Instant polenta

Poor polenta. So maligned. 

It does my head in when I read the sort of apologetic, bumbling recipe headnote that says "polenta is bland, but you can jazz it up by boiling it in milk, and then adding a ton of cheese and herbs and stuff".

What's the sense in that? Of course polenta is bland, that's the whole point about polenta. Just like bread, or rice, or pasta. Bland, cheap, filling stuff on which you put savoury, punchy, hot, expensive stuff. It's called dinner. 

Then, once you've cleared that hurdle and accepted, welcomed, even, the fact that polenta is bland and that's ok, you smash into a wall. "Polenta takes an hour of careful stirring, but that's ok".

No, dear food writers who art in another planet. It is so not ok to stir for an hour, or forty minutes, or whatever you say, specially for something that is dammed with faint praise upfront.

There are two ways around that. One is to cook polenta in a rice cooker, which does all the work for you. It takes its time to cook, like on a stove, but it's hands-off time.

Or, you can use instant polenta. And no, the world will not fall apart. And nobody will know. Because that thing about polenta being bland we talked about? Well, it works to your advantage. Instant polenta is bland, sure, but, ahem, so is the other, arm-destroying, real one. So there you are. Two minutes away from a bowl of creamy, sunshine-yellow, comfort in a bowl, ready to be topped with a bit of this or that and a shower of grated cheese.

One of my favourite fast lunches is soft polenta, topped with pan-steamed broccoli and topped with a poached egg.

And it behaves just like regular polenta does, in that once it's set you can slice it and grill or fry it until crisp. 

But that's not all. Instant polenta (I mean the ground stuff, by the way, not those horrid blocks) is something you need to have to hand for many other things:

It can take the place of breadcrumbs in many of the places you need them: to coat crisp fried things, in meatball mixes and the like. 

I also use it to thicken soups or stews. Not the more delicate or dark or Asian flavoured ones, of course. But if a run of the mill chickpea soup is looking a bit more soupy than I like, a bit of instant polenta thickens immediately.

Heat milk with frozen corn kernels and a bit of salt, add some instant polenta and there it is: creamed corn. Lovely stuff.

Mix some into your crumble toppings. This works just as well with the non-instant kind of cornmeal. But the instant one is what I use to mix with the fruit that goes inside, instead of cornstarch. It's much tastier, and the grainy texture pleasantly rustic.

I´d be lost without it, I really would.

(Drawing totally unrelated, of course, but the book is just out, and I like the cover. Catalan readers, storm your local bookshops right away)

Puchero (chicken, chickpea and rice soup)

This is not an exciting recipe. 

I'd better start off like that, because it would be a shame if you expected something else and then saw this soup and thought "bo-ring". So let's be frank: this is a restorative, lovely soup, but it is a dull shade of beige, the texture is all soft and you would never serve it to guests. 

It is just comfort food, a pillowy, wonderful elixir, sure to warm you through if you're cold, fill you up if you're hungry, perk you up if you're tired, send you to sleep if you're exhausted, and bring you back from the brink if you're ill.

So. Even if it ain't exciting, I think we can all agree that you need this soup in your life.

Better yet, it is made from stuff you probably have lying around, and if not, from things you can buy at even a ratty supermarket. 

Of course I use a pressure cooker, but a normal pot will do (just multiply time by three). 

In goes a can of chickpeas, drained if you're not liking the taste of the liquid. Three chicken thighs (this is the standard at my supermarket, but whatever you have), bone in, skin off. A whole carrot, peeled. Half a cup of rice, long or short grain, doesn't matter.

Salt, cover with water, lock the lid and when it comes up to pressure, give it ten minutes. Let it come down naturally if you can, but if you can't, then cook it for twelve.

There. That's it. You'll have cloudy, fragrant chickeny chickpea soup, thickened by the by now very soft rice. All you need to do is shred the chicken, mash the carrot against the side of the pot with a fork, check for salt, and serve. Bring lemon and hot sauce to the table, just in case.

Back soon

A month is a long way between posts. And I keep waiting until I have something particularly post-worthy and think it should be a proper long post with a new drawing and all  kinds of beautiful things. But the end of holidays, packing up the contents of a whole flat, a series of looming deadlines and snow keep getting in the way. 

And snow is the best. It won't last long, but for a few days, nothing beats rushing to the park with the children and the sledges and a thermos full of hot chocolate. 

So, even though I'm brimming with stuff I want to write, I have a pot of chicken stock I need to strain, a boy who wants to turn off every lamp the better to enjoy his flashlight and a girl who needs a ponytail for her doll, so for now let's leave it at a friendly "Hi, happy New Year" and all that sort of thing.

And by the way, my website has a new, streamlined look. Just so you know.

Back soon.

Smoked mackerel paté

Smoked mackerel is my favourite thing about Scotland. Scots often ask me, on learning that I'm Spanish, why I'm here. As in, "You live in Aberdeen, omigod WHY". To which I reply "why indeed". My other favourite thing about Scotland is that they speak English here, which lets me channel Maggie Smith with a dry "indeed"every now and then.

