Stimulating the five senses
These two pieces came out of Louise Glasscoe’s workshop on stimulating the five senses
Cloves. Beastly cloves. School apple crumble with a predominant flavour of cloves. Even without the cloves it would be fairly unpalatable, but the sheer quantity of cloves made it almost inedible. The problem of eating the stuff was not just the overwhelming taste of cloves, so overpowering it was impossible to tell if there was any sweetness at all, or even apple, but was compounded by periodically needing to discreetly remove a clove from the mouth, or rather less discreetly one stuck between the teeth.
Ever since, I have been unable to tolerate the taste of cloves with apple, or even ham studded with the damn things. I must confess however, that I do stud two into an onion when boiling milk to make bread sauce, but the taste is so mild nobody else can taste them.
The strange thing though, is I do like strongly flavoured foods, my favourite cheese is Roquefort, my favourite mustard is called, with reason, Devil’s Revenge and I will happily eat pickled chillis. When I was a boy, whenever we had roast beef, my father would dash into the garden, dig up a root of horseradish, scrub it under a tap and put it on the table with a grater, and now whenever I eat beef my eyes still sting, just from the memory.
Rosemary, sprigs of, paired with garlic, slivers of, and inserted into gashes made in a shoulder of lamb. Half a small bush of rosemary and two bulbs of garlic to one shoulder. Place the shoulder on several sliced onions, rub all over with rapeseed oil and season well. Roast in a not too hot oven for several hours until the meat falls away from the bone. Serve with potatoes roasted in goose fat, roasted parsnips, leeks in white sauce, gravy made from the roasting juices and onions whizzed in a food processor, and, because in Yorkshire all roasts should be served with them, individual Yorkshire puddings.
To follow, home-made apple pie, no cloves, and custard made with egg yolks, double cream and no cornflour.
A perfect Sunday lunch, with the added bonus that any Mormons or Jehovahs’ Witnesses coming to the door will real back as soon as I exhale.