Lionel's perfect popcorn: or, We need to talk about pans

Popcorn! I used to make it all the time. When? Ages ago. Years ago. When I lived in America and Orville Redenbacher  and his cute bow-tie could be found in any grocery store. But here in England, the popcorn sucked, to put it frankly. I'd buy popcorn in the supermarket, put it on the stove. . . and hear not a frolicsome cannonade of poppery, but sad little pips and pops as the occasional kernel deigned to do its thing. Eventually I would have a meagre bowl of sullen, verging-on-burnt popcorn, scores of blackened and unpopped kernels lurking at the bottom. It was shameful, I tell you. But I was certain that it wasn't my fault. Not enough people in England bought popcorn, I thought -- so the popcorn you bought in the supermarket was always stale. That's why it wouldn't pop! Right? Right? I can't tell you how many people I told this story to. They all believed me. I am terribly convincing when I want to be. 

And then -- Lionel Shriver changed my life. It's not the popcorn, folks, it's the pan. Just stay with me a minute here, and all will be revealed. 

Lionel knows her popcorn. Go round for dinner at her house -- either in Britain or Brooklyn, and I've done both -- and a bowl of popcorn will always be served with the pre-dinner drinks. You have to really careful, in my experience, not to scarf too much of it, because that meal that follows is always incredibly tasty (I'm going to go after the recipe for the crabcakes we had a couple of weeks ago). Watching Lionel pop in Prospect Park, I remarked -- rather wistfully -- how admiring I was of the explosiveness of her popcorn: "loft", Lionel calls it: that's when the popcorn lifts the lid right off the pan. 

"Revere Ware," she said, indicating the light, stainless-steel pan on the stove. "The secret to great popcorn is a cheap pan." Revere Ware is stuff we grew up with in America -- not a fancy pot at all, just your everyday boiler. Revere Ware is miles from Le Creuset or Calphalon: drop a Revere Ware pot on your foot and you won't have to go to the hospital, let's put it that way. "If you're pan's too heavy it will get too hot, and then your popcorn burns without popping." As she spoke, the lid began to rise off the pan, clouds of lofty popcorn making a break for freedom. 

Reader, the scales fell from my eyes. My proud collection of fine saucepans was doing me no good at all. My first purchase, once back home in England, was a £5 pan bought on the Bethnal Green Road; above is a batch of lofty popcorn made therein. 

How lucky am I to be Lionel's popcorn pal? Truly lucky -- for she sealed our kernel kinship with a gift of JollyTime Buttery Seasoning. Don't laugh. It's da bomb. Pop! Pop pop! POP!

1 1/2 tsp plain vegetable oil
1/2 cup popcorn kernels
to put on top: if you have no JollyTime, melt a tablespoon of butter if you want -- plain old salt & pepper will do fine, or a sprinkling of mixed seasoning like Old Bay. Lionel throws a lot of chili powder over hers, which makes for an extra-exciting snack.

Pour the oil into your cheap pan and put in two or three kernels of popcorn. Set over medium heat with the lid on: when the kernels pop, it's time to add the rest of the corn. Dump it in, cover, and give things a good shake to coat with the oil. Soon your explosions will start! When they slow to a pop... pop... pop... it's time to turn off the heat, pour into a bowl, and season. 1/2 cup of kernels serves two, I'd say. 

Flying solo

Alone in the house. Work work work. Scribble scribble scribble. Okay, work, and watch Breaking Bad, since no one I lives with really approves, and I can catch up when they're gone.

But a girl's gotta eat, right? Catch is: she doesn't want to cook every time her belly growls. 

And so I lit on this noodle salad which I saw in The New York Times before I left Noo Yawk --  from the wonderful Martha Rose Shulman; her version adapted Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's from Hot, Salty, Sour, Sweet. 

I thought I'd make the full recipe -- which says it serves four -- and store it in the fridge, and snack on it when I desired. This has worked a treat. If I don't remember to spoon out a bowlful half an hour before I actually want to eat it, I zap it in the microwave for 30 seconds just to take the chill off. 

