Posts Tagged ‘Meat’

I am indebted to the food section of Yahoo for raising this topic, which is fascinating.

If only because forewarned is forearmed. On the basis of this news, the Wellthisiswhatithink clan is going to start hoarding tins of Stag Chilli and Fray Bentos meat pies forthwith. If our home is suddenly subsumed by some nearby Pompeii-like eruption future archaeologists will surmise the modern Australian diet considered of nothing else. Well, and coffee, of course.

The domesticated cow is going to fart itself to oblivion if it's not careful.

The domesticated cow is going to fart itself to oblivion if it’s not careful.

For all sorts of very good reasons, you see, Dear Reader, meat is going to play a lesser part in our diet moving forward. For one thing, all sorts of domesticated animals, and especially cows, burp and fart a lot.

And we mean, a lot*.

Methane, primarily. From their gut.

As one of the most potent greenhouse gases there is, if we could rid the world of farting cows we could all afford to drive gas guzzling SUVs back and forth to the shops till the, er, well, till the cows come home, and the world wouldn’t be affected much at all.

(One of the great myths of global climate change is that cars are strongly implicated – they aren’t, really, as engines become ever more efficient, and hybrid technology grows. Other factors are much more serious. Cars are just “in our face”: an easy target.)

Plus it takes an awful lot of grass – and water – and time and effort (and more greenhouse gases) – to “grow” meat protein compared to, say, veggies.

And our environment also suffers from the deleterious effect of cloven-hoofed animals wandering pristine grasslands digging up the surface soil so it can blow away to end up in the sea.

All in all, we can expect to see the price of beef and lamb/mutton especially climb to exorbitant levels. It will become an occasional luxury, and an environmentally unsustainable one at that.

Insects will probably play a much more central role in our diet ... like these dung beetles.

Insects will probably play a much more central role in our diet … like these dung beetles. Just don’t think too hard about what they eat.

OK, meat’s out. What next?

So what can we change our diet to? All sorts of yummy items. Not.

Insects are already a common source of protein in some parts of the world less wealthy, and less squeamish, than the West.

With the world’s population predicted to hit 9 billion by 2050, our diet will have to change as food production struggles to keep pace with the boom.

And there are lots of good reasons why we should consider ordering a dung beetle burger next time we’re at the pub.

Not only would insect farming be kinder on the environment than our current agricultural industry with its focus on factory farming large animals such as cattle and sheep (just think of all the methane produced as a side effect of our love affair with beef), insects are surprisingly nutritious too.

According to a BBC report, 100g of ground dung beetle contains 17.2g of protein, 30.9mg of calcium and 7.7mg of iron. A 100g serving of minced beef provided 27.4g of protein, 3.5mg of iron and negligible amounts of calcium.

Deep fried grasshoppers. Well, er. OK. If I must.

Deep fried grasshoppers. Well, er. OK. If I must.

Now we just need someone to tell us they taste just like chicken, and we’re in.

Visiting China (amongst other places) one often sees skewers of deep fried grasshoppers on offer from street stalls, along with a lot of other little beasties that one can’t even identify without a biology manual.

Indeed, over 1000 species of insects are eaten by people around the world, like these Thai deep-fried grasshoppers.

Artificial meat?

Of course, we might not be able to give up our addiction to flipping hamburgers on the BBQ and scientists may have one answer. Artificial meat grown from stem cells could solve the problems caused by the huge amount of water and energy required in traditional animal production.

But while scientists are in theory able to create a lab-grown burger that looks like the real deal, taste is another matter.

The taste of meat is created by blood and fat, and is difficult to recreate in an artificial setting. Not to mention, presumably, the mouth-soothing sensation of fat, which is one of the most obvious reasons that we all love eating marbled meat, ice cream, buttered bread and so forth.

Then again, watching the way clever chefs can use other ingredients to mimic the flavour they are searching for, one supposes that anything’s possible.

