Can't Wait, Gotta Cure... Coppa

So, unlike me I had to rush on with things before I finished what I started earlier this week. Ahem. But I'm so full of this stuff i may burst... And the good (bad) thing about all this is that there's another 6 weeks before I discover my overkeenness needs to be tempered with a touch more science and attention to detail...

I will finish the Empire Farm day, but got some feedback yesterday from one of you lovely readers - not enough photos, and not even any meat which I had promised... I did respond, rather defensively, that I was setting a scene and that I would get there eventually, but my need for tasting the fruit of my labour knows it's going to be ages, so the sooner I start getting the stuff done the better. Today I was going to write about my homebuilt smokehouse, the body of which I picked up earlier today on an early morning jaunt to Broadstairs. Check this baby out :

Smoked In Peckham's humble beginning..

 

 

But I spent so long looking at my new baby I didn't do anything else...

Until I got home that is, after a long chat with my friend Dave @ William Rose Butchers.

Pictured below are 2 nape fillets. One is Blythburgh Free Range Pork, the other is wild boar. I'll give you a clue. The Blythburgh pork I butchered out of a large joint, the rest of which I roasted for me and the lads earlier, the other was organised properly by Dave and is a nicely tied tight round fillet...

Armed with a bottle of Talisker, which I natch substituted for Bells after the 2nd wee dram, a window of 2 hours between the lads going to sleep (like angels tonight I must add) and me passing out with exhaustion/Talisker/Bells, I set about curing some Coppa di Parma. You can follow Le Charcutier Anglais' advice and some lovely pictures are here

Working on 30g of curing salt per kilo of meat, I spent about an hour doing whiskey fuddled sums, and each time working out I needed a whole lb of salts for my 4 1/4 lbs of pork... Before I tweeted aforementioned Charcutier for help. And then I realised there is 2.2 lbs per kilo, not t'other way round. I fear my enthusiasm may take several beatings in the coming weeks, before my incorrigible optimism grinds a victory from the jaws of rotten meat defeat. I also recognise the need to have a new, albeit less aesthetically pleasing set of scales...

No, neither the trim phone nor the soda syphon work...

 Realising my scales were not up to my fuzzy old school/new school maths wasn't the only hurdle tonight. Here, clockwise from top left, are my ingredients I added to my cure (after I realised my pestle and mortar aren't big enough for this obsession) :

Thyme

Oregano

Celery Salt

Fennel Seeds

Juniper Berries

Black Peppercorns

Unrefined Molasses Sugar 

 

Which crushed up look like this:

 

 

I made two batches of this, adding cumin to the cure for the Blythburgh Pork. If you wanted a purist you should read the blogs coming out of thisishowitssupposedtobe.com and Imaboringtosser.net rather than waste your time with me. Rub the cure into all the nooks and crannies ("OMG, now he's even plagiarising the guy who taught him on his one teeny day course. Has he no shame?")and pop into a bag. Tight into a corner of a bin bag, if you don't have a vacuum pack machine (just been outbid on Ebay Grrr) or zip-lock bags. The next bit is another bit of plagiarism, with nods and thanks to English Sushi Guru who runs these places,
which I am yet to visit, but will review next Tuesday when I have recovered from Monday's visit of Le Charcutier Anglais... 

Seriously, check dis out cos I is reknin it is wikkid innit...

1  Fill sink with water
2  Place bin bag under water so pressure pushes out air from around meat

Rubbish Picture, I know, But I Think You Get Me Innit

3  Twist bin bag above meat but below water surface several times
4  Lift out bag and tie knot as tight as you can...
5  You can then trim bin bag and place your curing meat in the fridge for 3 weeks, turning daily

Yes, we did swap sides. Almost fooled you...

3 weeks curing, followed by 3 weeks air drying (approx) looking for 30-35% weight loss. Do refer to Marc's various tips within this and his many other blogs for tips on sweetness in your cure and a gazillion recipes.

