How to Eat (73 page)

This is a recipe from Sue Kreitzman’s
Low-fat Vegetarian Cookbook
, which is so utterly virtuous that I regard it as eating that doesn’t count. I don’t cook it for other people; it’s what I keep for myself to balance out a week of intense going out or overeating at home. This amount makes about enough for 6 huge portions, which I freeze individually and thaw when required. Yes, it can go soggy and fuzzy around the edges, but I don’t mind.

If I am being very severe, I eat this with just a raita made with fat-free yogurt, minced scallions, grated fresh ginger, and chopped mint and coriander. If following a middling path, I add some plain steamed couscous. If I feel I have nothing for which to atone, I buy hot, soft nan bread from my local Indian takeout to mop up the aromatic juices and eat nothing else that night, bar some fruit. This recipe is, I admit, time-consuming and labor-intensive, but is the low-fat culinary equivalent of a key text. You should tackle it when you’re all fired up to start. Put aside one Sunday evening and don’t think of doing anything else at the same time. It’s a worthwhile investment.

2 large onions, each cut into 8 pieces

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tablespoon each ground cumin, ground coriander, and paprika

½ teaspoon each ground allspice, ground cardamom, and ground ginger

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

2½ cups vegetable stock, plus more, if needed

3 red or yellow bell peppers, peeled, deseeded, and chopped coarsely

3 large carrots, chopped coarsely

¾ pound button mushrooms, halved or quartered

2 medium turnips, cut into ½-inch pieces

1 large cauliflower, separated into florets

1 small parsnip, cut into ½-inch pieces

1 fennel bulb, quartered and cut into ½-inch pieces

3 celery stalks, cut into ½-inch pieces

salt

juice of ½ large lemon

3 medium zucchini, cut into ½-inch pieces

8 ounces green beans, cut into ½-inch pieces

Put the onion, garlic, spices, and half the stock in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Cover, bring to the boil, and boil for 5–7 minutes. Uncover and stir in the peppers, carrots, and mushrooms. Reduce the heat slightly and simmer, stirring frequently, until the vegetables and spices are “frying” in their own juices and the vegetables are tender. Allow to cool slightly.

Remove and purée half the mixture in a blender or food processor, then return the purée to the pan.

Add the turnips, cauliflower, parsnip, fennel, and celery. Stir together very well. Add the remaining stock or enough to almost to cover the contents of the pot, season with salt, and bring to the boil.

Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for 15 minutes. Uncover, squeeze in the lemon juice, and add the zucchini and beans. Simmer uncovered for 10 minutes more, or until all the vegetables are tender.

Portion this to suit your appetite.

BEEF BRAISED IN BEER

This is pretty much the English version of carbonnade, the Belgian dish of beef stewed with beer. The beer used should be stout, and I use Sam Smith’s Imperial Stout, which is available in America. The prunes—which are authentic, in the sense here of traditional—give a richness and depth, and so very little fat is needed or ends up in any one of its six portions. (Incidentally, prunes, puréed, can be used to replace their weight of butter in baking.) Like all stews, this is best cooked in advance and then reheated. And because the beef is cooked slowly, you can use very lean stewing beef and it will still be velvety and tender.

Accompany this with mounds of green vegetables. And you could also make a version of the horseradish-chive sauce on
page 265
using fat-free yogurt.

1¼ cups stout

8 ounces pitted prunes

1 teaspoon English mustard powder

¼ cup all-purpose flour

2½ pounds stewing beef, cut into thick strips

2 tablespoons vegetable oil, or butter and the merest drop oil

2 medium onions, sliced finely

10 ounces medium carrots, peeled and cut into thickish sticks

salt

Preheat the oven to 300°F.

Pour 2⁄3 cup water and the stout into a bowl, add the prunes, and soak until soft, about 2 hours.

Mix the mustard powder into the flour and coat the beef with it. In a frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil and cook the onions in it for about 5 minutes; stir in the carrots and cook for 5 minutes more. Place the vegetables in a casserole and stir the prunes in with their liquid, with a pinch or two of salt to taste. Add the remaining tablespoon oil to the frying pan and brown the meat, then add meat to the casserole. Cover and cook in the oven for 2½–3 hours.

When it’s cool, bag up into 6 equal portions and freeze. To do this, either thaw and reheat gently in a saucepan, or microwave the still-frozen stew.

HALF-COQ AU VIN

I don’t pretend this is the real thing, in the sense of the Elizabeth David adumbrated original. But it is a good chicken stew, cooked in wine, which borrows from the cuisine bourgeoise classic without running too severely into debt. Again, this is something I like to make for myself to reheat and eat alone for dinner when I want something proper and comforting and old-fashioned.

2½ cups red wine

1 celery stalk

1 medium carrot, peeled and quartered

2 garlic cloves, peeled

1 sprig thyme

few sprigs parsley

3 peppercorns

3 bay leaves

1 tablespoon olive oil

6 skinned chicken thighs

salt and freshly milled black pepper

1 medium onion, minced

2 ounces Canadian or Irish bacon, in one piece if possible (otherwise 3 slices), diced

6 ounces baby button mushrooms

6 ounces pearl onions, peeled

heaping tablespoon all-purpose flour

1¼ cups chicken stock

3 tablespoons brandy

2–3 tablespoons chopped parsley

Put the wine, celery, carrot, garlic, thyme, parsley, peppercorns, and the bay leaves in a saucepan on the heat. Bring to the boil, reduce the heat slightly, and let bubble away until reduced by half. Strain and reserve.

