Apocalypse not

So, what did you do with your last day alive? What do you mean, you didn’t believe that the world would end today?

Whatever was going to happen or not, one thing was certain: today was my first day of the holiday at home, so time was going to be spent in the kitchen.

I'm working on a rather special dessert for Christmas Day and, fortunately, it can be done in stages.

Actually, this Christmas will, as previously, be a four-course meal. But to be honest, I think that doing the big festive dinner this way is easier that doing a big roast bird with all the trimmings.

Doing a traditional roast beef dinner, for instance, sends me crazy – not because any single element is difficult, but because timing everything, all at the same time, is.

And the more I learn, the more I realise that if I plan carefully for a meal like the one I have planned, lots can be done beforehand, leaving me with comparatively little serious cooking to do on the day itself.

So today saw a second attempt at one of the main components of dessert – there are more to come – which has already involved trying new techniques such as making Italian meringue.

Oh, how wonderful an invention is the thermometer!

The final shopping lists have now been written and the post office visited to collect a cake board and sugar decorations for tomorrow’s major project. Prep will continue until Monday evening.

But we still had to eat today and, with a bag of beef mince needing to be used, I decided to baptise my new tagine.

After all, it was only given to me a fortnight ago, so it would be churlish not to use it before all life came to an end.

So, approximately 400g of mince was mixed with four cloves of crushed garlic and some leftover roasted spices that I had from a week or so ago, before being rolled into neat meatballs.

Then, it was back westward, with a mirepoix of finely diced red onion, carrot and celery.

When all the prep was complete, and while the oven was warming to 160˚C (fan), a large sauté pan with a drizzle of olive oil was heating on the hob.

The meatballs were browned first and, after being removed to a plate, were followed into the shimmering oil by the vegetables.

After softening, they were joined by half of my last chilli from this year's harvest, a pinch of sugar, a nip of salt and a generous squeeze of tomato purée.

A dessertspoon of plain flour followed, before a healthy glug of red wine deglazed the pan – and maintained the sense of west meeting east. A little defrosted chicken stock went in too, plus several grinds of black pepper, before it was all decanted into the tagine, the meatballs added, the lid popped on and the whole carefully placed in the oven.

Discovery: it's not easy to lift a tagine lid while wearing big rubber oven gloves.

However, after 40 minutes, it came out and was tested for seasoning. Result – a little more salt added, plus, in a burst of inspiration, a dessertspoon of a honey fig jam I'd picked up on this morning in La Bouche.

And back into the oven for a further 40 minutes, before some basmati rice was set simmering, perfuming the kitchen delightfully.

That wasn’t bad for a last meal.

The mood must have been catching, since Loki chose today to go further than any of our cats has ever gone.

After deciding – all short hair raised in a stripe, from the top of her head to her tail, like a feline Mohican – to chase the considerably larger Reggie from the carpark, she had thought it wise to venture beyond the carpark gates.

It was a while before we realised – on my return from errands – that she was nowhere to be seen. And still longer before The Other Half detected her, hiding in fear under the metal stairs at the converted pub next door.

Once home, she ate as though she’d been starved for days, before we got hold of her and wiped off the worst of the mud she’d been up to her belly in somewhere.

Then she spent the next hour cleaning herself immaculately, before suddenly deciding that she was actually rather traumatised and wasn’t going to shift from beside The Other Half for the foreseeable future.

What an adventure!

But before we laugh easily at those who apparently actually believed that the Mayans had correctly predicted the end of the world as we know it – and knew where France was and where Bugarach in France was – something does occur to me.

Perhaps we might wish to remember, not least at this time of year, that many people still genuinely believe that a god came down from heaven and impregnated a woman – without even a hint of any coitus non-interruptus – and that the offspring was also that same god himself.

And then he later was executed for political crimes – although since his dad (who is also himself) knows everything, sees everything and is all-powerful, this means that his father planned his own/own son’s death.

But it was okay, because the father/son then rose from the dead and returned to heaven, along with their mate, the holy spirit.

And for some, if you eat a bit of bread and drink a sip of wine in the right setting, it will quite literally be a bit of his/their actual body and his/their actual blood – a wow of a cannibalistic idea.