There is, presumably, a chemical formula for every type of taste sensation, so if we want to keep chowing down on beef we may have to accept that it means munching bowls of noxious chemicals too.

Don't look in their eyes. Just don't look in their eyes.

Don’t look in their eyes. Just don’t look in their eyes. Awwwwww.

“Here Skippy, here boy …”

Well, in Australia, at least one very obvious opportunity presents itself.

Kangaroo meat is lean (2 per cent fat) and protein-rich, and its harvesting is more sustainable than beef and lamb, requiring less water and emitting far less methane than introduced breeds of livestock.

Selling kangaroo meat for human consumption is a relatively new development in Australia, having only been legalised in 1993.

Yet kangaroo meat is already now exported to 55 countries around the world, and has even given rise to a new diet dubbed ‘kangatarianism’ – an otherwise meat-free diet that permits consumption of kangaroo due to its eco-friendly status.

It’s sometimes hard to explain to non-Australians just how sensible a switch to roo meat would be.

For one thing, they are incredibly common, without any farming whatsoever. No one is quite sure how many roos are out there – it’s a big country, guys, and mainly un-populated – but the 2002 population estimate for the commercially harvested kangaroo species released by the federal government puts their numbers at 58.6 million. This means there are more than twice as many kangaroos in Australia as there are cattle (28.7 million). It also means the total kangaroo population is a little more than half that of the Australian sheep population (113.3 million).

That’s one helluva lot of roo stew waiting to be made. And if you think they’re just too cute to eat, then have you looked in the big brown eye of a calf recently?

Personally, I think we should be exporting breeding pairs of roos all over the world and you can all grown your own. And before you ask, darker than beef, quite a strong gamey flavour which puts some people off, the tail is the part most usually eaten, and in sausages, pates, terrines and pies, where is it “cut” with cereals and other items that reduce the gamey-ness of its flesh, it is truly delicious. “Kanga bangers” (that’s link sausages to our America readers) do really well here; kids love ’em.

Repeat after me: "I love Brussel sprouts. I do. I love Brussel sprouts."

Repeat after me: “I love Brussel sprouts. I do. I love Brussel sprouts.” Hey, this is what they look like growing? Who knew?

Plants scream too, you know

If you don’t want beetles, grasshoppers or kangaroos for tea, then the obvious answer: grow your dreadlocks and slap on the sandals. Let’s all become vegetarians.

Not only are veggies less environmentally harmful to grow (although pesticides and fertilisers need to be used with considerably more regard to the overall safety of the biosphere, with an acceptance of lower yields as a result) but we could all do with learning a lot more about how they can be prepared and presented to be truly delicious.

On the principle that human beings rarely do anything until push comes to shove, maybe rump steak at $200 a pound might be the incentive we need to learn how to make eggplant parmigiana properly.

Because the incentive is obvious. At least one 2012 study, from Sweden, argued that a global water shortage could mean that by 2050 animal production for food, which uses five to 10 times more water than plant-based food farming, could become a distant memory.

And while we are learning to love the lettuce, let’s remember that the plant kingdom offers many opportunities that, as a planet, we don’t make the best of.

How do you like your algae, Sir, braised or baked?

How do you like your algae, Sir, braised or baked?

I am referring, of course, to the harvest of the oceans.

We’ve pretty much eaten all the fish – surely a complete ban on commercial fishing for three years to return stocks to sustainable levels could unite the world? I would gladly pay more taxes to support the fishermen if it meant I could still enjoy a feed of flathead or Atlantic cod before I die – but fish are just the beginning of what’s on offer in the deep blue yonder.

One of the most useful products to come out of the seas are some of the most basic lifeforms yet discovered.

Algae: simple, single-cell organisms, can be cultivated in areas unsuitable for conventional farming, such deserts and the ocean. Algae also offers a cleaner source of energy than plant-derived ethanol, and can be used to feed animals and as a fertiliser for crops.