Then, in a casserole that will take everything later, heat the oil, add the chicken, and brown a little; you will have to turn often to prevent the chicken from sticking, but persevere—the chicken will color. Season with the salt and pepper, turn in the pan, season again, and remove for a while.

The chicken, although it’s lean, should have left a few oily juices in the casserole. Add to these the onion and bacon and cook, over medium to medium-low heat, stirring regularly, for about 5 minutes or until soft. Add the mushrooms and pearl onions and cook, pushing and prodding, for a further 3 or so minutes. Sprinkle over the flour, stir well to coat and cook out the flouriness, and cook over low heat for another 3 or so minutes. Gradually stir in the stock and the reserved wine. Replace the chicken thighs. Cover and cook very gently for 45 minutes to an hour or until the chicken has just begun to loosen on the bones.

When the chicken is cooked, heat the brandy in a ladle over a low flame and tilt the ladle until the brandy ignites. Pour this into the casserole and stir well. The sauce-gravy should be just about right now—neither floury nor watery—but should you find it too runny, remove the chicken, raise the heat, and reduce to thicken a little more. Return the chicken to the pan, baste with the sauce, and sprinkle over the parsley. You will need, or might want, to add freshly chopped parsley if and when you freeze, defrost, and eat each individual portion.

CHAR SIU

This, to borrow from Dr. Jonathan Miller, is not quite char siu, it’s just char siu-ish.

I’ve given a couple of different marinades for this basically Chinese-influenced barbecued pork; choose whichever you prefer, taking into account what is most convenient for you to produce. The first is adapted from
Tiger Lily: Flavours of the Orient
by Rani King and Chandra Khan; the second is just something I did with the ingredients I had lying about in the fridge.

In both instances, the pork is the same, as is the cooking method; it’s just the marinade that differs.

10 ounces pork tenderloin

MARINADE 1

4 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons ketchup

3 tablespoons hoisin sauce

2 tablespoons sweet sherry

2 tablespoons honey

2 scant tablespoons dark muscovado sugar or dark brown sugar

MARINADE 2

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons prune juice

2 tablespoons mushroom ketchup

2 tablespoons miso

2 tablespoons mirin

1 tablespoon sesame oil

2 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons light muscovado sugar or light brown sugar

Cut the tenderloin in half across. For either marinade, mix the marinade ingredients together in a large bowl. Get 2 plastic freezer bags and put a piece of pork in each, then pour half the marinade in one and half in the other. Tie both up and squish, seeing that the pork is coated. Lay both bags in a shallow dish and put in fridge for 24 hours.

To cook the pork, preheat the oven to 450°F.

Take the pork out of the marinade, reserving the marinade, and put the meat in a foil-lined roasting pan. Roast for 15 minutes, then turn the oven down to 325°F and give it another 20–30 minutes, basting regularly. You want the meat to be tender and still faintly pink within. If you think it looks as if it might be drying up, then add a little water to some of the remaining marinade (the second version is more liquid anyway) and spoon it into the pan.

When the pork is cooked, remove it from the oven and let it cool. When cool, cut it into very thin slices and put 4–5 of them (about 2 ounces) into freezer bags, one portion per bag, and freeze (see
page 38
for usage). I keep any marinade that’s left over and freeze it for the next batch of pork.

DESSERT

Dessert—in its more solid, substantial, and comforting sense—is not the stuff of which low-fat meals are made. That’s not to say it is completely out of the dietary question. For one thing, it’s important to have something at hand at the end of an anyway abbreviated supper, something to stave off that moment of loneliness and despondency that always threatens to settle when you realize that eating is over for the day.

I have not got a particularly sweet tooth; my weakness will never be cookies or cakes or puddings—it’s bread and cheese that, once I start eating, I can’t stop. But somehow, when I go on a diet (even if I never even mouth the word to myself, let alone say the word out loud), I suddenly want double-chocolate pecan cake or any other revolting concoction so long as it’s high-fat. It may be psychologically predictable and embarrassing, but there it is. I deal with this, in the main, by not forbidding myself such stuff; I buy a candy bar of some sort and as these are all calorie-counted, I can then figure them into my overall intake. There are times when it’s preferable to eat a vast bowl of steamed greens doused with soy and then a sugar-heavy, fat-saturated dessert for supper rather than a virtuous, balanced, and more orthodox combination.

The one thing I don’t recommend, though, is trying to concoct low-fat versions of intrinsically high-fat food. Tiramisu made with fat-free sour cream, cocoa powder, and aspartame is not the answer (whatever the question is, it’s not the answer). It’s not just that it will taste horrible but that you will still feel deprived. Occasional guilt-free indulgence (to borrow from the dieter’s lexicon) is a much better route. And actually, it’s surprising how little you need to eat of something high-fat to feel satisfied—in other words, the dessert in its entirety might be vertiginously calorific, but you may not be eating even a couple of bananas’ worth of calories of it. Though I do take the point that those of you who truly do manage to eat only a small amount of anything are probably not those for whom this chapter is intended.

And if you can’t make smaller portions for yourself, then buy them. If you were to give yourself about a quarter-cup of ice cream, you’d weep; it would hardly cover the bottom of a bowl. But if you buy those little individual ice cream cups (Häagen Dazs makes them, and their low-fat yogurt pops are good, too), you aren’t scraping out a meager portion but eating the entire serving, which feels like more. Again, it’s about trying to avoid feeling deprived. Also, you are less likely to speed through the rest of the freezer eating all those unopened little cups, whereas just lifting off the lid to an already opened large container and digging in, spoon by guilty spoonful, is all too easy. It’s like breaking large bills; once you do it, they get spent.