Still, the mackerel trumps everything because smoked mackerel is truly amazing. It feels luxurious and decadent, even though it's cheap, and sustainable, and healthy, and you don't even have to cook it. The win-win fish product, all the way up there with good Galician tinned sardines.

I usually have it on toast, with avocado and lemon juice, for an omega 3 double whammy.
Or with a beet salad, rye bread and butter with crushed caraway seeds.

If I'm feeling elegant, I make a paté, with cream, lemon zest, pepper and hot sauce. Blitzed for a few seconds in a processor, sprinkled with chives or parsley, it's a great starter or appetizer.

If you don't have smoked mackerel, well, sucks to you, but don't despair. You can make this with the aforementioned sardines, and it is also wonderful, although the colour is less pretty.

It also works with yogurt instead of cream, for you nervous waistline watchers.
We in Scotland need all the calories we can get hold of, which is another thing I kind of like.

Winter salads, part II (beets)

On with the winter salads, then. Everything I said in the other post about shredded cabbage goes just as well with red cabbage, of course, but also with carrots, and with celeriac if you like it (I don't, very much) and even with parsnips, if they're small.

All of those are things that keep for ages, so there's no reason not to have at least one or two around. But they do spoil, eventually. Vacuum packed beets, on the other hand, are something you can count on having around when you come back from holiday, or have forgotten to go shopping, or whatever smallish crisis hits.
The problem with beets is that many people don't like beets, which may be one of the reasons why those packets are always there. My own J, who eats anything and everything and has never been known to complain, is not enthusiastic about beetroot. But he is being brought round, because  It really is delicious, as long as you take a little care.

First, don't be shy with the salt. No silly stuff now. It's the ready made foods that hide the nasty salts. If you don't salt it well you won't be able to eat it, and will miss out on all those nutrients.
Likewise, vinegar is a must, and it's better be strong. Beets are usually called earthy but what people mean is that they often taste like ducking your head in a muddy puddle. And we want to avoid that.

Also, slice them thin. Mandoline or food processor thin. No grated beets, they are horrible.

Add carrots, or apple, or orange segments, or a few shreds of cabbage, for contrast of colour. They'll go bright pink, which is the whole point of eating beets, really.
Also, some herbs, parsley, or chives, or both.  And a finely chopped dill pickle too.
The dressing must be vinegary and oily and have a spoonful of horseradish.
And for great effect, you should scatter something crunchy on top, like chopped nuts or toasted pumpkin seeds. It's a cooked vegetable, after all, so the interesting texture must come from somewhere else.

I love this as is, but if you add smoked mackerel, and serve it alongside rye bread, with cold sweet butter and caraway seeds, you have yourself a beauty. Vodka optional, cold beer if not.

Winter salads, part I

Salad. A crunchy, sharp, fresh, enlivening plate of raw stuff. What's not to like? I feel almost sorry for myself if there's not a salad on the table at every meal. Luckily, my definition of salad is broad, and I'm happy with a few slices of salted cucumber, or a dish of chopped parsley and yogurt.

Winter presents problems, though. Lettuce and tomatoes are out, frisée is scratchy and annoying, and although I can eat endive and radicchio I'd really rather not, thank you.

Which leaves me with a few things to play around with, any day. They last for ages, so I don't have to brave the elements if I want a crisp addition to lunch or dinner. Unlike soft, summery leaves, they can be dressed way ahead of the meal, only increasing in flavour, and leftovers can even be used in a sandwich later. They are your friends. Cabbage, carrots, and those vacuum packed beets that stain your fingers the minute you go near the packet. Add to that oranges, and onions and celery, used with caution, and your salad problems are over.

I often shave a bit of cabbage with the mandoline. I do love a mandoline, and in a minute a smallish wedge of cabbage is a mountain of shreds. I salt it and leave it for a while, and then later dress it, either as a very simple ensalada de matanza, or maybe with just oil and lemon, or with caraway seeds instead of cumin, or with yogurt. Nothing fancy, and certainly nothing exciting, but a lunchtime bowl of rice and beans with this on the side is more of itself.

I haven't been posting a lot but promise to more, in a series of posts about winter salads. I will probably draw inspiration from this gorgeous book, if I can manage to tear myself away from drooling over pictures of ripe summer Sicilian tomatoes.

(Thank you for all the replies about the icon, I'm hoping that we can push the lobster to front place. Those pesky Facebook fans like the others better, but we will fight it, I promise.)

Dear readers, please help

As you may know by now, Terrier Digital is about to launch an app with lobstersquad recipes. It's almost done, but we still haven't decided on an icon. These three have made the final cut. If you could leave me a comment saying which you prefer, I'd be very grateful.

Mid snow and ice

I need to empty my freezer and defrost it,  but it's not easy. I'm a hoarder, and I can't help buying things that look good, and then putting by a bit of leftover this or that, and keeping a bag of bones and vegetable peelings for stock, and a long list of etceteras.

But finally I'm getting there. A ruthless plan means that this week, come what may, I'm unplugging the damn thing, and if I have to throw away some stuff (a bag of chicken skin? what was that about? ) so be it.

