We’re not quite nose to tail yet, are we?

220px-pizzletreat

Google eating bulls penis in Korea if you want to see strut-eating at its worst where a parade of culinary scalp hunters eat something they consider to be so out there, the only way they can do it is via a series of dissembling jokes. This self-consciousness masked by bravado does such a disservice to foods which might appear odd to them and possibly terribly threatening to their sexuality, but are pretty basic bitch elsewhere. Clarissa Dickson Wright talked about the popularity of penis as a lunchtime street food in London in her TV series, Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner so it seems like we’ve become estranged from animal parts that remind us most of our own bodies. Organ meats can appear pretty visceral on the butchers slab but we’ve never seen our own human equivalents so there’s a corporeal disconnect on some level which may make it easier to cook and eat some parts of the animal than others, irrespective of how they actually taste.

I first ate bulls penis (hwangsoui seong-gi 황소의 성기) in Busan in the early eighties when I was a teenager staying in this southern Korean seaside city where my father was working. Based at Haeundae Beach where a smattering of international hotel guests were pandered to with tuna club sandwiches and neutered versions of local cuisine, I was constantly in trouble for roaming the streets, meeting local teenagers and playing hooky from the roster my parents had set. Starving hungry from hiking up Jangsan Mountain where we’d dare each other to annoy the soldiers who patrolled the fenced-off minefields, I’d snub the hotels five restaurants, return to the town, and slurp up bowls of goodness knows what from the hawker stalls along the promenade.

Chosun Beach Hotel, Busan
Chosun Beach Hotel, Busan

Having visited before, I was accustomed to eating meals where the ingredients were unknown and we were often invited into the homes of the locals my father worked with to eat, but that night we were served bulls penis it wasn’t much of a challenge to identify what was on the menu. Perched on a bench, sweating in the oppressive humidity of a late summer evening, what initially resembled snipped-up, flayed eels soon came into sharp focus. A bulls penis can be more than two feet long and cooks usually split along its urethra then slice the two halves into thick coins; diners can expect to be presented with an organ whose tough visceral membrane has been removed and then washed out as carefully as good chitlins are. Seen scaled up, you can appreciate a dick in all its hydraulic glory and marvel that erectile dysfunction isn’t more common in animals as well as humans. Mine still had part of its sigmoid flexure attached and the entire organ had been sliced longitudinally then boiled in a tenderising chili-infused stock before getting the hot coal treatment.

The dissection and boiling was bold but fresh penile tissue will contract and shrivel up when it hits the heat of the coals  and without that tenderising bath you’ll end up with a dog chew. As a prelude to the bulgogi which was the main event, a pot of burning hot coals had already been slotted into a hole in the centre of the table  and five or six penes were placed inside special cages that resembled lacrosse sticks. These rested on the coals and the basting sauce was mopped onto the meat using a brush with bristles as long as a hippies ponytail.

My penis wasn’t served with a garnish of culinary philosophy. There was no menu detailing chef’s conversion to nose to tail eating and the locals simply ordered, waited, then ate and nobody patted themselves on the back for being daring. I didn’t feel adventurous; the only thing I will not eat as a matter of course is porridge no matter how artfully it is presented because it is the devils work as far as I am concerned. The penile flesh was smokey hot, patched with char and packed a hefty, gluey bounce and fightback in the mouth. I chewed and chewed, I chewed some more and then I swallowed. A good eater should always swallow.

Penis is not a culinary treat by any stretch of the imagination. Even ten hours of cooking will fail to produce anything better than a brutalised gummy bear but texture is important to Korean diners. What I do share with these guys is a carelessness about eating the bits that make others blanch but I’m not referring to that daft nonsense where culinary scalp-hunters go in search of the most outrageous and rarest meals so they can tell you all about it via Buzzfeed or Vice. This always seems to other the cuisine of the nations concerned in the process and I really don’t want to do that.

