wintry weekend winner

Well Allens of Mayfair was out of smoked ham hocks and knuckles, so I will be back next week, looking hopeful. The butcher was just terrific and explained that post-Christmas stock meant they were low on these parts. He also intimated how large the hocks were and said they were 'proper' which is a sure-fire way to clinch my custom.

I am looking forward to braising hocks in cider another day, however the real star of the show was to be the red cabbage recipe I found, and as such, a little roast gammon sufficed wonderfully as accompaniment.

The cabbage was very easy to assemble and made an enormous quantity - unimaginable from the modest, tightly-budded cabbage I began with! Into my casserole I chucked the hand-sliced cabbage (stalk removed), two diced cox's apples, half a cup of red wine vinegar, one or two cinnamon quills and about 8 cloves. It cooked for 2 hours on a low hob. I was a mother hen and kept peeking in to see it had enough liquid and indeed it was fine for an hour or so, after which it did need an extra slosh of vinegar and a little water.

Those with a chunky style of slicing (*cough* Posie!) should know that the cabbage retains its integrity marvellously and doesn't mush down at all, so don't be too inelegant because the end result won't be forgiving. The cabbage would come to no harm if cooked for another hour, too. It was flavourful with warm winter spices, but not quite as mellow as I thought it might be, so to counteract the sharpness of the cabbage I made the mashed potato rather buttery.

Elizabeth David does a similar red cabbage recipe in her 'French Provincial Cooking', which I would love to try another time.

The gammon was the easiest thing of all: it was a modest cut so only needed to cook for about an hour and a quarter. Ten minutes towards the end of cooking I sliced off the rind (taking care not take too much fat with it), scored the remaining fat, and rubbed over a very rough mix of about 2 tsp English mustard and some brown sugar (I honestly have no idea how much, I just mixed it into a nice paste). After pushing in some cloves it was returned it to the oven for the last ten minutes.

There was even a spare 45 minutes in the middle of this all, in which I took a leisurely shower, which surely is the best of multi-tasking. The gammon was a rave success, if I do say so myself, and I loved the wintry cabbage. The only change I would make is to rest the meat properly before carving - I was too impatient - and to count the cloves in and out! The clovey Russian roulette was a bit too exciting at times.

Detail: my lovely ham. Click on image to see the full glory.

Pork epiphany

I have had quite a weekend of it. First there was the roast belly pork the gent cooked: 3 hours at 140 degrees, atop a pile of onion and Granny Smith apples. The crackling was sheared off in one piece and put under the grill to, well, crackle, and everything served with (perfect) mashed potato and cabbage. The resulting meat was completely succulent and the fat, layered between the meat, plentiful and juicy but not at all gristly or difficult.

I didn’t anticipate that the joy would continue into the next day. For a train journey down to Sussex I was given a baking-parchment wrapped sandwich of cold pork, lettuce and mustard on Ottolenghi bread. And a separate packet whose contents were given away as it unravelled, the paper becoming increasingly transparent with grease, until the cold crackling slid out.

It has to be the best sandwich I have ever eaten. And, possibly, the largest.

My father cooked on Sunday night. I was given the options of a vegetable curry or ‘beans etc.’, there being a glut of runner beans in the garden. I chose beans etc. of course, and the 'etc.' this time was a little joint of gammon, roasted under a tin foil blanket.

This time the fat presented itself in a wide halo around two thirds of the meat. As it had been covered to cook, the crust was jammy and sticky, instead of crunchy, and I wasn’t sure I would like it. As a child, pork fat was my anathema - for the hideous oyster-texture as much as the gristly bits. So I cut a wobbly flabby bit of fat with its sticky edge, dipped it in the juices swimming in the plate, and ate it. More tasty than the meat itself, salty, melting. Converted. Hidden in the kitchen, pretending to carve seconds, I rather gorged on the fat, cutting it away in chunks and eating it with my fingers. And to think I used to feed this ambrosia to our chickens as ‘leftovers’!