Y’know, I think I was right to spend the last day – hic! – doing something constructive like cooking.

And anyway: Santa is coming and I have to make him a mince pie.

Here comes a spice girl

Yesterday was another of the gloomy but mild days that seem to have characterised this autumn so far, but it was perfect for restocking on stock – and a little experimentation.

The remains of Sunday’s roast chicken needed using up.

Since I'd only travelled back from a weekend’s work in Brighton on Sunday afternoon, The Other Half had not only done the weekend's shopping, but was looking after dinner.

Now, while he fully appreciates the value of homemade stock, he isn't over-enthused by the smell of it being cooked, so we'd deliberately arranged that Monday would be my stock making day, with him out of the flat and the kitchen all to myself (and the cats, who were determined to help).

First, of course, the rest of the meat needed stripping from the bones. But once that was done, all that remained went into my biggest pot, together with the innards, the rest of a bottle of white wine that was hanging around aimlessly, carrot, celery, onion, peppercorns, bay and thyme leaves from the overcast garden, and water almost up to the top of the pot.

And it sat there, gently simmering away, for around an hour – losing little in volume and gaining much in the way of flavour.

Drained and decanted into jars to cool, it was time for a sort of improvised ploughman’s, with Cheddar, Shropshire Blue, lunch tongue, some pickle and a slice of the decent bread that The Other Half had found at the market.

Which does bring me to a little observation.

Having spent the previous days curled up at home with a cold, it seemed to all but disappear once I hit the seaside – and then reboot within an hour of so of chugging into London.

Is the air in this town really so bad?

Anyhow, back to that chicken.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself experimenting one evening with spices, roasting a few and then pounding them in the mortar.

I don’t know what had come over me – I’ve never really been the sort of girl to spice up my life that way.

After all, it’s so easy to use too much, and then the headlines won’t be good for any wannabe cook.

My mother was never much of a one for spices – Christmas cake and pudding, I’m sure, although spice is not what springs to mind when I recall the taste of those.

And my first experience of anything spicy, as an adult, was a disaster.

A friend took me to the Royal Exchange Manchester to see Robert Lindsay in Philoctetes, and since he’d once worked in the restaurant there, treated me to a meal.

Curiosity kicking in, I tried a curry. It blew the roof off my mouth – it felt burnt for days. I didn’t touch spice (or heat) for years.

In recent times, though, my appreciation of chili has developed, but apart from the odd shaving of nutmeg on a custard, spice has been left pretty much in the cupboard.

Yet there I was, roasting mustard seeds and tentatively adding the pounded result to ground ginger and a couple of other things, before it went carefully into the day's dish.

The result was subtle but enjoyable.

So after adding a little spice to the recent slow-cooked venison shank, I decided to try again.

This time, it was a case of roasting more seeds – mustard, black onion, cumin and fennel: don’t ask me how much of each, because I haven’t a clue. It was all about judging by eye what seemed worth getting the pan out for, without doing too much.

It was all pounded merrily and had smoky paprika added.

And so to the cooking.

Two medium onions and three cloves of garlic were diced and slipped into the pan to soften in olive oil, followed by half a thinly-sliced red chili from this year’s crop, and then the spice mix.

Once that was blended through, the meat that I had stripped from the bird followed, to be gently folded in.

Tasting followed, with a general feeling of satisfaction, before a spoon of St Dalfour fig jam was added. The brand is worth noting, since it uses no extra sugar to set its rather excellent conserves.

And to all that was added the trimmings from Sunday’s potato fondants, which The Other Half had rustled up to go with the chicken. Just a few thin slices – but why waste anything?

The whole lot was lidded and cooked very gently for around half an hour, before a dozen halved chestnut mushrooms were tumbled in.

Not long after, with basmati rice nearing completion, there was a final check for seasoning – and a little salt added – before a spoon of crème fraiche was stirred through.

If the result hardly looked like an example of stunning haute cuisine, it was tasty and satisfying.

And there's a lovely sense of adventure to experimenting with combinations of spices. What will I do next time?

Because one thing's sure: spice won't be consigned to a custard or hot cross buns any longer.