Eating low on the hog was, and is something that I give little thought to, and not because I was a massively over-privileged and precocious food brat. It was simply how we cooked and ate, probably because I was nurtured in such a way as to expose me to homely cooking in different parts of the world and when I came back to Blighty I didn’t go back to the kinds of food other British children in my neighbourhood ate. It’s hard not to feel a certain loftiness about the nose to tail movement because thus it ever was with us. My Midlands relatives would certainly not think it appropriate to praise a child for eating black pudding, liver, tripe, scratchings and faggots, haslet or cow heel in that affected way you see now, but we’d get a clip round the ear if we left any of it. Nor would my broad tastes be regarded as anything other than expected by the Mexican people who took my catholic appetites for granted because it was simply unthinkable for a small child to exert any kind of control or influence over the family diet. This didn’t mean that they neglected our palates, far from it, but spiritual and religious attitudes towards nourishment and gratitude precluded fussiness.

Try turning down a bowl of menudo after someone has slaughtered their animal, broke its carcass down, cleaned miles of intestines then turned some of them into a soupy bowl of stew. Its eating was as communal as the slaughter, an act of reconciliation and thanks, driven by hunger and crowned by a sense of communal satiation. Waste was fiscally and morally unthinkable and superstition came into it too: in northern Mexico our housekeeper’s mother strongly believed that discarded leftovers, tossed carelessly on the ground ‘for the chickens’ would poison it for crops forever more.”Dios lo sabrá,” she’d scold me when I left a few scrapings on the plate and off she’d go to hunt down a scrap of tortilla to mop the plate with because the marriage of two leftovers in one meal turned it into a sacramental act.

So I don’t differentiate between high and low and I abhor snobbery in food. I don’t congratulate myself when I find something to cook from larder sweepings because it has always been this way. Delicious is delicious but I know that for some people, cooking with offal is a bigger deal, and believe me, there is no implied criticism contained in that statement, just a desire to shine a light on some of the animal parts that in the UK, you might not have encountered before.

I’ve enjoyed pots of chicken necks slow-braised then given a few minutes to blister under a grill, the flesh rubbed with aromatics for a final flourish; and assorted lights, viscera and skin of various critters have been fried, boiled, roasted and stewed then served up. Gelatinous pigs tails with blistered skin and soft as silk meat were served up on street corners near to the small units where the Guadalajaran glass blowers plied their trade. Thrust into a charcoal brazier until they ran with fat, these bronzed little corkscrews were placed inside a corn husk in order to catch the scalding hot drippings. If you’ve read Laura Ingalls Wilder, you’ll know this part of the pig is fought over and damn right it should be but curly tails are far more fun for a child to eat than their straighter brethren although better chefs than I have rhapsodised over the latter. Either way, the fact that the skin covering a pigs tail remains in place (unlike oxtail) means that each sticky-lipped bite contains a perfect ratio of skin to meat to partially broken down tendon and cartilage. Ask your butcher: they can get tails, necks and other bits for you, and they are usually super cheap.

0007600933333_A.jpeg

There’s plenty of porky adventuring still to be had if you’re doing the Disney thing in Florida. Keep on driving north of the Disney complex where neutered interpretations of world cuisine threaten to kill gustatory curiosity and you’ll enter the classic Deep South. Stop at a country store and there on the counter will most likely be opaque jars full of murky red liquid where pickled pigs lips float and bump against the plastic walls. That spooky red liquor they float in isn’t blood by the way, it’s red dye which for some reason is traditionally used. Slightly bloated like all floaters are wont to be after a few days of immersion, they are less disturbing than you’d think in this age of plastic Hollywood trout pouts; basically what Babe the Pig would look like after a few months wed to a Kardashian. Regarded as a classic dive bar snack in Louisiana and immortalised by rappers VP and Breezybee in their 2014 rap, “Pig lips, boudin and chips” the eating of them is encoded within the DNA of many southerners who know to create a tension between chaw and crunch by matching them bite for bite with the jagged shards of potato crisps. Bash the bag of chips on the counter first, then bung in the lips and give the bag a good old shake. It’s working class panko, basically and if you can bear the idea of a pickled egg inside a packet of crisps, this isn’t that much of a leap, truly.

Want to try lips? It’s not easy to buy them ready-pickled in the UK but if you are US-based, you can order online from the Pickled Store. These aren’t Johnny Come Lately pig lips, the Pickled Store say, so don’t mistake them for a postmodern version all lubed up with irony so as to allow them free passage through your gullet without the triggering of cultural and class insecurities. These haven’t been fiddled with by a young buck of a chef seeking to make their mark on the world by introducing a new crowd to a reinterpreted old faithful. Your gorge will have to cope with their defiantly unreconstructed nature although their congruence with our own animal parts plays a role in ensuring good animal husbandry, surely? It’s harder to countenance animal cruelty when you identify with said animal unless you’re vegan and don’t believe in eating them at all, in which case this post is probably not for you. The company have been making their pigs lips to the same recipe since 1933 and their customer testimonials lay bare the love we all have for certain foods, no matter how peculiar they sound to others.