And if algae doesn’t float your boat (sorry about the dreadful pun, Ed.)then as some societies have known for years common-or-garden seaweed is totally yummy, prepared in all sorts of different ways.

Already a regular on Japanese plates, it is eco-friendly, great for digestive health and is packed full of nutrients, including calcium, iodine, folate and magnesium. (In fact, the current Western craze for sushi is leading to one unexpected problem – a few people are getting iodine overload from eating too many sushi rolls while wandering shopping malls. The best advice is apparently the most obvious – moderation in everything.)

Everything worthwhile in life is free.

Everything worthwhile in life is free.

Deep in the last millennium, I had a mother-in-law who would love to wander the seashore, grabbing scraps of seaweed off the rocks and munching it happily, reminiscent of her childhood in Ireland. “Dillisk”, as she was brought up to call it, is a reddish seaweed from the Atlantic coast of Ireland, collected at full moon, when the tide was lowest, and dried on huge sheets in the garden.

As Wikipedia kindly reveals: Palmaria palmata (Linnaeus) Kuntze, also called dulse, dillisk, dilsk, red dulse, sea lettuce flakes or creathnach, is a red alga (Rhodophyta) previously referred to as Rhodymenia palmata (Linnaeus) Greville. It grows on the northern coasts of both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and is a well-known snack food. In Iceland, where it is known as söl, it has been an important source of fiber throughout the centuries.

is a good source of minerals and vitamins compared with other vegetables, contains all trace elements needed by humans, and has a high protein content.

It is commonly found from June to September and can be picked by hand when the tide is out. When picked, small snails, shell pieces and other small particles can be washed or shaken off and the plant then spread to dry. Some gatherers may turn it once and roll it into large bales to be packaged later. It is also used as fodder for animals in some countries.

It is commonly used in Ireland, Iceland, Atlantic Canada and the Northeast United States both as food and medicine. It can be found in many health food stores or fish markets and can be ordered directly from local distributors. In Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, it is traditionally sold at the Ould Lammas Fair. It is particularly popular along the Causeway Coast. Although a fast-dying tradition in today’s McDonald’s-ridden world,there are many who still gather their own dulse. Along the Ulster coastline from County Antrim to County Donegal, it is eaten dried and uncooked in a manner similar to that in which one would eat snacks at a drinks party. It is also used in cooking. (Its properties are similar to those of a flavour-enhancer). It is commonly referred to as dillisk on the west coast of Ireland. Dillisk is usually dried and sold as a snack food from stalls in seaside towns by periwinkle-sellers.

Fresh dulse can be eaten directly off the rocks before sun-drying. Sun-dried dulse is eaten as is or is ground to flakes or a powder. In Iceland the tradition is to eat it with butter. It can also be pan fried quickly into chips, baked in the oven covered with cheese, with salsa, or simply microwaved briefly. It can also be used in soups, chowders, sandwiches and salads, or added to bread/pizza dough. Finely diced, it can also be used as a flavour enhancer in meat dishes, such as chili, in place of monosodium glutamate.

The earliest record of this species is of St Columba’s monks harvesting it 1,400 years ago.

Or as my old Mum was wont to say, “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”.

Well, she would have said it, if she spoke French.

So now you know. Rib-eye and french fries is doomed. Ah well. We all might live a little longer, perhaps.Or as in the famous old joke, it might just seem that way.