Once the fun-size Greenland ice cap that's inside is melted, I will have a pristine, good-as-new, bigger than ever freezer. And I will have to fill it, because, duh, everyone knows a full freezer is more energy efficient, and because I'm a freezer geek.

So a fresh start means that for a few days at least, I will have the perfect wish list freezer. The real thing. The go-to ingredients that save the day, the hard to find meats and fish, the tubs of stock. So, while I struggle to plan meals that will accomodate a jar of mushroom ragù, pesto ice cubes, 6 Chinese sausages, a tub of carrot soup, another of poached pears, two bags of raspberries and a packet of broad beans, I dream up my perfect new freezer contents. 

Here they are:

First, I will buy ham hocks and chicken wings, and I will make at least 3 litres of strong stock, to pack into 500 ml containers. At least.

And maybe I'll cook up a batch of tomato sauce, so I can have a couple of tubs in there too. 

The rest is all stuff I can buy:

Fish fingers, which are my disgusting children's favourite food, and a surprisingly good sandwich filler for decadent days.

Coley and mackerel fillets. Sustainable, quick to thaw, quicker to cook, essential.

Octopus for J, and squid if I can find it.

Sausages: good British bangers, and chipolatas, which can be sliced when frozen and cook very quickly.

Minced beef and pork, mixed by myself into delicious little patties and meatballs.

Minced free range turkey, not easy to score, packed into 100 gr. pouches.

Organic chicken livers.

Smoked pork ribs, for bean dishes.

Green beans.

Whole leaf spinach.

Petit pois.

Puff pastry, the good all butter kind.

Ice cream, vanilla, or maybe Mackie's cream.

Naan bread, or pizza bases, the good ones smeared with tons of butter from the chiller cabinet.

I will try to leave room for bread, or for more ice cream, or for nestling beers when they won't fit in the fridge, and for the packets of stuff that find their way into the freezer from time to time: a bit of stew to be turned into a noodle topping, a bag of pisto to pull out for a quick lunch, bechamel, soup, etc. 

And so the long unending game of Freezer Tetris that is my life will begin anew, until the ice advances and I have to start the cull all over again.

(The drawing above is of Amundsen's crew. He's my least favourite Polar explorer, but you have to admit he was a good leader; he made sure to hire an excellent cook who kept the pancakes coming.)

Chopped chicken livers

A while ago I wrote a blog post about my favourite kitchen tools. No mention of a chopping board. Not because I don't use one, but because the one I've been using for eight years is quite unremarkable. 

Then my friend Simón, who is now a fantastic carpenter, gave me a new one, made with his own hands. A single piece of walnut, sleek and polished, smooth, heavy, with a narrow, long shape, glossy and dark. Beautiful. Everyone who saw it said, oh, you'll be sorry to use it, think of cutting into that perfect surface...

Silly. Of course I use it. Certainly it has a few nicks already, and will soon have more, but that's a badge of honour.

I use it for everything, every day, from breakfast to dinner. But this recipe is one where the board is crucial. You can't do it without a board, even if you're an expert in the traditional method of  chopping with one hand and holding with the other.

Chopped liver paté

(loosely based on a recipe in Lindsey Bareham's The Fish Store)

You'll need chicken livers. I'm never one to be annoying about these things but I think it's worthwhile to hunt down good ones, since all the nasty chemicals fed to factory chickens end up in their livers.

Garlic, or chives, or both. Parsley. Butter and oil. Salt. And some sort of liquor. I go for Oloroso Sherry but it can be anything, really.

Put a big frying pan on the fire with a biggish piece of butter and some oil. While it melts, check the livers for those slimy green bits and for any stray bits of white fat. If you're in Spain, your butcher will have done that, but still, have a look.

Salt them, and put them in the hot fat. Leave them alone until they've formed a crust underneath, and only then turn them. Now they'll need a minute at most. You want pink insides.

Take them out and let them rest on the board. Turn up the fire and deglaze the pan with the Oloroso. Now is the time to add some finely chopped garlic if you're using it. Let the sauce reduce a little and then put out the fire.

Now chop the liver into little bits, as little as you like. If you're potting it for paté then you want small, but I often have this straight away, in which case just a few cuts.

Chop the herbs you're using and smoosh it all together. It's messy, but good.

Put it in a plate, or in the terrine, add the pan juices, some pepper, check for salt.

If you're having it straight away, go for it with some toast, something sharp and vinegary (I'm currently in love with pickled walnuts) and wine, of course. And if you have some onion jam on hand, heaven.

I like it as part of a meal, with a lentil salad and a big salad, and some cheese, maybe.

If you want it cold, let it wait for a day if you can, two, even. 

Buñuelos

Much frantic rushing about here, and I have abandoned the blog, which is bad. But just so you know, it's all because we're making an app of lobstersquad recipes, which is not a cast iron excuse but not so bad.

I have also received a beautiful present that means I might just have to ignore my no-frying rule and break out the oil and the strainer to make some oldschool buñuelos for All Saints.

This illustration is a proof from a book I've just illustrated, "101 plats de la cuina catalana que has de tastar".