Ducking Out
I stop and stand. In the shaded place beside an olive tree where the sun sapped dogs lie and the cicadas chirrup. Beside the house. Outside the kitchen. Out where the air is purer. Breathable. I inhale. Deeply. Greedily. The insects´ trilling chatter, a fizzing electrical interference, suddenly stops as if a switch has been flicked the moment I appear. The noise ringing in my ears even though they have finished.
Dust. Dust has flurried, settled, then risen up again. The room filled with sun speckled spores at my merest move. A great wall of boxes, a monument to my endeavours, has seemingly become a testament to my life. Each moment, each memory, wrapped carefully, stored away under a cardboard and tape seal. Each one, once packed, taking me closer to a new home. Each one, once moved, has stirred up another discovery of dust. It should shame me. I. Care. Not. I am moving.
It is hot. Fearsomely hot. My poor skin´s pores are so plugged by dust I can barely sweat. And yet, stripped down to nothing but my shorts, I still manage to. So, I have taken a step outside. Away from the carton wall. Away from sealed up reminiscences. Out to the shaded terrace to contemplate, to think, decide on what to prepare when hunger finally overcomes the suppressive heat. The summer sky, unblemished save for a feather-like cloud that sits solitary, slowly evaporating, disappearing. The contrasting blue so brilliant my eyes water. Or do they water because of the dust? Skin crisping sun offers a small spark. An idea.
Fire beats fire. Heat, in my case, must surely beat heat. It is a risk I am prepared to take.
I have taken a duck breast fillet from the bottom of the fridge. Carefully depackaging it, I pat the garnet flesh and ivory skin with kitchen paper from an oversized roll that makes me feel like Lewis Carrol´s Alice. Firmly holding my knife, I quickly but cautiously start to slice the cold fatty skin, side to side, spacing each score, each cut, evenly, at a biased angle from one end of the fillet to the other. I lay it on a baking tray and sprinkle salt into and over the grooves to leech out some liquid, to help the skin crisp. Overnight would be better but there is no time. The salt can work for as long as it takes for the meat to come to room temperature. An awkward phrase in this heat. While the duck is warming, I slip out of the kitchen, slip out of my shorts, and languish in the coolness of a slow streaming, cold faucet only, shower. My hands rest above me on the shower wall as the tickling trickle runs the length of my spine. Each shocked gasp turning into grateful mumblings. I will stay under for as long as it takes for me to feel refreshed. Squanderous? Maybe.
I return to the kitchen, still barely clad. I have packed away so much that the set of shelves behind me has become a homage to all things silver grey. A monochrome of culinary living. I turn and take a deep steel pan from the stack and place it on the largest hob. Stock. Chicken. I pour in a good measure. The phosphorescent fizzing match lights the hob underneath and I leave it to come to a simmer.
Brown paper skin from an onion tears away and scatters to the surface. The lightest breeze through the kitchen window helps them continue their leaf-like journey to the floor, a nod to a longed-for autumn and a cooler season. I will clean up later. I pull away the root hairs from the base and reach for the knife, the blade casually cleaned on a damp cloth. The onion is halved, then each is brought to the edge of the board so the blade can slide, unhindered by its shoulders, horizontally. Twice. Right to left. Tip to tail. I turn it, root away, and chop down, the tip millimetres from the base. Finally, a fine slice, reducing the half globe into a tear duct aggravating dice. I pause, scrunching my eyes until the final tear is forced out.
Rust. Dried blood. The colour of the sausage, a sweet chorizo. The aroma of paprika and cured pork becomes more evident as I chunk the coarse meat, watching it stain, orange red, across the chopping board. The pieces although small are quite firm.
From a box under the worksurface I pull out my food processor. A weighty, steel contraption designed in Connecticut and favoured by Julia Child, that has served me well. I raise it slowly to the counter, taking into account my already aching back, and find an electrical socket. It demands a percussion of clicks, twists and clunks to work. Click. I lower the blade onto the central column. Click. I turn the bowl. It settles in place. I throw in the chopped chorizo and, clunk, push down the lid. More clicks, twists and it locks. Hot work for a fine chop. While the whirr-stop, whirr-stop of the ´Pulse´ button has a peculiarly childish temptation, I resist. Instead, a luminous blue button impels me to press it: on. The machine begins. Chorizo is not a quiet ingredient. The chunks rattle around like balls in a prize tombola. I am not lucky. I slowly watch as the sausage pieces become red crumble. A luminous blue button impels me to stop it: off. The dervish blade stops its dance. I lift the lid and check if it is finely chopped enough. It is.