So will the nose to tail movement result in pigs lips moving out of the country store and gas station and onto our (higher-end) plates? Will ex-bankers running food trucks suddenly see the labial light? My money isn’t on bulls penes becoming the latest trailer snack in the UK, that’s for sure but pig lips and tails? They should be. It’s possible that the popularity of crispy pigs ears and porky heads on plates has groomed us to eat the other facial features solo. And I’m definitely comfortable with betting £50 on the likelihood of barbecued pigs tails becoming more popular over here.

20120110_235952-jpg_1718483346
Caldo de carda

So where else do they eat animal penes?

In Jamaica, cow cod soup is bull penis is stewed with bananas, rum and peppers and is used as an aphrodisiac.

In Bolivia, caldo de cardan is similar and is also a popular hangover cure.  The soup takes its name because it is believed a bulls penis is similar to a cars drive shaft. Lengthy braising (ten hours +) concentrates the broth and helps develop taurine, it is believed, before beef, chicken and an entire lamb rib alongside boiled egg, rice and potato are added.

Malaysians eat beef torpedo soup to increase male virility. The thick and spicy broth is spiced with fennel seeds, cinnamon, garlic, and cloves and diners can enhance the symbolic potency of the dish by building it up with more bones and tendons.

A North African recipe serves the penis cut cross-wise, scalded, skinned, drained then boiled and sliced. Aromatics in the form of onions, garlic and coriander flavour the flesh as it is slow fried in oil and then added to vegetables, then braised for another couple of hours.

Yemeni Geed has chopped peppers, tomatoes and cumin and saffron added to the braise. The Yemenite Jews eat Gulasz z Penisa, a stew made with ram or bulls penis, too.

.

Back to my [French] roots

16885930361_af83433876_b
Pêche à Pied | Plage de Mousterlin Finistère| Pierre Guezingar /Flickr

In my early teens, I taught myself to cook using a battered copy of Julia Child’s Art of French Cooking then refined my techniques with Richard Olney’s Simple French Food as the children came along. I already had hundreds of American and Mexican cookbooks but some ancient prejudice inside me kept whispering that until I had mastered the basics of French country cooking, I had no business regarding myself as a formed -and informed- cook. I roped in the local librarian after she enquired why I had kept Child out on permanent loan and she began to recommend other, less well-known authors whilst encouraging me to read recipes in the original French. One of her recommendations found its way onto my own library of cookbooks when she decommissioned it from her shelves and sold the book to me for 20p. This was Geraldine Holt’s French Country Kitchen and it soon became part of my culinary motherboard. Holt’s ability to marry traditional regional French recipes with her own inventions, the latter inspired by the Midi and its ingredients and techniques, encouraged me to stray from the strict edicts of la cuisine Française but only after I had grasped its tenets.

s-l500.jpg

I used to spend large parts of the summer in Brittany, either on holiday with my warring parents or staying as a houseguest of Caroline who I met on a Brittany Ferry crossing to St Malo and became firm friends with. Caroline lived near Paimpol, a small fishing town with its own fleet of boats and locals who gathered seafood from the nearby salt flats and marshes where we also learned to windsurf. The dark grey mud of the marshes teemed with oyster shells, tiny fish eye-sized cockles and turgid winkles, all of which we were instructed to gather after our planche á voile lessons finished. Watched by the sheep (known as agneau pré-salé) who grazed the halophytic grasses nearby, we’d plunge knee-deep into the sludgy, muddy rivulets and clean off the shells and our legs with bunches of samphire.

It was Caroline who introduced me to globe artichokes and tried not to laugh at the baffled expression on my face as her family sat around the table, small wicker baskets clamped between their knees for catching the discarded leaves, as they dragged off the soft lump of flesh that clung to the base of each leaf with their teeth.

