Salty Summer Holidays
the french call it les grandes vacances –
Two months of sun-soaked escapism. School holidays on steroids – the thing we all dream of.
When I was younger, it was family roadtrips in America, crossing state lines and singing in the car. I remember one particular sojourn on the East Coast, where we stopped off in Bar Harbour, Maine. We spent a glorious week in swimming pools, making new friends and eating hot, creamy, unctuous clam chowder and lobster dipped into warm, golden butter at all hours of the day.
There were car journeys up to Scotland, down to Cornwall and across the channel to France, accented by baguettes, French butter, fresh seafood and Carrefour wine. Some of my favourite summer holidays involve driving up to Blackpool with just Dad, bound for the Pleasure Beach where I’d ride the Grand National and Pepsi Max until I felt sick. We’d stay in a little B&B where the main highlight for us both was the greasy breakfast spread, because there’s nothing like grease-soaked fried bread, thick-cut bacon, salty, herby, spiced Cumberland sausages, slightly overdone eggs and a bowl of baked beans to sate your rollercoaster appetite.
At university there was a trip to France where we stayed in a villa that overlooked the Pyrenees, a soothing mix of hot summer sun and cool mountain air. The pool was icy cold, and was a morning respite for me and my brother. We’d have bread, cheese, ham and salad for lunch, and I spent seven whole days writing a play sat at the table outside, fuelled by coffee and pastries.
And then there are the summer holidays you take alone. Island hopping in Greece at 18, where the only thing to do was eat thick Greek yoghurt with heavenly honey all day on the beach, waiting for the sun to translate pale to golden; and then fresh-that-day calamari, perfectly crisped and spiked with lemon juice and nothing else. Or the Italian getaways where you gorge yourself on pasta, olive oil, salt and sun. Or weeks in the Basque country caught in a heatwave, watching the sunset while you swim out to the rocks after the most perfect Galician txuleton steak, seared on the flames at Bar Nestor and served simply with ice-cold dressed tomatoes, blistered then salted Padron peppers and a velveteen Rioja.
I couldn’t be more grateful for these bursts of escapism over the years. This year looks a little different – but no less glorious, thanks to a few returns to Cornwall, which – when you know all the secret spots – is still as sun-snogged and salt-flecked as any other jaunt across the Atlantic.
And there are the films that I can’t help but escape into: Call Me By Your Name, Un Amour Jeunesse, Une Fille Facile and of course the Before Sunrise trilogy, which epitomises that heady, hapless, helpless teenage summer romance we all yearn for again. Anything to not feel the weight of heartbreak; just the lightness of lust.
So here’s to past summer holidays and the ones we’ll have again. In the meantime, there’s always Netflix.
Cat x
chickeny salad.
True story: I get nervous everytime I go to the butchers. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m not as au fait with buying meat, but I feel I have to have a specific order so I don’t get it wrong. I go in reciting “one small whole chicken, around 1.5kg”, which I always ask for and then am inevitably upsold the Packington, which is about twice the price (but also twice as delicious). I’m not sure when I got so scared of saying no and demanding the less fancy, less expensive option, but I always feel quite flustered and end up going along with it. Perhaps because the butchers in Stokey are quite handsome, I feel a sense of school-girl nervousness. Anyway, I always end up paying £13 for my chicken, which of course I will eat alone (not for sympathy, literally just facts).
But good lord, it tastes good.
When I roast a chicken (which I try to do every other week, for the stock and because it feels like a nice ritual), I keep the dish very simple, letting the tenderness of the chook do the talking.
First, preheat the oven to 200º. You’ll need one whole chicken (you don’t need to go for a fancy one if you are less idiotic than me in a butchers/your local supermarket). Salt it generously (I mean, honestly, really go for it because it will draw some of the moisture out and make the skin extra crispy), and then stuff it with a mixed bunch of herbs like rosemary, sage, thyme or oregano. Arrange one whole lemon sliced into quarters in the pan and place the chicken centre stage. Pour over olive or rapeseed oil, then crack some blacked pepper and add a big pinch of dukkah.
Place it in the oven for about 45 minutes, but check on it halfway through to baste with its own juices. Once the juices run clear and it’s properly cooked, leave it to rest for at least 20 minutes.
For the salad, tear up some crispy leaves (for me it’s radicchio 4EVA) and thinly slice half a bulb of fennel, a bit of cuke and one large spring onion. Grab a fistful of fresh herbs (I usually have parsley and dill in the fridge) and mix everything together. If you have pomegranate seeds, chuck them in, and maybe a little scattering of sesame seeds. Make a simple mustard vinaigrette using one part mustard, one part honey, one part vinegar, two parts oil and a squeeze of lemon to brighten things up. Season as much or as little as you’d like, then toss the salad with all that goodness. Carve up the chicken and make sure to dress the salad with a big spoonful of that chicken juice. If you want to be extra fance, remove all the skin from the chicken, place it on a tray, salt it and put it under the grill for 10 minutes so you get some crunchy chicken skins in that salad vibe. Toast some nuts (pistachios work well), and add for a final flourish.
Eat it watching Une Fille Facile on Netflix and pretend you’re on a boat in Cannes.
food stories.
– Less about food and more about summer holidays; heavenly all the same. Deborah Levy on Majorca for The New York Times.
– The New Yorker's Bill Buford on the summer magic of a salade niçoise
– Alison Roman's latest newsletter is also all about chicken and salad (but she obviously gave a better recipe than me – it involves schmaltzy croutons).
a few leftovers.
– Whipped ricotta, fresh tomatos, za'atar oil – nothing better?
– A sausage roll in a sandwich IS the hangover breakfast of dreams
– CHICKPEA SALAD FOR THE WIN
– Just fig season, you know?
– If you're not topping your gnocchi with garlic pangrattato, are you living?
– My pal (food stylist) Tamara Vos and her feelings in rice – 100% agree
– Italian summer vibes feat. anchovies and ponzu beets
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