots and pans, lots of stages, with waiting gaps in between for things to chill, set or otherwise.

It was a very happy 24 hours - elapsed time, silly - of cooking. And a very happy few minutes of eating. Worth every dirty pan.