1/2 small green cabbage, shredded very fine (about 4 cups or so)
200g cellophane noodles (NB, gluten-free!), soaked for 20 minutes in warm water
1/3 cup chopped roasted peanuts (or cashews, if you like them better)
1 cup chopped fresh coriander
1/4 cup chopped fresh mint
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil
fresh hot chili pepper, like Thai chili or jalapeno -- to taste, which is about a teaspoon, chopped, for me...
2 eggs
2 tsps sugar
salt and pepper
3 tbsps sunflower or peanut oil
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 tbsps minced or grated ginger
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
3 tbsps rice vinegar
1-2 tbsps ponzu citrus seasoning (this is a citrussy soy sauce you can buy in Asian markets; if you can't find it, regular soy sauce is fine).
1 tbsp tahini
1 tbsp fresh lime juice

Put the cabbage in a bowl full of ice water while you prep the other stuff. Keeps it nice 'n' crispy. 

Bring a pot of water to the boil and cook the noodles for about 1 1/2 minutes; drain and rinse with cold water. Drain again. Using a scissors (it's easier than a knife) chop the noodles roughly while they sit in the colander. Don't do this and you'll be sorry -- you'll have big old clumps of noodles that won't play nicely with the rest of your salad, but sit on their own and sulk. Put your drained, chopped noodles in a bowl. 

Drain the cabbage and add to the bowl, add the peanuts, coriander, mint, basil and chopped chili pepper. Toss together. 

The secret to really excellent tossing when it comes to something like this? Get yourself a box of latex gloves. Yes, the kind they use at the doctor's office. Snap on a pair and just lift and toss your salad with your gloved mitts: you won't look back, I promise. Also good for tasks like forming meatballs. Trust me. Who needs big spoons? Not me. I've got my gloves. 

Beat one of the eggs in a bowl with one tsp of sugar, add salt and pepper. Heat one tsp of sunflower oil in a nonstick pan of 15cms or so, get it nice and hot and add the egg, swirling it round until you have a wide flat round pancake of egg. After a moment or so -- it will cook fast -- flip it over and cook the other side, briefly. Remove from heat to cutting board; repeat process with other egg. Roll up the egg-pancakes, slice into thin strips and set aside. 

(NOTE: Only do both eggs if you plan to serve this to a bunch of folks; if it's just going to be you and you're planning to keep this in the fridge for later, I'd cook a new egg for yourself next time you're ready for a bowlful. Simples.)

Put garlic, ginger and a pinch of salt in a mortar and pestle and pound to a coarse paste. Heat 1 tbsp of the sunflower oil in the pan in which you cooked the eggs, medium heat; add the paste and red pepper flakes and cook for about a minute. Transfer to a bowl and allow to cool a little. Now add rice vinegar, ponzu, tahini and your fresh lime juice, whisk it all together and pour over noodle mixture. Toss well again. 

Serve yourself a tasty bowl; scatter over your sliced egg pancake. I also went a little crazy and scattered over some frozen shrimp I had; I just thawed 'em in the microwave and gave them a quick saute in sesame oil in the same pan I'd used for the egg and ginger/garlic mix. That said, I just read this piece in Harper's Magazine about the evils of farmed shrimp: I may not buy another bag of those little pink fellas ever again. Wicked shrimp or no wicked shrimp: this is one tasty salad. And it's interesting and satisfying enough that you won't mind having it a few meals in a row, if you are by yourself and can't be arsed to make anything else, like I was. That I guarantee. 

The fruit guy

We don't buy fruit from Gristede's. We buy it from the fruit guy on 23rd and 9th. Sure, you could go to Gristede's, but why would you, when what the Fruit Guy has on offer is cheaper and better and comes with the kind of sales pitch you can't resist? 

