Of pork belly and chorizo

A surprisingly delish dinner arose from a spot of kitchen freestyling and fridge clearing last night. It was a sort of a sweet and sour pork casserole with capers, lemon and chorizo. It was really delicious with unctuously soft pork, savoury chorizo, sweet carrots and onions, and a tangy jamminess provided by vinegar and lemon. Once the zingy high notes of chilli and parsley are accounted for you’ve got a winner. I highly recommend giving it a go. It went something like this (should feed three):

• 500g Pork belly
• 100g Chorizo, roughly diced
• 2 Red Onions the size of tennis balls
• 3 Medium Carrots
• 3 Large Ripe Tomatoes
• 4 Cloves Garlic
• 2 Scotch Bonnet Chillis
• 1 tblsp Capers
• Fresh Rosemary
• 3 Fresh Bay Leaves
• Cider Vinegar
• Half a Juicy Lemon
• Flat Leaf Parsley

Start by cutting the Carrots into bite sized chunks, the pork (trimmed of any rind) into slightly bigger than bite-sized chunks (it will shrink dramatically), the onions into chunky wedges and the garlic cloves in half, removing any signs of green sproutings.

In a Le Creuset style lidded pan cook the veg in a little oil over a moderate to low heat for about twenty minutes, adding the bay leaves and plenty of chopped rosemary about halfway through. Remove from the pan and reserve.

Preheat the oven to Gas 2 (150c).

Set the gas hob to high and proceed to sear the pork pieces on two sides (only disturbing them to turn them) until golden brown with the fat starting to render and crisp. Do this in batches so as not to crowd the pan. Towards the end of the searing introduce the diced chorizo to the pan.

Set the gas to moderate and return the veg to the pan along with any juices.

Slice the chillis seeds and all (they only add a fruity piquancy and will only render the dish too spicy for only the most pathetic of palates) and add them to the pan along with a hearty seasoning of salt and pepper.

Deglaze the pan with a good slug of cider vinegar and add just enough water so as to have liquid going about halfway up the pork and veg. You want to braise the meat rather than stew it.

Put a cartouche of dampened greaseproof paper on the surface of the casserole and put the lid on the dish. Transfer to the oven for 1.5 hours.

Remove from the oven and stir in the capers, the juice of the lemon along with its shell torn in two and the tomatoes cut into eighths. Replace the cartouche and the lid and return to the oven for another hour.

Garnish with some chopped flat leaf parsley and serve with the ballast of your choice. We had crushed new potatoes which were really good, but I suspect proper Jamaican rice and peas would be even better.

Don’t worry about the fattiness of the pork belly. After the long slow cooking all the fat has melted and lubricated the meat and generally given a lip-smacking savour to the whole dish. I used these pork belly strips that Asda sell for £2 for a 500g pack. They resemble really thick (an inch at least) rashers of uncured streaky bacon, and cut up easily into nice big cubes.

I think the general cooking method and timings, alongside the matching of piquancy with the uber-savoury pork is a template that could be extensively and successfully riffed upon. I’m already planning full-on Jamaican Jerk and Mexican versions. Yum!

Of cabbages and mash

Come muse and sing of mash and of dark green cabbage. Tell of their their divine union, tossed together by man’s blind hand, stirred by fate and burnished gold by the terrible heat of the Pan. Sing dear muse of this sweet ambrosia: sing dear muse of bubble-and-squeak!

Cheap, quick, versatile and unutterably delicious; how can anyone not love bubble-and-squeak? Even if you had never tasted it, you would know that nothing so beguilingly named could be anything less than divine. My first encounter with The Squeak was in The Wind in the Willows where Mr Toad (to this day my template for manhood) was brought a steaming plateful by the jailor’s charitable daughter, keen to see him snap out of the black depression he had fallen into.

Mr Toad, the rascal, loved a bit of bubble and squeak.

"It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of Toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the idea, for a moment, that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate thing as he had imagined".

What was this mysterious preparation? Whatever it was I knew it was for me, and, after a week of pestering, I found myself tucking into a piping hot plateful of buttery goodness. A love affair had begun.

At its simplest and most frugal bubble-and-squeak is nothing more than roughly equal quantities of leftover cooked cabbage and potato fried together in some good fat. This basic squeak can then be elaborated upon in myriad ways. A little onion, cooked till golden and sweet, can (and should, in my opinion) be added to the mix, as can fresh or dried herbs or some crisp lardons. Other leftover veg can be added, though I would never bother unless they were otherwise going to go to waste. Carrots, leeks, roasted parsnips and spinach have all made enjoyable, but by no means essential, appearances in my squeaks. How much or little you add to your squeak should be determined by what you want to serve it with.

For two people start by sweating a thinly sliced onion till totally soft and lightly coloured. In a mixing bowl loosely combine equal quantities of chopped cooked green cabbage (or kale, broccoli etc) from which you have squeezed all the excess water and whatever cooked potatoes you happen to have. There’s no reason you can’t cook the veg fresh, but if you do, allow them to cool slightly before mixing. If the potato isn’t mashed then break it up a little with your fingers, but don’t feel the need to mash it – lumpier spuds seem more at home in a squeak than smooth pureed ones. Season the veg generously with freshly ground salt and pepper and mix in your golden onions.

Melt a generous amount of butter, dripping or olive oil in a non-stick pan and allow it to get good and hot. The choice of fat is up to you – each will lend a slightly different character to the dish, none is without its merits. Keeping the heat fairly high, dump the veg mixture into the hot fat and press it down so it forms an even layer.

Now the heart of a truly splendid squeak is its golden crust. If you crave the crust you need to leave well alone once it goes in the pan. Don’t go prodding and teasing it like some ant-in-his-pants wok master; leave it alone, trust it, it knows what its doing. But beware! Whilst an impatient squeak chef will be punished for their haste with a limp and anemic offering, the overly laid back will soon discover the singular unpaletteability of burnt brassicas. Patience and vigilance should be the watchwords of any pupil of the squeak.

A wok master at work - Not the way to make a good squeak

After about 3 minutes tentatively lift an edge of the squeak with a spatula and take a peek at the underside. Is it crisp and golden, with patches of honeyed chestnut brown? If so, then turn it over as best you can. If not, then wait another minute or two before turning. Once turned, cook for a couple more minutes until piping hot right through. Your squeak is ready to devour!

If you’re lucky enough to have some gravy kicking about you can comfortably make a meal of just the squeak. Otherwise, you will almost certainly want an accompanying egg or two, poached or fried, the choice is yours. Tomato ketchup is, in the absence of gravy, also an essential (though roasted or tinned tomatoes are just as good). What? You demand a little meat? Then throw some crisp bacon or glossy sossies into the equation, or, better still, some left over baked or boiled ham. Now that’s good eatin’!

One last thing. If you really fancy something utterly savoury, then add some little cubes of cheese (any variety) to the original mixture. This tasty treat makes a truly memorable dinner when accompanied by some cooked tomatoes (roasted/grilled/tinned) that have had a brief flirtation with some crumbled dried chilli.