So passionate about artichokes were they that their garden contained at least six varieties mulched with seaweed from the local saltmarsh, their tender new shoots banked with mounds of silky silt. Finest of all were the Fiesole artichokes with leaves of deepest wine which kept their colour and required only the lightest of steams to bring out their metallic fruitiness. Bred from the Violetta de Provence, a lighter purple variety native to southern France, the Fiesoles were delicate enough to be eaten whole either with butter, lemon juice and salt or a walnut and garlic sauce, similar to Holt’s extremely versatile aillade Toulousaine. How a sauce in the style of Toulouse got to NE Brittany I did not ask but when I first made Holt’s version, it transported me right back there.

These last few years have seen me drift away from French country food. I have always been a keen cook of regional American food and preparing Creole and Cajun feasts kept me in touch with my classical French roots, in a manner of speaking. Faites Simple! means eliminate the superfluous, that is all. The Louisianian insistence upon a mastery of the roux with its precise steps and equally passionate debates over rightness of technique and the importance of culinary building blocks fed my need for order in the kitchen and helped me cope when I spent three years working weekends and evenings in a rural pub as their cook as a post-graduate student.

The same  need for order and rule applies to my love of Mexican cuisine, forged from my years living there as a child and also from a keen observation of local cooks whenever I could escape school. In Holt’s French Country Kitchen can be found a recipe for dindonneau à l’ail en chemise (turkey with whole cloves of garlic) which on first reading has little in common with the Latin American turkey -based meals I ate as a kid. Where is the marigold-infused flesh, the layered and complex molés flavoured with ancho, pastilla and mulato chillies, chocolate, anise and lard? But Holt’s version and the stuffed turkey called pavo relleno I ate in Saltillo were both basted in butter and the picadillo stuffing was made with garlic-infused beef and funnily enough the Breton turkeys (and chickens) we ate were sometimes fed on spicy -scented marigold petals like they also do in Mexico. The flesh of these birds were tinted the colours of Kahlo’s hair in her Self Portrait In A Landscape With The Sun Going Down. The circle of my eating life continued.

9bd007396c79bfd955e388e19c55a966
Self Portrait In A Landscape With The Sun Going Down

| miss the precise adherence to rules as old as their families although I can recall their kitchen voices with their slightly nasalized Tregerieg-Breton vowels in an instant. Caroline’s family bought their Kouign Amann from the local patisserie because the French are sensible and have no embarrassment about not making their own cakes-although they retain the right to have lots of opinions about their technical execution. A patissière will be chosen according to something as fundamental as the angle of curve on a croissant and this choice will not be questioned, even two generations of custom later, but when you eat it, you can sense the rightness of their choice. “C’est decide’ you will be told should you dare to enquire.

Holt points out that the French have no need for the dizzying helter-skelter search for new flavour combinations (or culinary scalp hunting as I call it). This doesn’t mean that French cuisine is mired in the historical doldrums though, unable and unwilling to change. It does innovate and refine but these changes are considered and less driven by a desperate need to innovate for the sake of page views and instagram likes or to Be The First. Holt is confident in her experiments but is clear that progress and posterity can only be judged in hindsight which, to me, sounds terribly French. Her food respects terroir and local habits (courgettes served with sorrel grown in the same garden; a salpicon for roast lamb that is based upon a friend’s recipe which itself reflects a different regional store cupboard) but it is also glut-friendly and tolerant of other larders in other lands where the sunshine is less and the frost more frequent.

Tetes_de_veaux_preparees.jpg

So…..Tête de veau, boeuf bourguignon, carbonade flammade, cassoulet, salade Lyonnaise, omelette Ardéchoise, and a glorious pintadeau aux figues are all chalked up on my imaginary menu de l’autumn et de l’ hiver. I want my kitchen filled with the scent of gentle braises as they putter away in their casserole dish and the fridge stocked with what my friend’s mother called ‘difficult cuts’; the cheeks, tails and muscled rumps of animals which all call for careful prep and low ‘n slow cooking.

Lastly- and funnily enough- tête de veau was threatened as a punishment meal for a wanton young man called Spider in another of my teenage reads, Scruples.  Its authorJudith Krantz, wrote of a young Parisienne transplanted to New York City in the seventies. It was one of those sex ‘n shopping airport novels which I devoured greedily, especially the descriptions of Valentine’s cooking because she too preferred French country-style food and frequently made it for her neighbour across the hall whose life of penury meant decent food was scarce. Spider baulked at the thought of tête de veau. I wouldn’t.

