Leftovers #137

I’m coming back to life and it might have something to do with the 300 miles. The roads that get me down to the coast are muscle memory at this point. I’ve been driving them since I was 18 years old. The first signs of returning to myself began in Crantock in the annex I’ve been staying in ever since my friend Becca turned it into a desert-coded paradise. To have my own space on the other side of the wall, where we hide away from the world and eat her famous porridge or whatever meal I’ve cooked up (usually daal, Sad Pasta or a tortilla with various salads) and catch up on life, draw tarot cards and reminisce about when we lived down the road from one another. Part two came in the form of the little cottage with a big dog, courtesy of Becky, who called me up and asked if I wanted a chicken casserole for dinner. I rarely ask people to look after me but I do remember vividly sitting on her sofa before Christmas and gently enquiring if she’d make me porridge for dinner. The following night I found my way back to the Helford and pulled up to Lucy’s, a heavenly white thatched cottage with a bright red door and twinkling with festoon lights and stars. I’ll write more about this place – dubbed the home of self-inquiry by many of our friends – this weekend (yes the essay returns!). For now I’m enjoying hearing the hens peep to one another and knowing tonight brings a crackling fire and a bowl of pasta e fagioli with an old friend.

Before midnight pasta, mustardy beans etc

I tend to make pasta when there are parameters surrounding the circumstances I find myself in. Namely a lack of options or a lack of time. I find that pasta is best when there are limitations. I arrived at the cottage around 8pm, hungry after a more active than expected yoga session, and required sustenance almost immediately. The cupboards provided me with spaghetti, anchovies, lemon, garlic, dried chilli and good olive oil. What else do you need? I heated up the anchovy oil and about 3 big fillets, through in 2 roughly chopped garlic cloves and the zest of 1/4 lemon. Then went in a pinch of dried chilli flakes. I was tempted to throw in some gochujang (as I’m wont to do) but I wanted that silky strands to be slippery and butter-yellow. I boiled the spaghetti in salted water until just after it hits al dente, then spooned a ladle of pasta water in. Finished the pasta off in the pan and stirred through some parmesan. If I had soft herbs that would be have been the cherry on top!

The next night was reserved for chicken, and I’ll share the perfect weeknight roast recipe next week – it follows the rule of three (ok four if you count the sauce) and only uses up 3 cooking vessels. The potatoes were giving dauphinoise but there wasn’t an ounce of cream in sight. The next day I prepped a quart of stock and used it to make a big pot of brothy beans spiked with a spoonful of wholegrain of mustard, chopped spinach and crumbly feta (I’m weirdly obsessed with Sainsbury’s organic feta - it’s so creamy and tart), then topped it all off with some leftover chicken, a dollop of yoghurt and a sprinkling of homemade dukkah. Ate it by the fire watching Playing Nice (terrible but watchable).

---

Things to eat this weekend