I began to get seriously concerned when I saw the mountain of ingredients required for this one meal:
Like the coriander, I was beginning to wilt. Too late, I realised that I really should have done that dry run. That feeling became stronger as I came across various entries in the recipes which, on reflection, weren't entirely clear. For example, what type of cream should it be - single, double or whipping? What constitutes a "gentle heat" for an enormous casserole? Does "whipping" involve using a whisk, a fork or a spoon (wooden or metal)? And how do you cook 4 dishes simultaneously, with only two ovens, when each one requires a different temperature?
Fortunately I couldn't afford to waste time pondering, as my schedule was tight. I decided to spread the pain over three days, to ease the pressure, and settled down on the Thursday to make the chocolate brownies and the marinade for the chicken and apricot tagine. That should have been pretty straightforward, but the brownies didn't set properly and I couldn't risk popping them back in the oven later as the tops were quite crisp in places - verging on burnt, really. At least they tasted OK and I hoped that after a couple of days in the fridge, they'd firm up a bit. The marinade was fairly simple and it was fun using lots of spices.
The weather on Friday was lovely and I looked ruefully out of the kitchen, where I remained for the entire day. The first mishap came early on, when I started making the chicken and apricot tagine. I'd been advised to make double the quantity in the recipe, but in fact that would have been enough for about 16 people rather than just 8. The problem was that by the time I'd added 6 onions, 8 cloves of garlic, 120g of sultanas, 4 tablespoons of honey, 2 preserved lemons, and 400g of dried apricots, my largest saucepan was overflowing - and I still had 1.5 litres of chicken stock and 4 cans of chopped tomatoes to go. In the end I transferred it all to a jumbo mixing bowl, added the remaining ingredients and wondered what to do next:
Obviously what I should have done was divided the mixture into my 2 largest casserole dishes before adding the tomatoes and stock, as it would then have been relatively easy to stir it and make sure it was thoroughly blended. As it was, I now had an overflowing bowl with the ingredients sitting in separate layers. My only option was to ladle out successive layers, in roughly pro rata amounts (the casserole dishes were clearly different sizes but I didn't know the capacity of either of them), and give them a good stir. This wasn't a promising start, but at least I'd finished that section and the 2 casseroles were in the top and main ovens, cooking at my best guess of what a "gentle heat" was meant to be.
As the ovens were going to be occupied for the next two hours, I moved on to the starters. First was the beetroot dip, which had a surprising number of ingredients: beetroot, carrot, garlic, coriander, cinnamon, orange juice, fresh chilli, salt and pepper, fresh dill, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and lemon juice. It seemed to be proceeding smoothly and was certainly an attractive colour:
It was meant to bubble quietly until the carrot was softish, but some considerable time later the carrot was still definitely crunchy. Eventually I gave up and moved on to the next stage, transferring it all to the food processor and pulsing it "until you have the texture you like". After blitzing it for ages, it hadn't reached that point. Not even close - unless you like little lumps of hard carrot. I noticed that the mixture was increasingly coating the sides of the food processor and I reckoned it wasn't close enough to the blades for them to have much impact. I couldn't face starting again - and anyway I was out of beetroot - so I added a splash of orange juice, a bit more olive oil and some balsamic vinegar, and tried pulsing it again. It was a definite improvement so I kept adding more liquid until the carrots had been reduced to teensy lumps, which seemed as much as I could hope for.
Hummus next. Surely I couldn't go wrong with that? Happily not and I enjoyed using tahini for the first time ever.
Then it was time for the tzatziki. It was interesting watching the cucumber liquid slowly drip out of the sieve, once I'd added the salt, and the smell was wonderfully refreshing, especially when I added some finely chopped mint.
While the cucumber was draining, I got cracking with the root vegetable tagine. Like most of Ottolenghi's recipes, it had an impressive list of ingredients: carrots, parsnips, banana shallots (I'd never heard of them before), cinnamon sticks, star anise (wonderfully fragrant and pretty, too), bay leaves, olive oil, salt, ground ginger, ground turmeric, paprika, chilli flakes, butternut squash, dried apricots, chickpeas, harissa (a first for me) and preserved lemon. Margaret had recommended a particular make of potato peeler - a Zyliss - and it made a huge difference. She replaces hers every two years, so the blade is always sharp. Compared to my old peeler, it made remarkably quick work of the parsnips. I'd strongly recommend it, especially if you have arthritic hands.
