I take a saw. A saw? Perhaps I have started too soon.
Winter is approaching. Seemingly quicker than the cars that whizz along the concrete track that leads past the house that nestles in a valley between two towns. A rat run. The setting sun loses its heat quickly as I walk the dog, picking up twigs and branches that have fallen in the storm. That storm. The storm that had me, us, racing a mile through a low cloud curtain of water, the day before. Neither the dog, nor I, looked dignified at the finishing line. The wood should be wet, but the wind blows as quickly as the cars that whizz along… you get it. They are dry.
The fire is lit. It is struggling. I need more wood. Outside, I take a handful of twigs, thick and thin, and start to fold them. A tight twisted bunch. A faggot, I suppose; though witch burning has long ceased, I assume. I take a branch. I find my saw. Long. Toothy. It bends like an Errol Flynn foil. I choose a spot and begin the rhythmic action. The surface, a stone wall and a step, hardly safe, is peppered with a flurry of golden dust. My arm and shoulder aches. The piece is young. Tough. I should not have started so close to a woody knot. The breathless, wheezing rhythm occasionally halted by a buckling blade. The wobble working up my arm. Loosening my neck and shoulders with circular movements, as a wrestler or boxer might, I pick up the freshly cut parts. I open the wood burner, and carefully add them to the struggling fire. Considered placement. Sure-handed placement. The room will warm as I prepare the meal.
I take a saw. My shoulder and arm throb warily over more action. But I have to take another step backward to go forward.
Soffritto. Włoszczyzna (I can´t either). Italian stuff. The base of all fine meals. We have been here before.
I have onion, a large orb, its parchment tawny. Two sticks of celery, pale green stems fading to white. A carrot. Big. It barely tapers.
Orange. I start with the carrot. The peeler, a wooden handled old favourite. Inherited. It ribbons the florescent skin. The curls landing on the worksurface are practically translucent. My knife, razor edged and freshly whetted, cuts three times. Four blocks. I take the first. Stand it upwards. Slice it downwards. Rectangles. Not too thick. I lay it sideways. Draw the knife lengthways. Batons. Spreading them with my fingers, I take the sticks and cut them into small cubes. I repeat three more times. Stand. Slice. Baton. Dice.
Celery. Topped and tailed, the curve of the root end I make a sideways slice to get rid of the wispy parts. I lay them down, horizontally, and chop the stalks in half. One turn. The ridges on the outer part to guide my blade neatly through the fibrous flesh. Four strips. Eight strips. Another turn. Diced. They pile up. I repeat that once more. Strip and dice.
My onion is denuded of the paper like skin. Stripped immodestly to the slightly green, opalescent flesh. It too will be diced. The root de-haired but intact. The knife goes to work halving the rounded root vegetable. Face side down I hold the blade horizontally cutting toward the root, twice. My palm on top preventing slipping or cuts. I turn the onion and cut downwards from one end to the other. Some people cut down first and then across. Perhaps they are religious. But. There. Is. No. Rule. The finale is always the same. A cutting down. A watching of tumbling dice over the chopping board. There are two halves but only one pile.
Garlic. A couple of segments. A few pale purple pieces. I smash the side of my fist on the side of the blade crushing the flesh inside. I remove the skin; it comes away easily. Four more times. I like garlic. I have Spanish Pan Ajo y Tomate for breakfast before making any in-person complaints. Try it. Salting the crushed cloves, I start to massage the pile with the side of my knife. Blade facing away. Paddling. The salt´s coarseness helping dissolve the fibres and rendering the allium into the perfect perfumed paste.
Some bay leaves, some thyme. A small branch. I leave the sprig intact. I will pick out the herbs at the end of cooking. They are added to the board that is bejewelled with various vegetables.
I take a saw. Wait. There is more to do first.
My blade is sharp and keen as any novice eager to prove himself. Holding the bone in the middle, I cut around the uppermost part of the drumstick to release the skin. The tendons. The gristle. A double ridged knuckle that seems as sensuous in its curves as the head of a violin, though a bone violin would surely belong to the imaginings of Gaston Leroux. Gloriously Gothick.
The drumstick, its dimensions giving me a ´Through the Looking Glass´ feel, I lay on its side. Using a small cocktail stick I pull the skin together underneath the drum´s bulbous base and weave. In. Out. Three times. The stick will keep the skin secure and taught while cooking.
At the top I make four cuts in the skin . Equally spaced. Equidistant. Downwards from the knuckle to the bulk of the meat. I peel, exposing the tendons and the tapering muscle. Laying the leg on its side I use the blade to cut through and discard the excess meat. Those tendons, those tough as bamboo cane tendons, I snap with the snip of some meat scissors.
