Provincial fusion: Thai-style red curry paste, green bean and pork belly stir-fry

Darling readers, you may have noticed a distinct lack of my postings recently.  Fear not, good sirs and ladies, for I haven't forsaken the good ship Illustrated London Noms for a quiet life of contemplation and prayer at a monastery (not least because my most well-known and practiced talents would be frowned upon by most monastic orders).  However, due to circumstances beyond my control I have had to undertake a series of rustifications to avoid the excesses of scandal waiting for me back in the city.

Hence I am currently seated in Carrot Manor, my ancestral pile, with nothing but some vintage wine of the fizzy variety, several dogs (who mostly seem to pine mysteriously for Aunty Peas since her last visit), some cats (who mostly ignore my presence), and a few chickens.  As you may have noticed from previous posts, while I come from a country background, I am in my ways firmly a city gentleman used to the benefits of varied shops, fine restaurants, and an over-abundance of pretty there for the taking, so being in this situation is deeply unsettling (not least as my darling Sister who is currently watching over Carrot Manor does not have quite the selection of esoteric ingredients I would have in my own kitchen).

However, needs must when the devil drives (an apt turn of phrase since I am also currently insured on the family car), and frankly in the newly arrived summer heat I was craving something spicy, porky, and fresh.  Now I often make a Thai red curry stir fry at home, consisting of red curry paste, pork belly, and crunchy green beans.  But could such a thing be accomplished in the provinces?  Only a short trip to the local supermarket would tell...

Home comforts

It is at this time of year, dearest reader, that the mind turns towards the creature comforts. Dreary mornings spent de-icing windscreens, days at work where you don’t see daylight, cold, dark evenings – it can all get to be too much. We are, of course, still some days away from erecting the Christmas tree in Chez Peas (although I am turning my mind towards the annual conundrum of what to use to top the tree...) but even without the festive lights and the hedonistic promise of Yule, I am doing my best to warm my spirits and those of my nearest and dearest Mr Green.

And how am I doing that? You may well ask. There are many techniques, though for the purposes of this column we had best restrict ourselves to discussing food.

Soups, my dears. Stews. Savoury foods cooked on a long, slow, simmer. Scents that fill the house, promising the visitor warmth and comfort, an evening of conversation and well-chosen wine. It is a different way of cooking from the instant gratification of those summer months, when you pick a perfectly ripened ingredient and hasten home to transform it, almost instantly, into something fresh and succulent. No. This is the time of year when you choose carefully, shop days before you want to eat, bring home the bacon, the butternut squash, the parsnip, the shin of beef and plan, oh so carefully, when and how you will cook it, when and in what company you will eat.

Cooking now takes a little love – you have to respect the ingredients before they will give you their best. You have to treat them gently, give them time. This is not a moment for haste or reckless abandon.

Let me share with you a stew, so savoury and full of promise that it won a place in the heart of even the once-vegetarian Mr Green. 

The Gentleman Cook: Smoked Mackerel Salad

There comes a time in every Gentleman's life when he finds himself bereft of assistance about the house - your valet has his night off, cook's away visiting her sick mother, and the boy is probably off terrorising the neighbourhood.  It's at times like this one must not panic.  Instead raise your belt to a respectable height, adjust your moustache and head forth into the kitchen yourself!

  

I am well aware there are perils to this approach - society rumours suggest the remodelling of Lord P's east wing was due to an improperly boiled egg, while Sir H's whiskers simply haven't been the same since he tried to peel a potato (note: names withheld to protect me from accusations of scandal-mongering).  And let us not forget the health conscious times we live in; it is just Not Done to return home from a vigorous cross country jaunt to raid your pantry and feast upon a gout inducing banquet of jugged meats, rich cheeses and cold roast fowl, all washed down with claret and port.  Well, at least not on a week night. 

So, in light of these considerations I shall disclose to you a recipe that can save you from such a desperate situation.  This is a dish that sees me through the summer months without having to resort to utilising the hob, nor calling on my servants.  Sirs, I give you the simple pleasure of a smoked mackerel salad, with my blessings.

The Earl of Sandwich: An Aunty's Advice

The internet is a marvellous thing, you know, capable of building friendships across oceans and time. It also reveals just how wrong the colonies can get it if they are left on their own for too long.

Earlier today there was a discussion on Twitter (a social networking site that’s an invaluable tool in locating rare eighteenth century erotica and pretty people) about what constitutes a toasted cheese sandwich. Darling readers – I was horrified. People fry their sandwiches! They toast bread and melt cheese onto it! THEY MICROWAVE CHEESE ON PLATES!

Obviously this cannot be allowed to continue. So gather round readers, pay attention rude colonials, I am going to explain how to make the perfect toasted cheese sandwich.

From the World’s Scrap Book: Acqua Pazza

Ladies, Gentlemen, friends, if there is one thing I have learned in my travels about the continent and the Orient, it is the value of simplicity.

Take, for example, the famed Zen gardens of Kyoto, a Jewel of the East. Here the elegant simplicity of raked gravel disguises an graceful, emergent complexity to please the eye and sooth the soul – of course, the same has been said about my own sense of style, although naturally it simply is not done to blow one’s own horn. And, of course, some mornings (particularly after a lengthy soirée with Miss Peas) I myself look like I could do with a good raking over.

But I digress, for the point of my writings is to describe a dish I have encountered several times upon my travels, Acqua Pazza.

The Earl of Sandwich: Poached salmon with dill

Gentle readers, welcome to the beginning what I hope will become a regular column here at the Illustrated London Noms.  As some of you may be aware, as well as a notable dandy and lavenderist about town, by day I hold down a job until such time as polite society forgives my indiscretions and my trust fund is reinstated.  Naturally, this leads to a requirement to arrange such nourishment as may sustain me till my release from my clerical desk to the gambling dens and esoteric iniquities that the metropolis has to offer. 

While the weekend often promises a leisurely luncheon (or bruncheon) to be savoured, but sadly more often than not on a working day this becomes nothing more than a sandwich taken at my desk, crumbs strewn over the latest set of accounts.  So how to correct for this sorry state of affairs?  Well, like so many things a little creativity can go a long way; not necessarily with the ingredients themselves, but often just in the combinations.  While many glory in the fillings, it is the accoutrements that really make a sandwich shine.  In this series I shall go through some of my favourite combinations and share them with you, dear reader.