Double espresso and a double dose of paracetamol - Breakfast of Champions. Some days I can be out of bed, sort myself out and leave the house in ten minutes. Last weekend, though, not really. Thanking St. Martha (the genuine patron saint of waiting staff) that I wasn't working the Sunday carvery, there was nothing else to do but collapse shivering back under the duvet. It seems like working in bars is as effective as drinking in them if you specifically want to feel awful the next morning.
It was in this state I prepared to do battle with all the borderline-off veg lying in the fridge: not ideal for someone wanting nothing to do with sharp blades, hot pans, scalding stocks and lethal julienne bars on a mandoline. With the clarity of thought that only a specific mix of caffeine, painkillers, late nights and FunRadio can produce, it was a case of take the steeliest, most Japanesiest blade I could find and set about parsnips, butternuts and the odd shallot.
Without meaning to sound all Nigella, repetitive peeling and slicing to produce a delicious end product is a satisfying process in itself. Without really having a plan, I diced some parsnips on autopilot and dropped the lot into a tray moistened with about 1cm of light stock. Smashing some banana shallots with the flat of the blade and running it through them a couple of times made the roughest chop ever, but it was all for puree anyway. Unseasoned, the tray got some aluminium foil covering and was put into a low oven (probably around 140) for just under an hour. As the nutty-sweet smells of parsnip and slight acridity of hot uncooked shallot spread through the house downstairs, I began to feel slightly better. After the pastas, toast and sandwiches of the working week, this was a kitchen again.
It was in this state I prepared to do battle with all the borderline-off veg lying in the fridge: not ideal for someone wanting nothing to do with sharp blades, hot pans, scalding stocks and lethal julienne bars on a mandoline. With the clarity of thought that only a specific mix of caffeine, painkillers, late nights and FunRadio can produce, it was a case of take the steeliest, most Japanesiest blade I could find and set about parsnips, butternuts and the odd shallot.
Without meaning to sound all Nigella, repetitive peeling and slicing to produce a delicious end product is a satisfying process in itself. Without really having a plan, I diced some parsnips on autopilot and dropped the lot into a tray moistened with about 1cm of light stock. Smashing some banana shallots with the flat of the blade and running it through them a couple of times made the roughest chop ever, but it was all for puree anyway. Unseasoned, the tray got some aluminium foil covering and was put into a low oven (probably around 140) for just under an hour. As the nutty-sweet smells of parsnip and slight acridity of hot uncooked shallot spread through the house downstairs, I began to feel slightly better. After the pastas, toast and sandwiches of the working week, this was a kitchen again.