Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music... Ad Infinitum

Photograph: Louise Hagger for the Guardian. 

If you read my previous post you will understand why I have chosen this Yotam Ottolenghi's recipe tonight. In his latest column in The Guardian, Yotam waxed lyrical about his love for the cuisine of New Orleans, which he found both complex and cryptic. As an Ottolenghi enthusiast myself, I don't need much encouragement to follow the master. I will be cooking this dish this coming weekend. 

Chicken and prawn gumbo

4 chicken thighs, skin on and bone in
Salt and black pepper
60ml vegetable oil
70g plain flour
3 garlic cloves, peeled and roughly chopped
1 large onion, peeled and finely diced 
2 green peppers, deseeded and finely diced
2 celery sticks, finely diced
1½ tbsp Cajun spice blend (make your own or buy ready-made)
300g peeled raw prawns 
1 litre chicken stock
2 tbsp tomato paste
200g smoked pork belly (or smoky bacon), cut into 2cm pieces
200g cooked basmati rice (ie, made from about 80g uncooked rice)

Season the chicken with a quarter-teaspoon of salt and a generous grind of black pepper. On a medium flame, heat a tablespoon of oil in a large, heavy-based pan for which you have a lid, lay in the chicken thighs skin-side down and fry for four to five minutes, until golden brown. Turn the thighs, cover the pan, reduce the heat to medium and cook for 10 minutes, checking once or twice that the chicken isn’t sticking or burning (there should be enough fat in the pan for this not to happen). Transfer the chicken to a plate, leaving the fat in the pan (you should have about two tablespoons).

Add another three tablespoons of oil to the pan and warm gently on a medium heat. Add the flour, whisk to a smooth paste, then cook, whisking often, for 15-20 minutes, until the roux turns into a dark chocolate-coloured paste. Add the garlic, onion, peppers, celery and spice blend, and cook for five minutes, stirring often. Roughly chop five prawns, add to the pan and cook for five minutes, then pour in the stock, 350ml water and the tomato paste. Stir in the smoked pork and a teaspoon of salt, then leave the gumbo to simmer, stirring occasionally, for 20 minutes more. Meanwhile, remove the skin from the chicken thighs and tear the flesh off the bones in rough 4-5cm chunks.

Once the gumbo has simmered for 20 minutes, stir in the chicken, cook for 10 minutes more, then add the remaining prawns and cooked rice. Check the seasoning, simmer for a final three minutes, until the prawns are just cooked, and serve hot.

This is heavenly food from New Orleans. So, the first melody has to be Dixieland proper. Stand to one side because the saints go marching in, led by the one and only, Mr Louis Armstrong.

That gumbo is thick and filling. That's the way I want my music tonight. Preferably with a bass-driven helping and a guitar-led consistency. Enter Black Sabbath's Paranoid.




Food so exotic makes want to explore the same in music. I love Soapkills and their laid-back sound.




We go as we came. With Armstrong. I have never included the same musician twice in this section. There is enough music to go around. But, for some reason this recipe has given me the New Orleans bug and I cannot resist another dose of good ol' Dixieland. Enjoy.

Next post: "Thoughts in Progress", to be published on Saturday 13th May at 6pm (GMT)

Festive Tuesday: Coffee and Music

I wanted to post an original, snazzy, funky, festive clip; something different and unique. But you know what, sometimes the simplest song in the world will convey the deepest meaning. Merry Christmas to you all!



Next Post: "Song for New Year's Eve", to be published on Monday 31st December at 11:59pm (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

“Y es que el hombre aunque no lo sepa/unido está a su casa poco menos que el molusco a su concha/no se quiebra esta unión sin que algo muera/ en la casa, en el hombre, o en los dos.”(“Man might not be aware of how attached he is to his house/little less than a mollusc to its shell/this union cannot break down/without something dying in the house, in the man, or in both”). “Últimos Dias de Una Casa” (Last Days of a House) by Dulce María Loynaz*

The unveiling of the latest stage of the regeneration work taking place in my neck of the woods in London led me back to this gem of a poem (above) by one of Cuba’s foremost poets, the late Dulce Maria Loynaz. The North Mall Square has been refurbished and a few more new shops have opened.

I have lived now for more than a dozen years in this area and I have seen massive changes. Some have been for the better and some for the worse. But what all these changes have brought about in me is a sense of belonging. Home is not just my rented house, but also my barrio.

I often wonder at what point we start calling our chosen patch of land “home”. In Cuba that question would have not arisen. Then, again, I would have probably not had the chance to have, not even rent, my own house. Yet, the city, the people, my family, they would have been part of that thing we call “home”.