Finally I have been embarrassed by Sally at Empire Farm, who says my account of the day at her place is "a cracking read". Farewell To Arms. That's a cracking read. The only book to make me cry, but that's for another end of boring blog's blog. Still, even better news from the farm's blog is that Harriet's piglets have arrived. I urge any of you that have ever thought about really knowing what you eat, how it has been treated, reared and the rest, consider their Raise A Pig Scheme. I'm in, while we wait for Adam's lot to drop!!

Please Talk About Meat... Finally

So, with cold sweats and bile rising, or mine anyway, our lesson started. With a tasting. Hooray. Coppa di Parma, Prosciutto, Jamon de Serrano, and herby mini ritz crackers all added to my misery. Sally, the owner of Empire Farm and a lovely hostess, although struggling to remember whether she had 6 or 10 dogs, introduced the day and instantly instilled in all of us in the room a heartwarming self sufficient glow; to a man and woman we were all about to learn how to get one over on "the man", whether he a multinational supermarket or a highly priced independant deli - curing and smoking ones own food is neither difficult or expensive, just time consuming. And here is where my dreams flow. The real "slow food", with no smug millitant offal roasting or yoghurt knitting. 

Simples - this takes time, so let it. 

The other gem we have drilled in right from the start is that old database addage - put shit in, get shit out. Obviously this was much more eloquently put by Sally, but you get the drift. Use hand reared meats, organically sourced salts, herbs and spices, and care about your end product. That way you have the best chance of making the best stuff. 

I cannot begin to tell you how this day has grabbed my imagination, fuelled my thoughts and driven my actions. Oh. I guess that is exactly what I have been boring anyone who will listen/read with ever since. But if you had for tea what I had tonight, you would get some way to getting it. Tonight I sampled my first ever attempt at curing anything.

After a brief discussion over the sample cured meats in front of us, we moved through to the butchery. I instantly perked up when a half bottle of Smirnoff was waved under my nose, as we would be using a little dribble in our cure for gravadlax. Marc was only joking about offering me a snifter - he doesn't know me very well - and I could feel the physical shudders and inner tuttings of many of the group as I reached for the bottle, filled the cap and had a Mary without the bloody. Better already, and a little cocksure, when the mackerel came out of the bag, blood guts and all, I was actually up for gutting them. Thankfully we were just to fillet them, and therefore we could leave the guts intact. So, knife in behind the gill, feel for the backbone, then turn the knife and slice away from you, maintaining contact with the backbone on the back of your knife all the way to the tail. We made a brine solution (50g salt per litre of water - Jonny Crofter's maths brain needed some vodka assistance I reckon) and checked it was all good by floating a potato in it. That's a test for your brine, although if you get the maths and have got scales & a measuring jug I'm guessing it's a redundant test...


Mackerel fillets in the brine, bang it in the fridge, job done till lunchtime. The same treatment for some chicken wings after a butchery interlude. In brine, in fridge, leave til lunchtime. Now for the real stuff. Two huge whole salmon were fetched from the fridge by drunk boy, now also known as fridge monkey. English Sushi Guru was evidently skilled around a kitchen. Drunk boy wasn't letting anyone else get the other fish, and 4 fillets were, I reckon, pretty expertly created by them. It was only after we had literally dived in and done a good job that Marc noted that pupils weren't normally asked to do that, for fear of them screwing up. Imagine that, me jumping in overkeen with a bit of vodka in me... The fillets were divided up into 14 pieces (with the fatty trimmings being sent off to join the makerel) and we were set free with a rack of herbs and spices to try out our first cure. Mine was :


30g per kilo salt/soft brown sugar mix
a liberal shake of cayenne pepper
fresh dill
a little vodka, some of which went in with the salmon.


The fish and cure mix was placed in a vacuum pack, vacusealed for us to take home. 5 days later, and I couldn't wait any longer... I took it out tonight and it looked like this :

Patted dry, left for half an hour to dry a little more, then sliced and served with fresh dill and lemon... A to da MAY to da ZING!!!