And just remember, everyone. “Soylent Green is people!”**

*Much more than you ever wanted to know about belching and farting animals
Agriculture is responsible for an estimated 14 percent of the world’s greenhouse gases. A significant portion of these emissions come from methane, which, in terms of its contribution to global warming, is 23 times more powerful than carbon dioxide. The U.S. Food and Agriculture Organization says that agricultural methane output could increase by 60 percent by 2030 [Source: Times Online]. The world’s 1.5 billion cows and billions of other grazing animals emit dozens of polluting gases, including lots of methane. Two-thirds of all ammonia comes from cows.Cows emit a massive amount of methane through belching, with a lesser amount through flatulence. Statistics vary regarding how much methane the average dairy cow expels. Some experts say 100 liters to 200 liters a day (or about 26 gallons to about 53 gallons), while others say it’s up to 500 liters (about 132 gallons) a day. In any case, that’s a lot of methane, an amount comparable to the pollution produced by a car in a day.To understand why cows produce methane, it’s important to know a bit more about how they work. Cows, goats, sheep and several other animals belong to a class of animals called ruminants. Ruminants have four stomachs and digest their food in their stomachs instead of in their intestines, as humans do. Ruminants eat food, regurgitate it as cud and eat it again. The stomachs are filled with bacteria that aid in digestion, but also produce methane.With millions of ruminants in Britain, including 10 million cows, a strong push is underway to curb methane emissions there. Cows contribute 3 percent of Britain’s overall greenhouse gas emissions and 25 to 30 percent of its methane. In New Zealand, where cattle and sheep farming are major industries, 34 percent of greenhouse gases come from livestock. A three-year study, begun in April 2007 by Welsh scientists, is examining if adding garlic to cow feed can reduce their methane production. The study is ongoing, but early results indicate that garlic cuts cow flatulence in half by attacking methane-producing microbes living in cows’ stomachs [Source: BBC News]. The researchers are also looking to see if the addition of garlic affects the quality of the meat or milk produced and even if the animals get bad breath.Another study at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, is tracking quantities of methane and nitrogen produced by sheep, which provide a good comparison model for cows because they have similar digestive systems, but are less unruly. The sheep in the study are living in plastic tunnels where their methan­e production is monitored across a variety of diets.Many other efforts are underway to reduce ruminant methane production, such as attempting to breed cows that live longer and have better digestive systems. At the University of Hohenheim in Germany, scientists created a pill to trap gas in a cow’s rumen — its first stomach — and convert the methane into glucose. However, the pill requires a strict diet and structured feeding times, something that may not lend itself well to grazing.In 2003, the government of New Zealand proposed a flatulence tax, which was not adopted because of public protest.

With the development of large-scale agriculture in the mid-20th century, farming became a big business for some companies. Farms became consolidated into large enterprises with many thousands of animals across large acreages.

Initially, grazing areas were filled with a variety of grasses and flowers that grew naturally, offering a diverse diet for cows and other ruminants. However, in order to improve the efficiency of feeding livestock, many of these pastures became reseeded with perennial ryegrass. With the aid of artificial fertilizers, perennial ryegrass grows quickly and in huge quantities. The downside is that it lacks the nutritious content of other grasses and prevents more nutritious plants from growing. One commentator called it the “fast food” of grasses.

This simple diet allows many cows to be fed, but it inhibits digestion. A perennial ryegrass diet also results in a significant number of weak and infertile cows, which have to be killed at a young age. This is where the methane comes in. The difficult-to-digest grass ferments in the cows’ stomachs, where it interacts with microbes and produces gas. The exact details of the process are still being studied, and more information may allow scientists to reduce cows’ methane output.

A study at the University of Bristol compared three types of naturally grown pastures to ryegrass pasture grown with chemical fertilizers. Lambs were fed on each type of pasture. The meat from lambs fed on natural pastures had less saturated fat, more omega-3 fatty acids, more vitamin E and higher levels of conjugated linoleic acid (CLA), a “good fat” that is believed to fight cancer. The meat from these lambs was considered very high quality and scored well in flavor tests.

Because of concerns about ruminant diets, many researchers are investigating ways to alter what livestock eat and to mix the best of old cow pastures – diverse, naturally growing, nutrient rich grasses and plants – with the best of the new – fast-growing and resistant to invasive species. One possibility is to increase the ability of beneficial, nutrient-rich plants and flowers to grow alongside the fast-growing grasses commonly used in pastures. Another branch of research focuses on plants that are high in tannins, which are believed to lower methane levels in ruminants and to boost milk production – although excessively high level of tannins are harmful to a ruminant’s growth.