Pierced

baby-428395_960_720.jpg
To pierce or not to pierce?

Is it wrong to pierce a babies ears? In this piece, I write about my experience of having my ears as a small child and the impact this had. 

As a small child,  I emigrated to Mexico and I lived there for a number of years, masquerading as a proper little Catholic school girl, attending nursery and then moving up into the school proper. I stood out like a English sore thumb when I arrived: I was pale and subdued with bone-blonde hair, blue eyes and un-pierced ears and wore a Ladybird dress and neat patent Mary Janes, neither of which coped very well with the dust and sand of the Chihuahuan Desert. My naked earlobes caused the local people the most concern though: they marked me out as a gringa far more than my blonde ringlets did.

The culture in Mexico both then and now is to pierce the ears of newborn girl babies, performed as soon as possible after birth because presumably it is easier than trying to catch and pin down an older, more mobile, and less compliant child. In most cases, babies actually leave the maternity clinic with pierced ears, the procedure carried out just days after their birth because a newborn will not tug at her sore ears nor interfere with the earrings. Once done and with screams quietened- sometimes after sucking on a honey-dipped finger- these baby girl children received their first gold in the form of tiny sleepers or gold studs and the giving of these in the months leading up to the birth is a common gift.

I was four when my parents decided to pierce my lobes, roping in a nun from my school to do it and I was understandably reluctant to have this nun grab me by the tender flesh of my ear and pin me face-down onto her black serge lap so she might push an ice-cold needle through my lobes. A cork from the freezer was held against the back of my ear, providing the necessary resistance for the needle to push against. The nun then threaded each hole with a length of black cotton and tied the ends of the threads into two small loops to keep them open. A few days later, the threads were replaced by plain gold studs because my parents probably  thought that earrings engraved with an image of the Virgin de Guadalupe were a bit too ‘Catholic’,  although these were a popular choice among my friends who called upon the saints to see them through the most unremarkable of life events.

This dour nun was far removed from the gentle Brides of Christ you might have watched in The Sound of Music and she demonstrated a firm grip and an even firmer countenance as she trapped me deftly between her knees to examine the shape of my ears whilst my parents held onto my thrashing arms. I briefly contemplated biting her plump little kneecap as she bent my head forwards then decided that the risk of Hell On Earth- as opposed to going to the real hell afterwards- was too much of a risk. I had already spent too much time locked in the dark and chalky art supplies cupboard for various minor classroom insubordinations (like being, um, four) and I wasn’t planning on spending more time in there with sore throbbing ears to boot.

Post-piercing, all I was allowed to wear was a tiny, uptight gold stud whilst my Mexican friends wore dramatic, passionate, ear jewelry that afforded them a bigger and more decorative space in the world. I was envious of my friend Susie’s black curls, brown skin and the chunky pair of carved gold arracadas hoops that danced in her ears: standing alongside her, I felt like a half-erased drawing. My discreet British-style studs rendered me a half-hearted participant in a rite much bigger than me and as a child, I squirmed over my competing cultural definition. My envy confused me, wrapped up as it was with resentment at my parents. I had failed to separate my feelings about the frightening method used to pierce my ears from the longer-term consequences and cultural significance of remaining the only un-pierced girl in my school. At times I hated my parents for forcing me to go through such an ordeal, I disliked the hassle of caring for my pierced ears yet I longed too, for something a little less waspy. Alone in my room at night, I would remove the studs and ‘lose’ the small gold ball that screwed onto the sharp post which threaded through my ear. The next morning, my mother, or Maria our housekeeper, would triumphantly produce one of many ‘spares’ and reinsert the earring, accompanied by scolding slaps and harsh words. It became a daily and unpleasant ritual until Maria sat me down and explained that when I was older it would be up to me but for now, I had to submit. She was sure that an extra cup of atole might be in line for little girls who weren’t put on earth to turn her waist-length black hair prematurely grey. Maria was just eighteen. 

Arracadas_do_-Tesouro_Bedoya-,_expostas_no_Museo_de_Pontevedra..jpg

Arracadas do “Tesouro Bedoya”, expostas no Museo de Pontevedra.

My early teenage years were marked by a nascent feminism and I began to consider the psychological implications of having ones pain rewarded by jewelry and a sugary finger.  I thought about the fact that I underwent the same procedure without ‘enjoying’ the benefit of being too young to consciously recall it: it was very hard to forget my feelings of terror at being held down without real explanation of what was to happen. I found it hard to shake off the fear I felt when I realised that I had absolutely no say in it. The fact that ear piercing was performed by a nun made it even odder.

