The Romance Of Nomadic Cooking
when i close my eyes –
I can still see strands of summer flickering against my eyelids. I can hear the wind rustling the meadow flowers, the coast buzz gently in the background; the salt, the sea, the drifting away.
It was the tipping point between spring and summer. Right at the zenith of this (whatever this was – a relationship shrouded in secrecy; unrequited lust; a wild, toxic obsession) I started working for a chef.
We were lighting fires in iron-wrought barrels on beaches, clifftops, fields and farms. We grew in numbers and in secrets shared over family meals. We smoked whole chickens for a table of thirty on a farm in Devon, staying past sunset, clearing plates amongst empty bottles of wine and the clamour of kids and friends and strangers.
We stirred cauldrons of beans, slowly simmering – salted, creamed and spiked. We chopped herbs, tomatoes, citrus and occasionally fingers (guilty). We learnt how to chiffonade. We met Ottolenghi. We danced in the valley.
We stood on tired feet for hours on end, and we moved wherever the food took us. We were distracted – I was distracted, from the deep haze of a love marked by shame.
I think of that summer as the turning point of how I thought about food. Before then, food had been a vehicle to fill the void, to move me into comfort, to get through the day.
But now, food was a story. It was a way to move others. It wasn’t about filling a void, it was about creating a moment - where memories and feelings can be held in lemon-speared pools of olive oil, the smoked pinkness of lamb, the salted crunch of dukkah.
I miss that summer. I miss the exhaustion of it all. I miss looking up after we’d packed the van and seeing stars hang bright in the midnight sky. I’d catch the smell of smoke on my clothes, clutching a tupperware full of leftovers, knowing I’d make a meal out of something great the next morning in the shed. But first sleep.
It’s different to working in restaurants – the nomadic, roving movement of cooking for guests in different places every time.
But when I moved to London and first stepped into Jolene on Newington Green, I felt that excitement. That people were being moved by food and atmosphere and music and wine. I wanted in on that. I considered applying for a front of house position, in the interim month that I was unemployed. The moment passed.
Now, when I walk into Jolene, it’s a reminder of how the behind-the-scenes family of cooking can come to the fore, and make you feel like you’re part of the action.
This recipe pays homage to lessons learnt in Cornwall, by chefs who have marked my appreciation of food – and also to the best dish I’ve ever eaten at Jolene.
Here’s to food that moves you, and the people who set it all in motion.
Cat x
another reason to love lentils.
This is the kind of dish you need when the weather suddenly turns and all you want is comfort, heat and indulgence. It also happens to be so easy that you can rustle it up in an hour, for example when you’re so indecisive about what to eat on a Friday night that you go to the convenience store and pick up four cartons of oat milk, a bottle of wine, lentils and burrata and think – how is this going to make a meal?
Here’s what you need: 1-2 cups of puy lentils, 1 carrot – diced, ½ white onion – diced, 3-4 garlic cloves – crushed, 500-750 ml vegetable stock, a small handful of thyme, 1 tbsp wholegrain mustard, 1 tbsp dijon mustard, a small bowl of chopped kale/cavolo nero, burrata, olive oil, chilli flakes, butter, salt pepper, lemon zest, chopped chives, dill and parsley – including the stalks of the last two.
(1) First off add the onion and carrot to a high-sided pot (on a low-medium heat) with olive oil (pour for as long as it takes to consider whether you find Connell’s chain from Normal People weirdly sexy, the answer is yes you do). (2) Once softened, add the crushed garlic and about 1tsp chilli flakes along with a generous pinch of salt and grind of pepper. (3) Add the thyme (don’t worry about taking the tiny leaves of the stalk, just chuck all of it in) and as soon as it smells like French countryside kitchen, add the lentils and the stock. (4) Bring it to the boil then turn the heat right down. Don’t cover the pot, just let the lentils soak up the moisture.
Keep checking on it – it should take about 30 minutes. You want the lentils to have a little bite (not to melt into the mixture). (5) When you think they’re done, add about two fingers of butter (or DF alternative), as well as both mustards. (6) Stir in the greens – the kale or cavalo nero, and the chopped stalks of parsley and dill. Take it off the heat and transfer it to your counter. (7) Chuck in all the herbs (chives, leaves of parsley and dill – I have no measurements for this, I put in a lot so just base it on your own love/hate of herbs).
(8) Spoon the lentils into a big bowl, drain the burrata and place on top. (9) Slice through the middle so the creamy centre oozes into the lentils, then scatter some more herbs, salt, pepper and lemon zest. (10) Finish with a little swirl of olive oil. Enjoy with a glass of red and Normal People on iPlayer.
food stories.
– I've read Sweetbitter eight times. Do the same then watch the adaptation feat. Tom Sturridge.
– You need to make time to watch the Bon Appétit Test Kitchen Variety Show on YouTube.
– Really feeling Ruth Reichl's view on condiments via the FT's 'How I Spend It'.
a few leftovers.
La Tua pasta is what you need delivered right now
Dreaming of this burrata toast vibe
Learn how to make salsa verde with Honey Hi
Anyone get in on Anna Jones' filo pie cook-along last night?
Obviously want Alison Roman's pasta with feta, lemon and zucchini forever
Inspired by Samin Nosrat to make a MASSIVE lasagne
David Chang's got your back for easy chicken thighs
Very much need this ginger grater from Native & Co
the soundtrack.
I made a Normal People playlist because I enjoy torturing myself listening to Hide & Seek by Imogen Heap on repeat. If you're into the same masochistic tendencies, here you go. But because life is also about balance, here's a smooth seventies (ish) soundtrack for those Sunday afternoon cook ups.
and finally.
a little insight into how I plan meals.
and if you like what I'm putting down?
Tell your friends! Tell your family! Tell your lovers!