But It's Not My Kitchen

On ownership and dancing in your own kitchen

Food For Thought.

I could never be a chef. I like an early night. I wilt in high-pressure environments. And I find it impossible to cook in any other kitchen than my own.

This doesn't stop me from trying. At friend's places, where I always offer to cook a meal to say thank you. In foreign Airbnbs, a mixed back of homely, lived-in kitchens; and the sterile ones which look like they've never been used. Or the house I grew up in, stuffed full of my mother's pots and pans. Keeping a cool head when cooking is difficult enough for me. Throw in a kitchen that's not mine and it's a recipe for disaster.

To me, my kitchen is like a map I've written. I know every ridge and line, all the rocky paths and shortcuts, directions for any destination. There's an unwritten system. A process only my kitchen can accommodate. To anyone else, it might not make sense. But there's that intuitive, muscle-memory sense of ease when reaching for an ingredient without having to wonder where it's kept. Of using the right pans for the right dishes and knowing exactly how they react. The cast iron that needs to be searing hot then immediately turned down. The trick with each hob. The cupboard essentials you know you have.

Cooking for myself in my kitchen becomes more of a dance. A fluid movement from chopping board to oven, cupboard to pan. Pouring myself a silky glass of wine in my favourite cup. Using the knife that cuts through things like warm butter. Reaching for a jar full of salad dressing that's already been made. Leafing through cook books, dog-eared and sauce-splattered pages to remind me of the old favourites. The warm light of the kitchen lamp. The 9kg bag of rice by my door. Cleaning up as I go. Eating while standing up at the counter, grabbing extra parm, extra soy, extra salt, extra everything.

I'm a creature of habit. I like familiarity and order – but only when I've done it myself. I’m sure I could deep-dive into the link between this and my voracious need to control everything in my life, but I’ll leave that for my future therapist to decode. I probably won't stop cooking in other people's kitchens because making a meal of it is what I do. But there's nothing like dancing back into your own.

Recipes-not-recipes™️

Cornish Carbonara™️ is a new term I'm coining for this dish that arised from a failed attempt at making buckwheat risotto. My dramatics rendered that meal bin-worthy, but luckily I'd already picked up a few local and seasonal ingredients from The Natural Store, a firm Fal favourite, so after a moody walk to the shop to grab some tagliatelle, I began again.

Start by roasting your squash or pumpkin. I used a Crown Prince squash, sliced it fairly thinly (keeping the skins on) and drizzled it with olive oil, salt, pepper and chilli flakes. A few thyme sprigs wouldn't go amiss. Roast in the oven (around 200ºC) for 25-ish minutes, or until tender. Slice the white part of one leek in half then half again, drizzle with olive oil, season with salt and pepper and grill for around 20 minutes, so it gets a nice char on top.

Fry up some quartered mushrooms in a generous knob of butter and set aside once cooked. In a big bowl, add two egg yolks and a hefty amount of grated parmesan (or pecorino) along with a few big twists of pepper. Give it a little whisk. It'll go a bit clumpy but we'll smooth that out later. Cook your pasta in salted water and just before it's done cooking, ladle some pasta water into your egg yolk/parm mixture. Whisk it in so it turns into something a little saucy.

Set aside some more pasta water, drain the pasta then add it into the egg yolk bowl along with the leeks and mushrooms. Toss through and pour it into a pan on a low heat, adding a little more pasta water for that silky gloss. More pepper perhaps. Add the squash once served up, with a nice glug of extra v and another showering of parmesan. I dressed a beautiful bowl of Cornish leaves with a mustard vinaigrette: one spoonful of dijon mustard, a squeeze of honey, a pour of extra v, a splash of apple cider vinegar, a big pinch of salt and twist of pepper, all into the bottom of a salad bowl. Whisk then use your fingers to get that dressing into every part of the leaves.

Leftovers.

• It’s sage season, therefore, Rachel Alice Roddy’s sage and pistachio pesto

• As ever, very into Haley Nahman’s musings in her newsletter Maybe Baby

• Not a baker, but even I’m tempted by this lemony olive oil cake c/o Bon Appétit

• This Vox podcast episode on the Astroworld tragedy, featuring a conversation with a crowd scientist on how it could have been avoided

• Yinka from @foodfiresoul’s voice is almost as delicious as this Bombay potato flower situation

• I actively seek out @cabincorn’s videos, which makes me want to move to Northern California (again) and prepare mussels on the beach

• Take me to New York and sit me in this booth with a martini at American Bar

• I love the detail of @food.cations’ ingredients illustrations