I take my saw. A fretsaw. One used only for food. I inhale, a nervous little breath. The blade, sharp-edged, reminding me of a former neighbour´s smile. He opened bottles with his teeth. I shake off the memory and hold the bone end tight in my left hand. I must not fret. The blade, I position as close to the trimmed meat as possible. I push forward. Tentative strokes to get some purchase before increasing the movement. Back and forth. My hand becomes greasy as the heat increases. I grab a paper towel, wrap it around the end and tighten my grip. The sawing is quick as the bone makes lighter, kinder work than the log for the fire. It is hollow after all. I turn the drumstick a fraction in intervals. I do not want a splintered edge. Finally feeling the ´give´, the release of one part from the other, I watch the ball-shaped end fall away with the final twitch of the blade. I release a sigh.
A butter knife. The smallest blade. A palate. A tool. The flaps of skin, cut earlier, one by one, are pushed, are persuaded, into the space between the flesh and the bone at the cut end. I repeat the entire process with the other drumstick. The cut. The slice. The peel. The wedge. The lot. The second one looks better. It always does. The Negroni, made sbagliato by the festive addition of sparkling wine, looks better still. I resist until the job is done.
The oven is on. The Dutch oven is lifted into place beside the hob. The music, jazz from the Perugia Festival, adding to my Italian credentials, brings a harmonic rhythm to the ever-increasing heat of the kitchen. The turkey needs to cook.
I pour a generous double glug of olive oil into a sauté pan. This year´s harvest has been poor, but I cannot scrimp where cooking is concerned. The match´s cough sparks the hob to life. And I wait. I wait for a ripple, a shimmer in the glass green pool. I throw in the carrots, guiding them from the board with the back of a spatula. Sizzling squares, slow turning from orange to a more golden hue. I cool the carrots with the celery to prevent caramelisation. The ridges and crunch will slowly render to a gentle bite. A few tosses, chef´s style, to coat, to cover, to mix. In slide the onion dice. Another toss or two. A sprinkling of sea salt. Diamonds on dice on cubes. The heat comes down and I step away. A momentary pause to allow the vegetables to become a softer soffritto base. I pour the glistening vegetables into the Dutch oven ready for the slow cooking.
In the fridge door is a tube, toothpaste-like in shape, its middle pressed more than the bottom end. No cleaning of teeth here. I twist off the red cap and squeeze. Tomato purée ekes out. A mouse´s paw. A couple of paws. A chihuahua´s tender pad. It is a dollop of purée, sitting neatly amongst the vegetables. Waiting to be loosened with wine. With stock. I return the tube to the fridge and shake my head in resignation that no one squeezes from the base.
The sauté pan is returned back to the hob. A little extra oil is drizzled in. Again, I wait for a ripple. A sign that the oil has reached a workable temperature. I hold the bone of the turkey on either side. My finger and thumb become the tongs, the axle, as I lift the first ossobuco, the first donut, onto the surface. It hisses. Ironic. Geese hiss. It crackles. I slowly roll the meat like a tyre around a steel track. Enough to catch the skin. Enough to brown lightly. Just enough. A cockier man than I might hold a piece in each hand, but I can guarantee the loss of the pan, the meat and therefore the meal to that type of folly. I play safe.
The skin is browned, the soffritto is glistening, the tomato, its flavour enriching the sauce. All sit in the Dutch oven ready for a slow cook. I throw in some bay from the garden, crushing them in my hand and momentarily enjoying the almost nutmeg and white pepper aroma that comes from the leaves. A good glass of white wine and a large jug of stock from a large pot that I heated earlier from frozen. It all goes Dutch ways.
I square off a piece of parchment, torn from an old tube that gathers dust atop the fridge. Folding it into half, then half again. The small piece I triangulate. Once. Twice. Three times. Until it is a fine dart. The tip is measured to the centre of the ironware, and I cut the edge to give it a neatness. Opening it up, it has become a pleated flower. A ridged round. I scrunch it all up. No. Not in a fit of anger or despair that something went wrong. I scrunch it up. That is all. Turning on the cold water, I wet and shake lightly the balled paper, then open it out over the casserole. Cartouche. I often imagined that was a character played by Stewart Granger in swashbuckling films. I know. Aluminium foil then covers the pot. I put the lid on top then twist the foil to create a piped band around the edge. A metal luting paste to seal in the air, the liquid. If it were a bread oven and an overnight slow, slow cook, I would probably mix some flour and water and make the messy crust. But I have little time to enjoy such luxuries. And no bread oven.