A study by researchers in New Zealand recommends the use of plants like birdsfoot trefoil that are high in alpha-linoleic acid, which boosts CLA levels. Planting legumes and genetically engineered plants to trap airborne nitrogen will also improve nitrogen levels in the soil, which is important for rich soil and healthy plants.

Some dairy farmers use processing systems to harvest methane from cow manure. The energy is used to power the farm while excess is often sold back to the local electrical grid.

Believers in naturally grown, mixed-species pastures say that the use of them will reduce greenhouse gases, improve animal health and meat quality and reduce the use of artificial fertilizers. Efforts like methane-reducing pills or the addition of garlic may just be stopgap measures that fail to address some of the core problems of livestock, namely ground and air pollution, cutting down of forests, the production of weak animals that later have to be culled and the use of artificial fertilizers and steroids.

Another possibility exists in trapping the methane gas and using it as energy or selling it back to the electrical grid. Some farmers already extract methane from livestock waste, but that does not solve the bigger problem of belched methane. Harnessing that methane would mean trapping it in the air, perhaps by housing cattle indoors or outfitting them with special muzzles that may inhibit eating.

(The above information on the digestive system of ruminants was copied from howstuffworks.com)

**http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soylent_Green

Click this link to read a fun article called Stop Sausaging Around from See! Travel Mag.

I love the little story I have highlighted above, because it is all about sausages. In this case, German sausages, specifically. Go read that article then come back here 🙂

Sausage maker

You put the smergle in the kefuptnik, hit the guntraager button, unt out comes the wassenwitchit in one long line. Yumbo.

I love sausages so much I recently spent $250 on a genuine sausage maker.

I even bought proper pig’s intestine to form the casing of the sausages, not that horrid plastic stuff that commercial sausage makers make.

Then I went and sourced superb pork belly from the best butcher in Melbourne, and added in all the spices I wanted, following the recipes I had downloaded from the internet to the letter.

Mein Gott In Himmel! Do you guys have ANY idea how bad sausages are for us? They are little tubular fat and cholesterol BOMBS!

I ate them with one finger on my pulse, anxiously checking to ensure the pump was still beating. And that was the only time I made sausages. I will do so again, but I am letting my system adjust. I think it will be safe to eat another sausage in about, oh, say three months? I have even reduced my supermarket trawl for them, which could often lead to me eating sausages every day for a week. (And never getting bored.)

The home-made heart-stoppers were bloody delicious, mind you.

Actually, reading back, I think the only thing I can say is “Don’t play the sore liver sausage”  you wuss. Hang the risk, get sausage making again. Hmmmm. Tempting.

Anyhow, how brilliant is it to have a culture like the Dear Old Deutsch where sausages are so prevalent they even have sayings about them?

Actually, there’s an Aussie saying called “Sink The Sausage”  come to think of it. Not to mention “Hide the Baby Salami”.

English: Sausages, seen in Covered Market, Oxford.

Sausages, seen in Covered Market, Oxford. (Wikipedia)

They mean about the same thing. I’m sure you can work it out.

And now I’ve included them in this article, you can guarantee my story on sausages won’t get Freshly Pressed. Hey ho.

By the way, NEVER prick sausages to release the fat.*shakes in horror*

Defeats the whole purpose of making them. The trick to the puuuurfect sausage is to cook it slowly, turning constantly, over a low heat, until it is thoroughly cooked through and gently browned. Never pierce it with a fork or knife tip. Apart from losing lots of lusciousness, red hot pork fat in the eye hurts.

OK – I want to know YOUR favourite sausage, Dear Reader. Lincolnshire? Cumberland? Chicken with Chives? Duck with orange and sage? Italian? Or your favourite really silly sausage story. Or your best home-made sausage recipe – and if it’s good, I promise I will make a batch and post photos.