I lost interest in my earrings in adulthood, refusing to wear them as I started to regain jurisdiction over my body and began to reject everything that reminded me of my powerlessness in the face of my parents’ actions. It was in defiance of all that came after the parental neglect and abuse; the ongoing disregard of me as a person separate from themselves which was heralded by their turning a deaf ear against my pleas to leave my own ears alone. Eventually, I let the holes close up until all that remained was a thickened piece of tissue, a minute bulls-eye in the centre of my lobes. Slightly darker in colour than the rest of my ear, these were a reminder of things done and it became apparent that they would not fade and the damage would never be completely invisible. I had my own daughter and left her ears alone although when she was twelve she went through her own push-me pull -me as she tried to decide of her own accord whether to pierce. Six years later I had my son and left his ears alone too.

fahion-957162_960_720

Decades later, I’m attracted by the thought of the flash-trash clink of Creole gilt hoops as I shake my head. I imagine white-gold stars thickly clustered along the outer and upper part of my ear or Halston-fabulous slim needles made from silver and platinum which I imagine swinging and catching the light. The mysterious language of the ear piercer intrigues me too. There are piercings called the tragus and the anti-tragus which sound like a Greek myth on the scale of Perseus versus the Gorgon. The conch and the rook are embedded into the shell-like curves of the inner ear lobe whilst the daith sounds like something a nun might whisper in the stillness of her cell-like bedroom. I’m drawn to what some call the Chola style, from first- and second-generation Mexican and Mexican-American girls who wear gold chains, large hoops and stop-the-traffic red lipstick with an attitude that both reclaims and flips this formerly abusive term on its head. I like the Chola blend of strong femininity and toughness which spits in the face of the fact that these girls probably had little choice as to whether their ears were pierced or not. But I’m not Mexican or Mexican-American, no matter that I once lived there for a while and despite the fact that the Chola has evolved from a culture I am familiar with. There’s a line of authenticity to be drawn in the sand somewhere, probably starting with the fact that Chola abuelas (grandmothers) seem to be quite thin on the ground and I am nearer the abuela than I am her daughter or granddaughter.

I’m ready now. I am eyeing up the anatomy of my little ears and wondering what they can take. As I get older, I can see that a jeweled ear (or nose!) can defy time in unexpected ways, allowing me to retrace old paths with bigger, more sure-footed steps. This time it will be my decision.

mouth-1138267_960_720

The Tortilla Curtain by T C Boyle – reviewed by 2nd Air Division Memorial Library

The Library blog is maintained by scholars at the 2nd Air Division Memorial Library and each month their book group reviews one book within it. This month our book group, Reading Across the Pond, read T.C. Boyle’s The Tortilla Curtain, a novel that tackles middle-class values, illegal immigration, xenophobia, poverty, the American Dream and entitlement.

 What is the Tortilla Curtain? The Tortilla Curtain references both the physical wall, or border, between Mexico and the United States and the cultural wall or division between the people of these two nations. The novel follows two couples: Delaney and Kyra Mossbacher, a white upper-middle class liberal couple who live in a gated community on the outskirts of Los Angeles; and Cándido and America Rincón, two Mexican illegal immigrants in desperate search of work, food and shelter. A car accident brings Cándido and Delaney into intimate contact and their opposing worlds gradually intersect in what becomes a tragicomedy of error and misunderstanding.

With the narrative voice switching with each chapter, the novel forces its readers to engage with a variety—and sometimes conflicting—perspectives. This adds to the complexity of the book and the complexity of the issues within the book. As one member said, ‘the book forces you to see yourself from very different perspectives—sometimes painfully so.’

usa_mexico_border_03Published in 1994 at the height of the U.S.’s militarization of the U.S.-Mexico border, Boyle’s book poignantly demonstrates the sometimes inconsistent demands for citizenship rights and human rights and the often emotional reactions towards immigration and immigrant communities. For many of our book group readers, Boyle’s novel unveils the ‘hypocrisy of the American Dream’, ‘the impossible immigrant experience’ and the criminalization of desperation: ‘Mexicans don’t get the chance to experience the American Dream.’