These last couple of weeks in New York I've kept to a regular breakfast. Fruit, yoghurt, and Ezekiel 4:9 cereal (yes, really) to add a little crunch. What fruit? Well, that depends on what the fruit guy is selling -- and the other morning, when -- post our morning promenade -- Sylvia and I climbed down off the High Line in the kind of downpour that only NYC can muster, there were these figs:

Nice, no? Oh, tell me about it! Soaked to the skin at 8.30 am we plucked the figs from the fruit stand, expecting simply to hand over our money, but we weren't going to get off without a warning. "Be careful with those figs!" admonished the Fruit Guy, going on to indicate that they might get us, well, pretty excited. "American men, they only work all day and read books -- but Turkish guys, they eat a lot of figs," said our Fruit Man, grinning; you may have guessed that he is a Turkish guy. "And also they eat women like spaghetti!"

The figs, I will tell you, were as beautiful to eat as they are to look at. But guess what? We didn't have pasta for dinner...

Hot stuff

And so to Flushing, Queens, home to the world's biggest Chinatown. A Chinatown so big that it actually seems like China, but for the signs that still say DON'T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE. How do I know it's the world's biggest Chinatown? Because my pal Sarah told me so, and since she's running the Queens beat for The New York Times, she should know. 

Diving into noodle shops crowded together into warreny basements, we ate tea eggs, hot and just-pressed soy milk and the freshest vegetable dumplings I'd ever tasted before barrelling up to the main event: Hunan Kitchen of Grand Sichuan. Now Sarah -- unlike us -- is no tourist, and has a real taste for fire. There was a long discussion with our waiter about her order of Boiled Sliced Fish in Chili Sauce -- a dish we'd spotted on a table across from us. Sarah kept assuring him that she wanted the real thing -- as hot as they'd make it for any Chinese customer. He looked doubtful, and shook his head. But Sarah is nothing if not persistent and persuasive, and finally our man seemed satisfied. While we waited for the great dish, we ate pillowy steamed pork dumplings, and dry-fried string beans which inspire me to go back to my Magic Beans (see below) and throw in some hot red pepper. There was stewed eggplant too, sticky and garlicky and served in a bubbling hot pot. 

But then the fish arrived, and all else was forgotten. A big metal bowl whose entire surface was scattered with whole red chilis, fresh coriander, and cumin seed: the liquid in the bowl was fiery red, and the steam that came off it -- I kid you not -- made my eyes burn. Sarah exclaimed with delight and the waiters looked on with some concern: until Sarah simply lifted out one of the whole chilis and chomped it right down. A home run. 

It took me a while, I confess, to get up the nerve to try a sliver of fish and tofu, for all Sarah's exclamations of delight. I am not Mrs Spicy. But I wasn't sorry: the fire was ferocious but not unwarranted, a depth-charge of flavour that resonated through my palate in ways that most things don't: tongue, throat, nose, they're all involved in eating something like this. And so it seemed fitting that when we left the restaurant we headed for Rockaway beach to lie on our backs and watch the Perseid meteor shower put the lights of the planes taking off from JFK to shame. There's one! Another! A web of bright threads in the New York sky, brilliance spicing the dark. 

Nope, not feeling crabby at all

So in August, why not trade Shoreditch for Park Slope, Brooklyn? Especially if you have a pal who can cook up a storm and offers you Sunday brunch. The R trains aren't running normally at the weekends -- thanks, Hurricane Sandy -- but that was okay by us, because instead of running under the river, like they usually do, they head on over the Manhattan Bridge, so as you trundle over there are magnificent views of my dear Brooklyn Bridge, and Lady Liberty out there in her harbour. 

Park Slope is a party, in case you hadn't heard; not everyone approves. "Park Slope isn't even part of Brooklyn anymore," ran a comment on Gothamist. "It's seriously a lower rung of hell, filled with hateful English teachers." (NB: does this mean all English teachers are hateful, or just the ones who head out to Park Slope? Answers on a postcard, please.) Well, cities change, and in any case I don't have a dog in this particular fight. 

In any case, I wasn't there for chi-chi amenities (Swedish espresso!) but for the most delicious afternoon with an old dear friend -- who also happens to be an expert at cooking Maryland crabs. So for once, I'm not going to tell you how I made something: just let your mouth water when you see what we got to eat. Bet you wish you could get your claws on these, eh?

why, you little tart!

C'est si facile, une petite tarte! Especially if you've got a little help from Marie, over here on the left, and her ready-rolled puff pastry. I dare you: tell 'em you made it yourself. No one will know. 