Yes, I think I will make some more sausages. Life’s too short. If I suddenly stop posting, you’ll know I have had a coronary, and life got even shorter. F*** it, eh?

This is what it’s meant to look like. Cross your fingers, Dear Reader

One of the things that really gets to me is when people die and they take their folk wisdom to Heaven with them, or into oblivion, depending on what you believe. (I don’t believe in Hell, but that’s another matter.)

My dear old Mum, whose birthday it would have been recently as I noted the other day, was a dab hand in the kitchen.

Provided the meal you were cooking had its genesis prior to the Second World War, she could cook it.

Better still, she knew all about meat, poultry, fish and more. She was a fish merchant’s daughter, and married into a trawling family, and was a sometime fishmonger’s wife – although she insisted on Dad being called a “Wholesale Fishmonger”, which he was, although they did have a small shop in Carbery Avenue in Bournemouth, too – I think she thought “Wholesale Fishmonger” sounded grander than “Shopkeeper”.

Anyway, Mum taught me a lot about cooking, and I have added knowledge over the years. But what I miss, now she’s gone, is being able to pick up the phone and say “So how do I do such-and-such again?” or “How do I choose the right cut of ….?” She would always know, cheerfully handing down her expertise in her delightful sing-song Welsh accent, which I can still hear in my head, when I try.

Today was one of those days. She-who-must-be-obeyed was rushing off, late, to her studio to make more glass, when we had the obligatory “So what are we having for dinner tonight then?” hallway conversation.

The week’s menu is never especially planned in our household, essentially because we lead peripatetic, busy lives, and people grab what they want depending on their schedule and how they feel. We do try to do better, though, really we do – every now and then we have what we call “a big shop”, which entails her indoors and I heading off to the supermarket full of lists and good intentions, meal plans in pocket, where we proceed to buy pretty much everything in sight.

What’s that? They’re going shopping again? Hope they get those pork and leek sausages, they’re my fave. Stay calm now. Look disinterested.

Invariably, though, half of it whizzes past its use by date faster than you can say “I reckon use by dates are a con to get us buying more”, and rather than risk self-inflicted dysentery or cholera it ends up being given to the dog, who apparently isn’t affected by food bacteria of any kind, and is also apparently evolutionarily equipped to eat the entire content of a fridge freezer over a couple of days without getting sick, should he need to. Or rather, should we need him to.

The dog eats better than we do. Well, the dog eats as we are supposed to, let’s put it that way.

So today, I grunted, trying to recall what we had invested in during the last big shop, and murmured, “I dunno, um, Chevapchichis? Chops? What does everyone want?”

It’s not everyone. I am advised that the fruit of my loins is heading into the City to do with her friends whatever 21 year olds do when their parents are not watching, and that it’s just the Leader of the Opposition and I for dinner this evening, and what’s more the free range chicken in the fridge is two days past it’s use-by date, and what did I think? Well, after a moment what I thought is bugger it, I shall cook the chicken even if it’s only two of us, cause it’s freezing bloody cold today and a roast chicken sounds just the go on a chilly winter’s eve, and anyway, it’s been in the fridge, so honestly it’s bound to be alright. Isn’t it? I mean, they always stick a day on that’s too early cause of being safe and not getting sued, and anyway I am sure it’s fine. Specially after I have roasted the life out of the bloody thing. So suitably mollified, wife sets off for the studio and I set off for the fridge.

At the fridge, though, I am plunged into indecision. The chicken looks alright. I know, I’ll ring Mum and ask. No, idiot, you can’t do that. OK, what would Mum have done? Smelled it. That’s right.

Unpack chicken and stick nose near it. Can’t smell a bloody thing, nose is all bunged up. Into bedroom, into nose with decongestant spray, back to kitchen, sniff, try again. Hmmm. Chicken smells like … raw chicken. But when is raw chicken a “Yup, all good, chuck it in the oven” smell, and when is it a “Give to the dog or throw it in the bin, but do not eat because salmonella is real not an urban myth” smell?

