Nova Clutch

Home-grown paprika

I know, I know. It's been 3 months since anyone posted. At the same time as making a lot of career and life changes, we've been having some serious blog burden. Sweetu has been setting up an online clothing store (good news to all you Novaclutch clothing fans, I'm sure). Michael has been spending a little time in his own head. And I...well, I have to admit, I have been having a bit of an illicit love affair with Twitter. I've been enjoying the freedom of anonymity, but if you fancy snippets of completely frivolous stream-of-consciousness, you can find me here. I did find it quite funny that when I twittered about the cemeteries being the best place to find baby names, I started getting followed by babynames.com.

Anyway...I thought I would post a couple of pictures of some home-grown paprika from last fall. I hadn't ever really thought about what paprika actually is. It's just magic that I love to put on eggs. Paprika, a bit like cashews, was just something I buy with no sense of its provenance. But actually it comes from a pepper which is dried, ground and smoked. Why not try and grow it? Our little terrace plant bore 3 fruits; about enough peppers for a thimble full of paprika. Well, it's the thought that counts, right? And we've been thinking about blogging, a lot. I'm just sorry that we haven't done it more.

Black pepper frozen yogurt

We're celebrating Thanksgiving in two places this year. At M & B's and J & T's upstate. For M & B's we just made some black pepper frozen yogurt (oh my God, I nearly ate the whole thing before it went in the freezer) and later on we're going to do a big roast pork and some creamed kale. Tomorrow sees some duck hash, swiss chard gratin and perhaps a caramel tart. Photos will be duly posted. Happy Thanksgiving!

A hen (bachelorette) night

 

Isn't "hen" much less of a mouthful? I can't really say the word bachelorette without feeling self-conscious, or having images I would rather not think about enter my head. Thankfully this event didn't have any of the trappings that usually come to mind associated with it. In London I think of hordes of drunk girls sitting on the edge of the pavement in the rain, perhaps wearing a phallic hat, or maybe a tiara. Not to say that this is a bad thing necessarily, it's just not exactly what we were going for on Michele's Hen Night. 

I sternly said I wasn't going to have anything to do with the organization of the event, and then promptly took over. In fact, I took over in such an exaggerated manner that I probably went too far. Well for someone with a day job, anyway.

I did a color scheme. In fact, I stuck so strictly to it, that I think I may have scared my friends. But no matter! It looked really pretty. I think...

All of the food was in pink and brown. It could be any kind of food, it just had to be pink and brown. The menu went as follows:

Cocktail:

Blood & Sand: Luxardo cherry liqueur, whiskey, orange & vermouth

Wine: 

Edmund St. John Bone-Jolly Rosé

Savory:

Oversized pink olives
Salmon/tuna sushi rolls
Cornmeal blinis with crème fraîche and smoked salmon
Beet, parsley and goat cheese on cranberry walnut bread
Pink deviled eggs (egg yolk puréed wth beet)

Red bliss potato salad

Radicchio bundles with red cabbage and seared shrimp

Red oak and radicchio salad

Sweet:

Rose water lollipops
Chocolate Guinness cake with pomegranate buttercream

Chocolate roll-out cookies

S'mores: pink cherry liqueur marshmallows with chocolate Graham crackers and dark chocolate squares 

Probably the highlight of the evening (food-wise only, of course, the highlight was probably the custom-made game by Jenn) was seeing grown ladies toasting homemade marshmallows on little fires at a dining table in SoHo. Oh, and making lollipops was a first for me too. Cavity-pulling sugary goodness! They also served as extra-sweet favors for the party and Michael helped me put customized labels on every single one of them.

Congrats to Dan and Michele! And sorry all of ya'll for not blogging in so, so long. 

Di Fara Pizza, Brooklyn

"How long have you known Him?" asked the lovely woman as she waited patiently by the counter. "Known who?" I asked myself. Was she speaking of Jesus? Was she about to sell me something is didn't need just as moments earlier a young guy had tried to pitch me a sales opportunity that will make me a lot of extra cash outside of my "regular" job? After all, she did have a set of rolling luggage standing next to her. Could they be filled to Bibles, Gospel Tracts and tales of salvation? "Known who?" I sheepishly asked. The answer was Domenico De Marco, the proprietor and master of Di Fara Pizza in Midwood section of Brooklyn. And she, a devout monthly pilgrim from Queens about to devour her trinity of triangular slices. Shamefully I acknowledged that since moving to Brooklyn in 1985 I had never made the journey myself.

Like the other faithful, Sweetu, Brian and one and a half year old Oliver patiently waited for our order to be answered. And answered it was. Square, hot and covering in crispy peperoni. Brian has a theory that everyone wants to be healthy when ordering pizza, but ultimately, even professed vegetarians will devour the pepperoni before all other offerings. Although I have read many reviews telling me that the place has lost its worthiness and appeal, I would have to disagree with those doubters and cynics. Although the saying, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" has fallen upon deaf ears at Di Fara, there was nothing to distract me from enjoying the experience of watching Domenico create a pie. To watch him applying the chunky and perfectly balanced tomato sauce, individually hand grating the mozzarella di bufala, fior di latte and Grana Padano cheese, adding olive oil to the tray of the Sicilian rectangles to crisp the crust is pure devotion. Even the final cutting of the fresh basil with yes, gummed up scissors, was a labor of love, and a testament to joy.