I determined to be tart-tastic the other weekend in Paris -- Abbi's son Lionel knocked one up in moments (yeah, yeah, very funny) and I suddenly felt I might be able to do the same. This is the work of twenty minutes -- maybe not that much -- not counting the baking time, of course, but that's putting-your-feet up time. These are my ingredients, but hey, use what you please. I'm really cool about that. 

4-5 leeks, well washed and sliced thin
100g (ish) bacon, diced small
handful chopped parsley
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter
125g (ish, again) cheese of your choice, grated: I'm for gruyere, which is pretty trad
5 large eggs
80 ml double cream
salt and pepper

You'll need a loose-bottomed tart tin that fits the pastry: 30cm is good. Preheat oven to 200C.

Heat oil and butter in a saute pan and cook the leeks until they are lovely and soft. Ten minutes, maybe more. Put a lid on for a bit; don't let them brown. When they're loose and relaxed-looking, add the bacon and continue cooking until bacon's done. Add parsley and a little salt, to your taste, and pepper. 

In a bowl, whisk together eggs and cream.

Unroll your pastry and line your tin. Scatter cheese over the base; then add your leek-bacon filling, spreading it out nicely. Now pour over the eggs and cream and pop into the oven. It should take no more than 20 minutes to bake -- you don't want it overdone. It will puff up beautifully. Magnifique! Make a petite salade verte and your dinner is complete. I was going to take a picture of the finished article, but we devoured it trop vite!

Sunday pancakes

As I was saying: who needs pancake mix? Not me -- and not you. Not on a sunny Sunday morning when a little grain-swapping makes for an entertaining start to the day. So here's some buckwheat, black wheat, the French call it: if you're over in Brittany and have yourself a tasty galette, this is the flour it will be made from. For this morning's pancakes, I used my farine de sarrasin, some home made oatmeal flour (that's oatflakes whizzed in the food processor) and rye flour -- but any combination is possible. You can use plain old white or whole wheat flour for some or all; I also like to use fine-ground cornmeal/polenta. 


Sometimes if I have half a banana that's going soft, I'll mash that up and put it in at the adding-the-egg-and-milk stage. But sometimes Theo will say: Mum, don't add banana, okay? And then I don't. 

The other thing that's flexible is how much liquid you use. More liquid equals thinner, more crepe-like pancakes, which is what my gourmet son prefers. My Dad, as I've written, made thicker batter for smaller, silver-dollar cakes. As for what you cook 'em on, I have a wide flat stovetop crepe-pan, with almost no rim: it's about 35 cm across. But a regular frying pan will do, if that's what you've got.

I put on a low oven so I can keep the pancakes warm before I serve them; I dab them with a little softened butter before I serve them -- and of course have proper maple syrup to hand, warmed a little on the stove or in the microwave (20 seconds is all you need: just to take the chill off).

The measures I use, once again, for the flours are American cup measures. Get confident and you can just do it by eye!

Serves three or four, depending on how ravenous everyone is.

1/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/3 cup oatmeal flakes, whizzed in food processor to make flour
1/3 cup dark rye flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
25 g butter, melted
2 large eggs
300 ml (roughly) milk

Put the flours together in a bowl with the baking powder, salt and sugar. 

Break the eggs into a smaller bowl and whisk; add milk. This is where you'd mash in that half banana, if you were of a mind to.

Fold eggs and milk into flour mix and stir until nicely combined; add melted butter. Is it thin enough for you? This quantity of milk gives a nicely springy crepe; use less milk if you want a thicker batter.

Grease your pan with an oily paper towel (use a neutral oil, like sunflower) and heat until it's really pretty hot, but not smoking. Pour on about half a cup of batter and swirl the pan around, lifting and tilting, until you have a lovely spread-out crepe. Not round? Who cares? 

Cook until the edges start to lift just a little; the batter will be bubbling. Flip with a spatula and cook on the other side until the steam coming off of it begins to diminish; don't over-cook. 

When you have a nice stack of these beauties, grace with maple syrup and fruit. There. Now who said breakfast was a chore?