To tell the truth, I have always disliked the smell of raw meat. I have never dared try a steak tartare for that reason. So I give up using the olfactory nerves and wash my hands and take to poking it, uncertainly. I remember something Mum said about the flesh bouncing back if it’s fresh, or maybe the flesh bounces back if it’s the chicken equivalent of primordial soup. But she can’t tell me which it is any more, so after a few minutes of inconsequential worrying, and a large vodka, I just decide to cook the shit out of it and hope for the best. Peeling some spuds is surprisingly soothing, as is a second vodka.

I turn the uselessly slow and inaccurate oven onto its highest setting, with is somewhere roughly around “warm summer’s day in the Yukon” and turn to start loading it up.

But wait! Stuffing!

One simply cannot cook roast chicken without stuffing. It would be like serving roast beef without Yorkshire pudding, or roast lamb without mint jelly. Eating a peanut butter sandwich without jelly. (Well, actually that last one is quite a good idea, unless you’re an American, and their cuisine is simply peculiar.) Biscuits and milk. Beer and … well insert any bad-for-you-snack you like in here. Hamburgers and french fries.

A roast chicken just isn’t a roast chicken till it’s been stuffed. But never fear, Dear Reader, because there’s always a packet or two of Sage & Onion stuffing or perhaps Parsley & Thyme in the pantry, pending just such an emergency.

Except there isn’t, of course.

So now I have a raw chicken, a heating up oven, impeccably peeled potatoes. And no stuffing. And the clock is ticking.

Stuffing is essentially breadcrumbs of course. I remember the Trouble ‘n Strife blathering something the other day about “I need to use up all those breadcrumbs in the freezer, we need to have roast chicken soon”.  Saved! But on rushing to the freezer, it turns out “all those breadcrumbs” is actually about half a cup in an old Chinese takeaway container. Undaunted, I start feverishly searching for day old bread to make some more breadcrumbs. But instead of finding, as one usually would, about four half-eaten loaves of bread of various kinds secreted around the kitchen, all I can turn up is one perfectly fresh white loaf.

“Can’t make breadcrumbs with fresh bread” I hear my mother carolling from Heaven. “I know, I know”  I grimace, and get out the old-fashioned grater nevertheless and start furiously rubbing it with soft, squishy white slices of Baker’s Delight Low GI. After a few minutes, having taken the skin off a couple of fingers and successfully having turned the slices of bread into one glutinous, impenetrable ball of dough with no resemblance to breadcrumbs whatsoever, I resort to tearing it to pieces manually. That works well. Somewhere, legions of dead relatives chuckle to themselves.

So. Breadcrumbs. Now what?

Leek, mushroom and bacon stuffing – now why didn’t I think of that?

The silence is deafening. I think as calmly as I can while chopping a couple of onions as finely as possible, just like the TV chefs do, except when I turn the onion round to chop in the other direction half of it always skitters off the chopping board, across the benchtop, and down to the dog’s waiting nose, where he lazily opens half of one eye, and ignores it, knowing that a tube of Liverwurst and a pound and a half of only vaguely green chuck steak is probably coming his way later if he doesn’t fill up on discarded onion first.

Breadcrumbs, onions, and …. herbs! Yes, herbs! Then you just bind it all up with some water, and shove it all up the chicken’s arse. Except when I turn to the two hundred and seventy three ex coffee jars which the lady owner of the property has rigorously scrubbed clean so that they can be filled with pulses, dried fruits, Bi-carbonate of soda (what is that for?) and, of course, every kind of herb you can possibly imagine, Dear Reader, it rapidly becomes clear that there is nothing my limited pre-war mind can recognise – no Sage, no Thyme, just a lot of other strange things which I have no idea what they smell like let alone taste like.