Drunk boy and the lovely (erm, and patient) Flora have tasted something special here in Forest Hill tonight. I urge anyone who reads this to try it immediately...


And still I haven't mentioned anything we learnt about meat once... Soon come, truss me x

The Seed Has Been Sown, And The First Beef Has Been Salted Day 2

7:30 am. A damp, peach coloured room. It smells. Of booze. And it's hot. Very, very hot. Freezing when we got in last night we've made the fatal error of leaving the radiators, of which there are about 7 of in our one small room, turned up full. 

An iphone 4, just days old but already with a shattered screen, is blaring an old car horn as an alarm signal. Our heroes, Jonny and Adam, each open half an eye and attempt to communicate. The intense heat of the room has welded shut their mouths, and the dehydration is such their eyeballs scratch with each blink. Speech is impossible, we discover, and search the room frantically for the mini bar. There isn't one, but Ads comes up trumps with 2 bottles of water in the corner of the room. Pouring most of it all over myself due to the welded mouth situ, I'm practically scalded by the heat of my first quenching taste, and the scream I attempt tears my lips apart to allow some of the hot water to rehydrate my toungue.

Eventually I will get to the point of this whole blog, I promise, but it's important, dear reader, that you understand the pain I have been through to bring you this story. Pain that was only made worse when we eventually made it through the muddy puddle, past the 70s nuke shelter et al and eventually staggered into the hotel for breakfast. "Smoked haddock and poached eggs, breakfast of champions" I managed to utter whilst depleting every jug of juice on the buffet table. Adam sensibly went full english, and cleared the plate. I had one mouthful of haddock and one poached egg and cried. A lot.

So, with one of us feeling at least semi-sprightly we set off for Templecoombe and Empire Farm  for our day's course. As I tripped into the classroom instantly I noticed the fine figure of Marc Frederic who was our tutor for the day. Noticing my pain or the whiteness of my complexion, and no doubt smelling the Yeovil Ale from the night before, Marc quipped "Good night last night?" And so we sat, rather sheepishly, on the back row and assessed our company for the day.


Now I can't remember most of the names, but have attempted to provide nicknames for the standout characters. At this point I should point out, that our group (of 14, somewhat larger than usual Empire Farm lesson groups) was an entirely agreeable collection of eccentrics. I've always thought that when one finds oneself in a group of strangers, if you haven't picked out the annoying loose cannon in five minutes, chances are it's you. So, as i was settling comfortably into my role as class fool, we all introduced ourselves. In no particular order, though grouped together with the people they came with, there was computer guy (who worked for the same company as my dad - weird) and CG wife, CG wife's sister (I think), and civil engineer. Next dredlocks. Jonny Crofter. Animation farmer (adam) and drunk boy (ahem). Shortlived bacon was next to us. Chilliman was genius . Aussie banker and English sushi guru. Watercressman and stripes.


Some of the above need a further mention due to their sheer class; Chilliman, obsessed by chillies, grows 12 different varieties including lemon drop which tastes of lemon and chilli, brought a tiny pot of his homemade chilli chutney to go with his lunch. Watercressman and stripes made the younger members of the group green with envy. Not only do they drive a cool land rover, but they live a pretty idyllic life down in Devon by the coast. Watercress man's answer to most things was to garnish with a touch of watercress. The more we laughed the more he said it. Jonny Crofter was from the Isle of Man. Then the crofting bit on a scottish island. Now upstate New York. I know which one I prefer of those three...


The lesson! The lesson! I'm afraid I've done it again... Waffled on for way too long and still haven't actually got to what we found out, tried, went home with and forgot so read about on't'internet... Tomorrow I promise...