I turn again to the chromatic shelves and find my frying pan. Pristine, charcoal grey, non-stick coating on the inside, but with a patina on the outside that reminds me of tobacco-stained Parisian café walls in the Latin Quarter of my younger days. I lift it up, lollipop style and give it a twizzle, a baton swirl, before setting it down next to the hob. I force a used matchstick, pinched between my fingers, to the lit hob underneath the simmering stock pan. A yellow glow tells me it has taken. With a cough the neighbouring hob is lit, the match extinguished, the ghostly whisp of smoke a memory as the frying pan is centred over the blue flames. I slide in the onion pieces and reach for the bidon of olive oil by my feet. The lichen liquid spills over the small dice, a hiccoughing glug or two. Perhaps a little too much. I lower the bottled oil back to the floor and look for the salt. Sea salt. With everything being moved, being packed, a sense of panic forms if the most usual of ingredients is not in its place. The salt cellar is not visible, but in the cupboard is the original packet. I reach for that, and a jar of the fieriest chilli flakes ready to use in a moment. The crystals are shed over the onion, and I wait. The gas will be lowered only when they start to sizzle. It does not take long.
An abandoned bulb of garlic, the last in a basket of aromatic alliums that I am using up before I leave. I pull it apart. The purple cloves sit plump on chorizo-tinged melamine. I take three, probably one or two too many for some, and press down on each with the ball of my palm until the aromatic flesh inside succumbs. I peel away the skin and trim off the root with the knife. Bringing them together, I start to rough chop, then flicking the pieces back into the centre, start a finer chop. I take a pinch of the salt to help break the fibres down and crumble it from above. The side of the knife´s blade presses down on the mound, slowly turning it all into a purée. The pile is lifted to the corner of the chopping board. My finger slides down the side taking any leftover garlic and dropping it with the rest, leaving me with fragrant fingerprints.
The onion dice are a glassy mosaic, I open the jar of chilli next to the salt packet and reach in for a large pinch. Flame red flakes fleck the onions. Specks of heat dotted with white seed. A quick stir and they are mixed in. Turning to the food processor, I untwist, de-top, remove the bowl with minced sausage like a true engineer. My yellow spatula scrapes every last crumble into the frying pan, and I turn up the heat. Stirring it into the cebolline pieces. Slowly, the paprika oils leech away from the meat and redden the onions.
From the fridge, I find a tube of tomato purée. So many times have I de-cinched a waistline, squeezed the bottom, forced the paste upwards. This time though, the end has been curled over in a metallic scroll to ensure there is no waste. I mouth a grateful thank you, only for the briefest moment as I focus on the concentrate. Melding. Merging. Adding another depth of flavour.
A flip top glass jar of rice remains in the correct place. The last of the grains needing to be used up before it too goes into a box, stuffed with paper, wrapped in bubbled plastic and lowered into a dark corner of a box with other kitchen ware. I lift the catch and tilt the jar. Tumbling several handfuls into the frying pan. One. Two. Three. And some more, just in case. No real measurements, no cups. Just an eye-balling haphazardness. Only a few beads are left, I tilt them in with a shrug. I return the jar and start to stir the rice into the spicy sausage base, making sure there is an evenness in the mixture. So much for haphazardness.
In my mind, in the pre-shower, sunsetting, sun-sweating vision, I wanted to have fire. I wanted colour. But I also wanted an authenticity of flavour, though the method is as far from it as you can get. Now, I am about to deviate further. I will blame my heat addled head.
I find a bottle of Oloroso sherry, bought for cooking, somehow quite evaporated, and splash the remnants over the rice. A perfumed drop to further tilt the flavour in a Hispanic direction. The hiss is angry, as if the dish knows I am not being authentic. The aroma taunts my senses. I follow this with a deep, garnet coloured red wine, a glassful or so. I am not measuring. This time I wait until the rice all but absorbs it. Finally, with a mug that I normally use for coffee, I scoop in stock, hot and hearty, from the large pot.
I pick up an orange. A solitary citrus, so small in its oversized basket. A peeler carefully lifts off some strips, the citric tang will cut through the mellow, smoky, richer scents in the frying pan. One or two stirs with the spatula, a careful adjustment of the flame below, and I step back. Turn around.
Beads of perspiration form on my forehead the size of the grains in my pan. As a rule, I would not normally walk away from my cooking. Any cooking. I fiddle and fuss. But this Spanish rice is not demanding, nor needy. It is a different variety to the starchier risotto rice that requires care. Attention. And so, walk away I can. And must. No stirring. No fussing. Instead, I will prepare a drink to help me relax into the evening. Something as sharp as it is mellow, as cool as the night breezes, and as crisp as freshly laundered sheets.
A chime of ice cubes fall into a large tumbler. I am grateful I packed away the smaller glasses. A canary yellow storage box in the hallway has the last of the bottles to be moved or used up. I pick out the ones I need. With the same care as the rice, I pour myself the potent mixture, a reckless alcohol cascade. Proof, percentage proof, that I need it.
The tension, like the heat in the kitchen, increases. The oven is now on. High. The duck breast fillet is ready to cook. With a wettened paper towel, I rub off the salt. Another frying pan. Older. More patina. More memories. It sits over a ring awaiting heat. I strike a match, the smell clashing with the aromas that fill the kitchen and lean in to light the hob. I wait, hovering my palm once or twice, just above the pan base, to test the heat until the pan is ready. It does not take long.