Clearly the recent ‘big shop’ expeditions skipped the herb aisle. The hands crawl steadily round the clock as I dance in frustration, daring me to add a pinch of Marjoram, a sprinkling of Cumin, and something brown off which the sticky-taped label has fallen, but which looks and smells alarmingly like dried horse droppings, and for all I know is. I know it shouldn’t have a bay leaf. In the end, into the stuffing mixture goes some Tarragon, because I am sure I remember a recipe for Chicken and Tarragon from somewhere, although I swear I have never cooked with Tarragon before, and some Oregano, because I like it, and some dried Parsley. Pepper and salt to taste. Whoever heard of a chicken stuffing like this?

Cautiously, I give it a smell. And it smells pretty good, actually. Sort of citrusy, somehow, and fresh and interesting. Emboldened, I add the zest of a half a lemon. I am not quite sure why I do this, except when you watch the TV chefs they always “add the zest of half a lemon”, and I’ve never done it before, and if I am ever going to, tonight is the night, right?

And you know what? It smells really good now. And lemon goes with Chicken, as any Chinese person can tell you. So I pop the whole lot into the Chicken, and the Chicken into the oven, and suddenly the whole house is filled with an impenetrable, cloying and rather wonderful miasma of deliciousness, wafting its way into every nook and cranny.

And that’s when I realised that even though Mum has moved on, she had left behind in me something even more valuable than a mental book of recipes, something even more valuable that knowing how to fillet a Dover Sole successfully.

She imbued in me a joy of cooking, the sort of joyous, uninhibited cooking that celebrates life with a dash of this, a slosh of the other, and a whim and a prayer of that. Not to mention a belief that I can solve problems for myself, with just a little application. And some courage. Of course I could have just consulted the internet. But you know what? Sometimes that just seems like cheating.

As I write this, the meal is almost cooked, the night draws in, lowering and menacing, but I am warm in here, thank the good Lord, and soon my lady wife will come through the door, and predictably exclaim “That smells good!” as she always would, whether or not it did. I am going to open a nice Chardonnay to go with the chicken, and hang the expense.

And the damn dog isn’t getting any. So there.

If you’re not feeling as experimental as me, here’s the best recipe I found on stuffing after I made my own. Sausagemeat and roast chestnuts feature in this one. Yum. Maybe next week. This one’s for a turkey, I guess just make less for a chicken.

Sausagemeat stuffing

  1. 75g unsalted butter
  2. 2 tbsp olive oil
  3. 1 onion, finely chopped
  4. 100g fresh white breadcrumbs
  5. 600g sausagemeat
  6. 600g pork mince
  7. Large handful fresh flatleaf parsley, chopped
  8. Small handful fresh sage leaves, chopped
  9. 2 garlic cloves, crushed
  10. 1 large free-range egg

Chestnuts

  1. 50g unsalted butter
  2. 200g peeled and cooked chestnuts (in the UK choose Waitrose fresh, peeled and frozen chestnuts, defrosted)
  3. 100ml fresh turkey or chicken stock
  4. Handful fresh flatleaf parsley, chopped

Method

  1. Make the stuffing first. Heat the butter and olive oil in a frying pan over a medium heat and fry the onion until soft. Add the breadcrumbs, fry until golden, then leave to cool. In a large bowl, mix together the sausagemeat and pork. Add the breadcrumb mix to the sausagemeat with the remaining ingredients. Season and set aside.
  2. For the chestnuts, melt the butter in a frying pan over a medium heat and, when foaming, add the chestnuts and fry for 5 minutes. Add the stock and cook until it’s almost all absorbed. Season, add the parsley and set aside.
  3. Preheat the oven. Put the turkey in a big roasting tin (keeping the giblets for stock, if you like). Stuff a quarter of the stuffing into the neck end of the turkey (save the rest for the stuffing-filled red onions recipe, and stuffing balls for Boxing Day) and secure the skin with a skewer. Place the chestnuts in the cavity too.
  4. Cook. Eat.

(Okay, I added number 4.)