The Seed Has Been Sown, And The First Beef Has Been Salted

I've long been a fan of cured meats, smoked fish and booze. Last weekend I managed to combine a destructive evening of boozing and a highly constructive day learning how to cure and smoke foods at the wonderful Empire Farm taught by the equally wonderful (although not as French as you may imagine) Marc Frederic. As French as they get in Burnley I suppose.

With my trusty, if a little reckless, sidekick Adam beside me we set off, already a little thirsty, from South East London heading for Holbrook House Hotel. "I don't want to leave later than 2" I had said the night before. "I'll be at Sydenham at 2:15" came the reply. Sigh. However, it was half term so mine was the only 4x4 driven by a hormonal fool on the road, as the mums had Boden shopping to do online whilst their PG (polish girl) looked after Tarquin and Gemima. Oh dear. 10 lines in and I'm already veering off subject towards an inappropriate rant. Must try harder.

Anyhoo, we got a bit held up at Stonehenge, which is never a bad place to get held up, unless you're in a crusty convoy heading for Glasto in the late 80s/early 90s and it's the Police holding you up. We pulled in to the gloriously beautiful Holbrook House, a Georgian mansion, at about 5:30, had a quick G&T and went to dump our bags in our room. Which was up the lane. Round the back of the gym. Past the staff car park. Just beyond the bizarre 1970s nuclear shelter looking concrete block. Through a muddy puddle. And through the waterfallesque torrent of water coming from the blocked gutter. Georgian mansion this was not. The ceiling was damp and stained, and the bowl of sweets, which we demolished anyway, were all at least 8 years old... Oh. Was it pot pourri? 

Never mind. Alan had just arrived and was instructed to take us to the pub with the best cider in Wincanton. On dropping us at Uncle Tom's (which had the most quintessentially un-PC sign hanging outside), he handed us a card with a phone number on it. "If you can get all the way to the bottom of town from here 'avin a drink in each one we'll send someone to scoop you up and pour you back to the 'otel." Great. A challenge already and we've only just got here. Certain we were up to the job we bowled in. And almost bowled straight out again. Basically, there was a bloke with an iron lung and about 6 other red faced cider drinkers with double handed mugs of local scrumpy. Double handed to negate the shakes I'm told. To a man they chuckled at my jeans being 'arf way down yer arse buoy' and generally our towny nature. We had Yeovil Ale and avoided the cider. A sensible option you may think, and short term definitely the correct one. 26 hours later it was one I was still regretting, however. From than moment I suffered indigestion and was burping every 30 seconds. Even 26 hours later Adam assured me it smelled exactly the same. Nice.


Needless to say we made it to the bottom of town, after missing out The Dolphin Hotel, admittedly, and arrived back to the hotel a little late for our 9 o'clock table. The staff seemed delighted about this however, as it meant they could shuffle out a few more guests from the dining room so we didn't ruin everybody's evening. So we ruined theirs, with polite banter and impeccable manners. And the only glass that got knocked over was by the waitress. 


I had hare tortellini followed by supreme of chicken with lentils and dauphinoise potatoes, Adam had shellfish raviolo w a lobster bisque and steak and chips. Yes, the menu, like the crockery, wine list and decor, was stuck in the mid 80s, and didn't seem like it would be out of place being served by people in pastel coloured uniforms on square plates, like a hot chocolate in Inside Story on a trip to Chester circa 1986. Oh yes, I just remembered, the plates were square. 2 bottles of Bourgogne 1er cru washed it all down and we retired. Or had planned to. We;d forgotten the hike. Down the lane. Round the back of the gym. Through the staff car park. Past the 70s nuke bunker. Through the muddy puddle. And the waterfall. Which was now as noisy as Niagara.


Sleep would prove impossible until this were fixed. Having called reception to get our room changed, I went out and fixed the gutter, and removed about half a ton of leaves and muck from it. I then very smugly called reception and told them not to worry, as I had sorted it out, and we could discuss it in the morning, certain Darren would be discounting the room a tad...


Day 2 soon...