Two Breakfasts

I'm sure the prospect of catering for 'special' diets induces a combination of fear, dread and irritation in a lot of cooks and chefs, but I find them quite an inviting challenge. I'm used to them. Solutions have to be found, alternatives sought, sacrifices made and often what ends up on the plate is more interesting and innovative than what would have otherwise been served up had I been allowed to stick to what I know or what a recipe dictates. It used to be wheat-free, but my wife is currently following a diet that is low-fat, vegan (sort-of), but encourages the consumption of fish, allows egg whites, though no yolks, and prohibits the use of any refined oils, so everything has to be cooked with extra virgin olive.

As much as I enjoy the challenge and while I'm pleased with how I manage to rise to it, occasionally it's tricky. When there's been a less than full larder, or when I've had little time and hungry kids to feed who've had to rush off to their numerous extra-curricular activities it's been a case of baked beans on toast (allowed, as long as the bread is homemade and thus unadulterated by the forbidden ingredients, and there's no butter on the bread). We like beans on toast though, so it's fine.

Influenced by a friend at school, and in an attempt to shed a few pounds, one of my children has decided to embark on a diet free of carbohydrate, or as close to free from as possible. It's not surprising how often carbohydrate appears in family meals as pasta, bread, potatoes and such like make such plentiful and cheap ballast to fill growing stomachs. The problem with my daughter is that it's a case of replacement rather than just removal.
'What am I having instead of the bread?' she asked the other evening when I'd made her siblings bean and paprika casserole on toast with fried chorizo sprinkled on top.
'I've grilled you some aubergine' I said, only to be told that the aubergine was replacing the chorizo, not the chorizo and the bread.

When it comes to breakfast, while fruit or porridge can be suggested without protests in the week there's something about a Sunday that demands a little more luxury. She made this herself, with suggestions from me, improvised around what we had (no bacon but a stick of French salami). It looked great, and she assured me it was just as good to eat.

Breakfast Salad with Boiled Egg and Crispy Salami

a handful of mixed salad leaves (bitter ones in there if possible)
1/4 red onion, very thinly sliced
1/2 ripe hass avocado, sliced
some cress
1/4 green pepper, sliced
1 x egg (soft boiled)
a dozen or so slices of a thin french salami
E. V. Rapeseed oil
a squeeze of lemon

It was a just an assembly really. The leaves, pepper, avocado, cress, and onion combined and piled onto the plate after being dressed with a little of the oil and lemon. The egg was soft boiled and balanced on top before being split, the yolk making a lovely rich 'sauce'. The salami was fried until crisp, drained of excess oil and then scattered over the top before a final dressing of rapeseed oil.

Pancakes with Date Syrup and Sesame Seeds

The 'fancy' breakfast above was made all the more necessary since my other daughter (younger sister), after a sleepover with a friend, was having pancakes. Just normal wheat flour, egg and milk batter pancakes topped with all their usual favourites (nutella, lemon and sugar etc.). I allowed myself just the one, and influenced by my purchase of the new Ottolenghi book 'Jerusalem' my wife suggested I try date syrup instead of maple. I did so with a little butter and toasted sesame seeds. It was excellent. The syrup was rich and sweet while earthy and wholesome, and the sesame seeds contributed a dusty nutty taste which gave the whole assembly a feeling of maturity with a hint of the exotic. If the pancakes had been a touch thinner and a tiny bit crisper on the edges it would have been faultless. I'll do this again.

Pies (chicken)

Some two or three birthdays ago my wife bought me a class at a cookery school in Brighton where I learnt how to bone-out a chicken. It was a brilliant lesson and has since become a much used skill. I'm no expert, but I can, in the space of about half an hour take a plucked gutted chicken and divide it into two breast portions, two completely boned out leg portions (and that's boned out so that the drumstick remains 'closed' and is thus stuffable), four wing pieces, a pile of minced chicken meat and a carcass ready to roast and make into stock. Enormously enjoyable and I'd recommend it to anyone. Here's where I did it. And here's the results of my labours (I cut the four portions into eight as there were a number of mouths to feed):

So after a recent burst of re-practising these skills I decided to make some chicken pies.

A couple of years ago, after enjoying a few visits to a great pie shop in Birmingham (Urban Pie) I started looking for some individual pie tins the same height as the ones they used. No joy, so I wrote directly to them (Urban Pie) and explained how I wanted to try and re-create their delicious pastries but hadn't had any luck finding the utensils. What do you know, they sent me a set of eight of their used tins. What a nice company. I've since linked to their shop from my website.

Being so deep, the pie tins they sent me haven't often got used. The pastry needs cutting and shaping into the base, the sides and the top as dropping in a sheet means creases-galore up the sides, but after making the pie mixture last week I thought it'd be worth the effort. It was, and here's the recipe:

Chicken, Bacon and Mushroom Pies

1 x onion

2 x garlic

1 x a big pile of mushrooms

1 x a pile of chicken meat, skinned

1 x a knob of butter

1 x a glug of olive oil

1 x a big spoonful of flour

1 x a slosh of milk

1 x a tub of chicken stock (from the carcass of course)

1 x a load of herbs (thyme, parsley, rosemary, bay)

1 x a slosh of cream

I fried off the onion and garlic in the oil and butter, then added the bacon to crisp it up a bit, then the mushrooms and chicken. After it had all had a good fry I stirred in the flour, and then the milk and stock a little at a time to create a lovely creamy sauce. In went the herbs, the cream and lots of black pepper and I let it simmer for about fifteen minutes on a low heat.

I then let it cool right down before generously filling the pie tins which had been lined with a simple un-measured pastry of about three quarters white to one quarter wholemeal flour, salt and butter. The lids went on, a generous egg wash (just yolks but only because I'd used the whites for my unusual quiche/vegetable pie - watch this space) and then in the oven set to about 180ºC for a good 30-35 minutes. They looked great as you can see. They tasted just as good.

Bread

I open the oven door to check. I don't need to as the loaves have only been in for five minutes, and I shouldn't as I know that it will let some of the precious steam escape and the results won't be quite as perfect as they would be if I were able to resist and patiently wait until the timer goes off. But I can't, every time without exception I open the door for a quick look. I'm like a new father checking on his baby sleeping in their cot. I want to see if they're ok, but I also want to stand back and proudly look at what I've made.

That’s what I love about baking bread. It’s everything you need to feel fulfilled. It’s instant creation and the creation of something which everyone else will smell and see and want there and then while it’s still warm. It’s exercise. It’s the provision of something that sustains. It’s basic, simple, unpretentious and ancient.

I bake as much as I need to, which with five people in my house and three of them hungry children, ends up being roughly every other day. A simple recipe with only four ingredients: flour, water, salt and yeast, but the results are always different.

The bread comes out of the oven and sits on the side ‘singing’. it’s new crust cracks and pops as it adjusts itself to the sudden drop in temperature, as it ‘settles down’.

And then it’s a new waiting game. I’m desperate to cut it in half and see if I’ve achieved what I’m always hoping for; huge air bubbles like a Swiss Emmental cheese, uneven holes which never fail to impress. But I have to wait until it cools down. You can’t slice hot bread without destroying it.