Loynaz’s poem is written from the point of view of an old house that watches, worryingly, how all “its sisters have almost all disappeared” (“Soy una casa vieja, lo comprendo/poco a poco, sumida en stupor/he visto desaparecer a todas mis hermanas”). In their place new “intruders have risen”. I see parallels between these verses and the ugly warehouse that rose right across from our house a few years ago. The view the new building blocked was almost a visual respite from the industrial landscape by which we were surrounded. If truth be told, it wasn’t the best sight in the world. We couldn’t, as Loynaz’s house was able to do in her poem, “see the sea/I used to see naturally, next to me, like a friend/and every morning we greeted each other” (“Cuando me hicieron yo veia el mar/lo veia naturalmente, cerca de mi como un amigo”). My view was rather more prosaic, just a few bushes and trees. But they looked pretty from my wife and mine bedroom. Now, all we have is a large, blue and white building with the name of a famous store chain on it.



One of our bookcases, our sofa and our reading lamp

It’s a funny business this “an Englishman’s home is his castle”. For starters, I’m not English, and neither have I got a castle or plans to own one (just joking). Jesting aside, though, I don’t know if I’m allowed to call my rented house my “castle”. Surely we’ve lived here for close to a dozen years. We all have our little corners and arrange the cushions on the sofa in our peculiar way when we watch telly or read. The children have their own bedrooms, something I did not have for more than twenty-five years living in overcrowded Havana. Although our house is small, we still have space. But the question still gnaws at me: can I call it “my home”, or even “castle”, if it’s not even mine, but a housing association’s?

The idea that home ownership allows an individual to feel more integrated into society as a citizen is not new. Already in the 17^th century those arguing against universal male suffrage said that “no man hath a right to an interest or share in the disposing of the affairs of the kingdom… that hath not a permanent fixed interest in this kingdom.” However, we shouldn’t underestimate the power that comes from having a roof over one’s head and a place by the fire to rest our tired bones at the end of the working day.

Loynaz’s poem continues in a sadder vein. Whilst new houses are erected, our protagonist is left alone with days going by and “nobody approaches me/I feel like a sick house, like a leper/it’s necessary that someone comes to get the mangoes/that are falling down in the garden and get lost without anyone tasting their sweetness/it’s necessary that someone comes to close the window/of the dining room that was left open/last night some bats flew in/it’s necessary that someone comes to tidy up, to shout, to do anything” (“Otro día ha pasado y nadie se me acerca/me siento ya una casa enferma, una casa leprosa/es necesario que alguien venga a recoger los mangos/que se caen en el patio y se pierden sin que nadie les tiente la dulzura/es necesario que alguien venga a cerrar la ventana/del comedor que ha quedado abierta/y anoche entraron los murciélagos/es necesario que alguien venga a ordenar, a gritar, a cualquier cosa”). How many of us have witnessed a similar scenario? A house left to rot. What makes it more unbearable is that in the UK owning a house is one of those ideas that are drummed into children from an early age. According to Shelter, the housing and homelessness charity, only Greece, Spain and Ireland come on top of the United Kingdom in regards to home ownership. Was it, then, so surprising that we had a house bubble in the mid to late noughties and that this led to the economic crisis in 2008?

Dulce Maria’s poem ends with the demise of the house: “They are the men, and only them/they are of better clay than I am/their greed overcame their need to keep me (…) thus I was sold/because I had better value in their accounts/than in their affection/and if I’m worthless in their affection/I’m nothing/and it’s time to die (“Los hombres son y solo ellos/los de mejor arcilla que la mia/cuya codicia pudo mas que la necesidad de retenerme (…) Y fui vendida al fin/porque llegue a valer tanto en sus cuentas/que no valia nada en su ternura/y si no valgo en ella… nada valgo/y es hora de morir”)

These were the thoughts going through my mind as I saw the newly refurbished North Mall Square. Then I was suddenly and painfully reminded of the ugly, large blue and white building across from my house. The place I would like to call “home”, but I’m still not sure.

* Translating poetry is not my forte. I’ve done my best to bring you the essence of Dulce Maria Loynaz’s poem, a writer who, I believe, is completely unknown in the UK, and in the Anglophone world by extent. “Últimos Dias de Una Casa” is a long poem. I’m not aware of any English translation of it, and if there is, I hope the author(s) will forgive me for my daring act.

© 2012

Next Post: “Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana”, to be published on Friday 16^th November at 12:01am (GMT)