Though written in an American context, many of our  readers felt there were ‘many parallels with contemporary thinking in Britain’ vis-á-vis immigration. Truth be told the book–despite being twenty years old—continues to hold contemporary resonance within the United States as well.

For these reasons and many more, T.C. Boyle’s The Tortilla Curtain sparked a very thoughtful and emotive discussion for our book group readers and as a result the book comes highly recommended; it has been one of the group’s favorite books this year and many have been encouraged to read more of Boyle’s work.

‘Tremendously written’

‘Absolutely brilliant book’

‘ Riveting’

‘Evidence of a great writer, strong character development and very tense’

You can borrow a copy of T.C. Boyle’s The Tortilla Curtain from your local Norfolk Library. Check the catalog and put in your requests here.

T.C. Boyle is an American novelist and short story writerOther books by this author include:

Cook Books- World Cuisines

 

‘Essential Cuisines of Mexico’ by Diana Kennedy

medium-4189-51ax5-mkexl-aa160-

Three classic books about Mexican cooking in one volume, you will find the purest distillation of regional and national cuisine in here with an updated ingredient, technique and terminology glossary. Diana Kennedy is an American who went to live in Mexico and like Julia Childs, sought to understand her adopted country through its food. Don’t expect Tex-Mex (as delicious as this is) but instead, an authentic journey through the complex regional specialities to be found in this much misunderstood land. 

There is a glorious Pico De Gallo made with peaches that justifies the purchase price alone and by home cooking, you can eliminate the more fattening oils that characterise some of the dishes. Drinks are covered too but there are no glossy food porn photos- this is a cooks book.

‘The Little Paris Kitchen’ by Rachel Khoo

Paris2

Written by a ‘Le Cordon Bleu’ trained chef (with all the guarantees this offers regarding recipe construction and accuracy), this is a beautifully designed book backed up by a TV show. It was one recipe from this show – Croque Madam Muffins- that sent us out to buy this. Money well spent. Giving lie to the idea that you need a dramatically large kitchen and John Lewis stock levels of equipment, Khoo cooks up a storm in a kitchen the size of an under stair cupboard and her recipes reflect this economy of space in their simplicity married with classical French underpinnings. 

Fig & chicken liver salad uses an inexpensive meat with fruit that isn’t expensive when in season. The sweet tart of figs cuts the soft fattiness of the liver. Balanced and elegant. Warm potato and apple salad with black pudding crumbs is similarly rustic, inexpensive (Black Puddings are 99p each our my local butchers) and has that same sweet/salty motif. 

We have made the Shepherd Pie with three colour mash countless times. The pumpkin, parsley and potato topping is an excellent method of getting vegetables into yourself (and kids) and it is fun too. Recipes such as this help less confident cooks to experiment too with different toppings and Khoo doesn’t leave you stranded should you not have access to every ingredient. 

We’d definitely buy this for beginners. And for those Croque Madam Muffins which are the bomb.

‘Curry Easy’ by Madhur Jaffrey

medium-4356-9780091923143

Everything that some cooks find intimidating about Indian cookery- long lists of ingredients, unfamiliar ingredients- is ironed out in this easy to follow and accessible book by an undeniably great cook and food writer. Over 175 recipes, regional specialities both lesser and well known make this THE book to buy as an introduction and fundamental guide to this eclectic cuisine. 

How can anybody resist the romance of a recipe called Perfumed Almonds? Just three ingredients- Cardomom, Sugar and Almonds. Love it.

‘Creole’ by Babette De Rozieres (Translated by Nicola Young)

1b8e4a5729fead480e15e6e394a5d5e1

Creole is a lively cookbook featuring food from the Caribbean, where influences from Asia, Africa, India, France and Spain blend in a refined and colourful cuisine. It includes 163 recipes by Babette De Rozieres who learned the complexities of Creole cooking from her Grandmother and from there began her love affair with West Indian cuisine. Now a celebrity TV chef in France, she is the owner of the famous restaurant Le Table de Babette in Paris, where she offers her customers the delights of Creole cooking.

The recipes look complicated but they are not and are characterised by the big flavours, bright colours and seasonality of Caribbean food. However many of the ingredients are not easily found outside of large towns and cities with groceries that cater to Caribbean cooks. So it might require a cook with some understanding s to how best to substitute the more obscure ingredients.