Skin hisses as it touches metal. An adjustment of heat and I push the plump plummy grey flesh around the base with my fingers, while the fat beneath renders. Releases. But for my moving, but for my leaving, I would save it for frying potatoes. I cannot. I hold the meat as I tilt the pan, draining the liquid into a small bowl. I hold my glass and tilt it back draining a large portion of my drink. A slice, from the zested orange, falls from one end of the tumbler tapping me on the nose as if to say enough. Concentrate.
Draining the last of the fat away, I lift the duck and check the sliced skin for caramelisation. Decisiveness, not my forte, I make my move. Quickly. Precisely. Lifting and flipping the breast fillet. Turning it crisped skin up. Placing it centred on the baking tray. With deft manoeuvring, I open the oven door, slide in the tray and slam it shut. A swiftness that would be admired by the still dozing dogs were they not still running through the olive groves of their dreams. Only a few minutes, I wait. A couple more, perhaps.
I take a moment to see the transformed rice. The liquids all but gone. Absorbed. The glistening grains, coloured by the wine, by the tomato, by the chorizo, are raised up, sat like shingle on a beach. I take a teaspoon and test a few from the edge of the pan. There is just enough resistance. Enough time for the duck to rest. Enough time perhaps, for a socarrat to form, that crusted base that I have yet to master.
Good things come to those who wait, or so I am told. I am not patient. But I am hopeful that tonight´s dish, my finale, my last in this kitchen, will be just that. Good. The alarm pricks my daydreaming bubble. And I reach for a cloth, folding it lengthways, in half, in half again. Then halve the length to double the thickness so I can keep hold of the searing dish while it is out. I take a breath then swiftly open the oven door, pull out the sizzling duck, shut it quickly. The waft of heat instantly drying my sweating brow. Still holding the tray, I use my thumb to test the resistance of the meat. Another minute or so will get it to the springiness I want. Not too bloody. Not so pink. Not at all solid. No. I return it to the oven and count down in my mind. One Mississippi… Two…
A chopping board for meat, grooved along the edge, is lined with paper towel in anticipation of leeching juices. The countdown, for what it was worth, is complete and the meat, now out of the oven, will rest. The crisped, tawny skin, pillowed amongst white paper. The flesh nestled infant-like underneath.
I turn the heat off from under the rice, place some deep bottomed plates in the oven, and find a few limp strands of parsley in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Placing them on another small board, I chop. A rough chop. A rustic look. Not my usual standard but enough to show willing. The pile is scraped to the corner of the board with the back of my knife.
Moving reveals, what items, what gadgets, have long been forgotten. Something in a corner of the worksurface that has escaped the packing process brings a smile. Why not? I pick up the zested orange, part used in my drink, cut some fine half-moon slices and set them out in rows. The cold steel of a blow torch conceals a fiery power. I twist a knob, releasing the butane, click the trigger with my forefinger. Flame, blue and brilliant, glows in the mellowing light of the evening kitchen. A slight twist to sharpen the flame´s focus and I lower it over the orange slices. Not too close. I watch the juice bubbling from the rind, transforming, lightly charring. I inhale the sweet aroma. I am fascinated. I am hypnotised. Stop! I quickly turn off the gas and put the torch to the edge of the counter. The segments spread out at the edge of the board. I am ready.
Time. The duck nested in paper is ready to be cut. The knife, a meat knife, a widow-black wooded handle and elongated blade, is as sinister as it is sharp. I begin. Each slice made is guided by the groove in the crisped, crusted skin. Each slice, as it falls, is darker, bolder in colour as the knife works towards the centre. The outer tips of the fillet. The chef´s perks. They go to the dogs these days. And as if on cue, they trot in, sensing something here is for them. Wait.
The plates come out. Hot. It is a late summer evening, but in this kitchen the temperatures around me make me feel like it is noon. I get a wooden spatula from my kitchen box, soon to be sealed up again, save for this last meal. Holding the panhandle, I dig deep into the rice. Socarrat? Sadly, not. The base is caramelised but soft. Not enough to win any prizes. I sigh, too late for remorse. I portion the rice into the bowl of the plates. I edge the rice with a few overlapping slices of the duck on one side. On the other three scorched orange pieces, laid out to compliment the meat. With a flourish I scatter some rough-cut parsley roughly over the top.
Outside, the sun is set, and the warm winds cooled slightly. A shirt, for propriety, is slipped on quickly and I bring the remainder of the wine that I used for cooking to the table. A bloody red, hearty red from the heart of La Mancha. I have stopped. I am sat. Slumped. Beside the house. Away from the kitchen. Under silhouetted olive trees and a darkening night sky that has started to reveal the constellations.
Tonight, I feast. A version of an arroz. An interpretation. A spicy, chorizo and wine reddened rice with duck and golden orange slices that will heat my core and cool my skin. Spanish colours in an Andaluz dusk. Tomorrow, I head out. A new home. A new adventure. A new kitchen beckons.
Thunder rumbles behind the mountains. Perhaps there will be some much-needed rain at last…
Fairwell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies
Fairwell and adieu, to you ladies of Spain…