The recipe said that the carrots should be cut into 2cm chunks and to anyone with the slightest knowledge of cooking, that's probably crystal clear. In my case I was a bit stumped. Did it mean the equivalent of 2cm squared for each piece, or slices that were roughly 2cm thick? I decided to hedge my bets and do some of each. After they'd been roasting for 15 minutes, I was meant to add the butternut squash - at which point I remembered it was still in the freezer. To my shame - but not to his surprise - I had to ask Peter how the microwave worked, as I couldn't get the timer started. Once the squash had more or less defrosted, I added it to the roasting tin and carried on for another 35 minutes.
I was then supposed to add the apricots, chickpeas and chickpea liquid, but I noticed that the larger pieces of carrot were extremely hard, so I hastily cut them into smaller chunks (as per the recipe, duh) and gave the whole lot another 10 minutes in the oven. It all emerged looking quite appetising, which was encouraging.
By now the sun was well and truly over the yard arm, but I still had to make the little filo lemon pastries. I'd never used filo pastry before, other than on the cookery course, and it's quite fiddly to cut without risking it drying out. First, though, I had to make the lemon cream filling. I couldn't remember exactly what zesting a lemon meant, so had to break off to google it - and then rummage around to find my zester at the back of the drawer.
When I tried whipping the cream "to ribbon stage", using a fork - maybe a spoon would have been better? - nothing happened. Dead as a dodo. Might it be because it was single rather than double cream? I added some Greek yoghurt in the hope of thickening it, but the only change was that it now smelled rather sour. Peter nobly whizzed over to Sainsbury's for me and bought some double cream, and I tried again. Still not a trace of any ribbons, and by now the whisked egg and sugar had gone flat. I tried injecting some life by whisking it again and then gave up and moved on to the next stage, slowly adding the cream and the lemon to the egg mixture. I now know what curdling looks like. I decided it was worth whisking it again and that did seem to improve it, though it was still no more than a slightly frothy liquid and definitely not a cream.
Fortunately the filo pastries looked delicate and attractively shaped - thanks to Margaret's tip of using two separate layers of pastry, bound together with some dabs of melted butter, and placed diagonally across one another - and the lemon liquid fluffed up a little during the baking. Only a few broke as I was lifting them out of the special baking tray, and as that left me with 21, I wasn't bothered. It also gave me a chance to taste a broken one and it was reassuringly crisp and citrussy.
I should have carried on and made the couscous, but I'd had enough for the day and collapsed onto the settee with a restorative martini.
It was as well I'd done virtually all the cooking in advance, as there was plenty to do on the Saturday before the guests arrived for dinner. The couscous, which I'd never used before, proved easy and - while Peter vacuumed and I cleared away accumulated books, papers, correspondence etc - we worked out a seating plan. I laid the table, retrieved our best china (my mother's old Royal Worcester) from a cupboard in the garage and washed it. I also made a list of the final steps required for each of the dishes and at the last minute remembered to prepare two plates of vegetable crudites. We were all set:
The guests duly assembled, two of them (completely independently of one another) having already explained that they'd set Sunday aside in case of food poisoning. I'd warned them they might arrive to find me lying on the floor, in denial and clutching a bottle of gin, but by then I was looking forward to it. Their generosity - I'd asked them if they would make a donation to Beating Bowel Cancer or Arthritis Research UK, rather than bringing wine or flowers - meant that whatever happened, the evening would achieve the objective of helping others; and they are such a lively, friendly group of friends and neighbours, we were sure to have a laugh.
To my relief the three starters - tzatziki, hummus and beetroot dip, with vegetable crudites and grissini - went down well and not a scrap was left. The chicken and apricot tagine, the root vegetable tagine (a vegan dish) and the heated plates were ready on time, the couscous - decorated with black olives, pomegranate seeds, toasted flaked almonds, and freshly chopped mint and coriander - looked attractive, and we were all happy:
Finally there were the puddings - chocolate brownies and little lemon cream filo pastries, dusted with icing sugar and with a raspberry on each one. I'd put the pastries back in the oven for a few minutes as they'd gone a little soggy, and they still weren't as crisp as I'd have liked, but they tasted good and disappeared swiftly:
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