As proof of our baptism by oven, I give you our empty plate and the promise of a second coming.

The St John at The Spotted Pig

Novaclutch reader from England sent over the following fact:

The renowned nose-to-tail chef Fergus Hendersonwill be in New York at The Spotted Pig on November 2nd, feeding those lucky people that manage to get in. Unfortunately the exceedingly long lines at The Pig scare me off on the best of days, but perhaps if I wear my planned Black Swan Hallowe'en costume, I'll have better chances?

Blackberry tart with oat almond crust

I had this tart when my friend Carlin made it from the New York Times for a potluck dinner. From the photo in the recipe I would never have made it. But don't be deceived by something that seems run-of-the-mill. This is a fantastic recipe that is definitely going to become a regular in my repertoire. I think you could use any berry in this crust, and almost any fruit. I shall try it out with the fall fruit and let you know.

The crust is perfect – a crumbly mix of oats and almonds is contrasted with the sharpness of the fruit, it's almost like a crunchy oat cookie crust. Plus, it's really, really easy. Which is good when you find yourself so busy you don't have time to cook, which is the situation I find myself in these days.

Download 20080908_dess_berrytart.pdf

Cardamom honey carrot cake with orange cream cheese frosting

Yesterday I went to my first book club meeting. I don't know if this makes me decidedly bourgeois? If it doesn't, me bringing along a carrot cake definitely does. But so what? I enjoyed Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach, talking about it and eating cake while talking about said book. The cake has about 20 ground cardamom pods in it and a good dose of honey. The cream cheese frosting has the zest of a whole orange in it. The book uses sex as its through line so I needed something to shore me up as I talked about sex with a room full of women I didn't know. I am British, after all.

Chinatown Hotcakes

One of the many wonders of New York's Chinatown is the hotcake vendor. Like an endangered and exotic animal, it is hard to find her and she only appears when you are least expecting it. Contrary to capitalist common sense, she never stays in the same location to sell her tiny cakes. Instead you must wind your way through the bustling streets and hope you catch sight of her. During a recent jaunt down Catherine Street I was lucky enough to find her. I walked right past her stand when the delicious scent of sweet batter turned me around. Fifteen miniature puffy cakes for a dollar is ridiculously cheap. I always want to give her more. The cakes are warm and golden smell like waffles. Truly worth the effort.

Espresso ice cubes

As those rather strange people that don't have children, we are not usually up and about at the weekends too early. We're not lolling around in bed until midday or anything, but when someone knocks on the door around 9 or 10am, I'm probably shuffling about in my slippers and my favorite t-shirt that says "I ♥ TEA" on it.

Some Saturday mornings we are fortunate enough to have one of our neighbors come to visit with part of his ever-burgeoning family. A couple of Saturdays ago, Dedy brought us some of his famed espresso, piping hot and a real treat for us tea drinkers. The following Saturday, in weather conditions that almost (I said almost!) preclude a hot coffee, he brought espresso frozen into an ice cube tray and a jug of milk. We poured the slightly warm milk over the espresso ice and enjoyed the best iced coffee of the summer while playing a little loft soccer with his youngest son.

If only all Saturdays began like this.

Fish tacos for dinner, kedgeree for breakfast and a summer sunset

There are a few things that Americans don't have in common with the British. An inexplicable desire to call a handbag a "pocket book". (Pocket. Book. You don't put it in your pocket. It's not a book. I just don't get it!) Carrying those silly little dogs around on the subway in said pocketbooks with in-built breathing screens. Again, not only do I not get the teeny dogs (there are plenty of rats around with no home in NYC), but how is it OK to carry your dog around like it's luggage? Not to mention carrying it when you're off the subway, because little dogs can't, er, walk? And tacos. We British don't really understand the taco either. We call them "tA-cos" and you call them "tAH-coes". We're good at bastardizing anything that's a bit foreign.

Why do I feel the need to rant? Because I got stuck in between Manhattan and Brooklyn on the subway for 45 minutes with a tiny dog in a pocketbook, missing most of the sunset and the little sunshine I had been craving all day. But I made it just in time, and enjoyed a little piece of my adopted country's cuisine; the taco, with what was left of the sunset behind the bridge I got stuck under.

If I make fish tacos for dinner, I may as well make some good old fashioned kedgeree for breakfast, I say. What's "kedgeree", I hear you ask? It's yet another English food that's going to disgust my American friends.

But don't be scared my dog-carrying, taco-eating compadres! Kedgeree is an English breakfast, albeit an old fashioned one. A mix of rice, eggs, fish, parsley and curry powder. Yes, it sounds like a strange breakfast but I can assure you, it's good. Try it, I'm sure you'll come around.