With a careful posture, knees not back, I lean forward and place the pot in the oven noting the time on the old wooden clock hanging beside the door. I have some time before the next stage. But if I want that negroni, I need to prepare.
A boiled kettle gives me enough hot water to dissolve a tuft of saffron in a teacup. The dusky red strands reluctant to immerse at first. I persuade them with a spoon. Their sinking produces a brilliant yellow cloud that infuses the water. I allow the process to continue its course while I continue mine.
In the basket of alliums, I find a suitably small onion. Nothing too large. I peel off the parchment, discard the hairy root, and slice it through to make it easier to remove the unnecessary layers from each half. I lift up the knife and saw across, turn the onion, cut down, turn again and fine slice into minute pieces that don´t outshine the grains of rice that I am to cook. Risotto rice. Arborio.
I wait. I allow myself a small cat lick sip. A slurp. The orange cuts through the syrupy bittersweetness of the liquor with its citrus tang, compliments the prickle of prosecco. But the forceful punch of the alcoholic spirit makes me sit down. A slurp is enough. I grab a handful of wafery crisps and ram them into my mouth until there is no more room. I must stay focused.
The time has arrived. Time to be a sorcerer in the kitchen. All the pans are out. All the equipment. Whatever is needed, I will have it to hand. Or so I hope.
I reach for my oven gloves and stoop. The action of opening the door leaves me temporarily blind and grasping for the handles of the Dutch oven. I raise and settle it on the work surface. Steamed sight slowly restored. My glasses cleared. I lift off the foil, far end first so the steam does not burn me. Then the parchment. With my tongs I carefully lift out the turkey pieces, the ossobuchi, brushing off any soffritto. I put them in the foil and wrap them tight. Over a large pan, I pour the sauce through a sieve. The vegetables I recycle. Yes. Using them in a fried mix at another time. They sit in a box to cool. The foiled meat is put into the pot and held warm in the oven.
I hold a match to the gas and watch the blue flames spark out. The sauce I am going to reduce to a glossy jus. It is not strong. I have to do the abominable. I find a small bowl and a measuring spoon. One tablespoon of cornflour. That is all. But the horror of it squeaking has every hair on my body standing on end. I brave the powder, quickly loosening it with water in the bowl, slaking it into the sauce. Whisking away all evidence. I shudder. I turn to the rice.
There is a frying pan. A smaller frying pan with high sides. I open the fridge and spot a knob of butter sitting in the butterdish on a shelf at eye level. It is the remnant of breakfasts past and needs to be used. Over that I drizzle a small amount of olive oil. Something to stop the butter browning. Its burn point lower than the oil. The hob´s fiery cough starts to warm the pan and I slide in the onion, await a hissing sizzle, salt and lower the heat. I let them sweat. To turn glassy.
I add the rice and the process begins. The toasting. I allow the perfumes to rise before adding white wine. The sigh. I add the saffron at this stage. I bow to wiser heads that say it is the wrong time to add it, but I do it anyway. I watch as the liquids are absorbed, stirring them in, whisking the sauce in the other pan. We were given two hands; I just wish I were part octopus. I dip the ladle into the stock pot starting the process of cooking the rice through. Four parts stock to rice in theory. I have a large pot with a lot of liquid. I will have to eyeball it. Parting of the waves. The next ladle is poured.
I whisk the sauce in the other pan again. It is becoming slowly more unctuous. The bubbles becoming more frenzied in their boiling. The kitchen is steaming with excess moisture. It is cold out, the winter nights have meant fires, layers and extra blankets to sleep under. I shed my layers as I glisten like the condensation on the windows.
Another ladle, one pan. Another whisk, the other. The enriched sauce is ready first, the formation of the bubbles hinting at the richness I want. It allows me to concentrate on the risotto. A quick stir of the rice and I remove the sauce from the hob. Down. I remove the Dutch oven from below. Up. Lifting the lid and un-foiling with care the turkey pieces. Removing the cocktail sticks. I pour in the sauce, now thickened to a creamier consistency. Down. I return the meat. Back in the oven it goes, but not before I part the rice again and add another ladle. Moses would be proud.
The bowls follow the Dutch oven as I place them at the bottom to heat through. The risotto having taken some time, is now at the final stage. I double check the bite with a small spoon; resistance not crunch, before removing the sauté pan from the heat. Mantecato. I open the fridge. I have no tired, needy knobs of butter in a dish. A new packet of butter sits in the door. I carelessly cut through the silver paper, allowing myself a generous chunk. No time for neatness. I cut it into cubes and throw two or three onto the rice and cover the pan with a lid. It will rest for a few minutes. It will settle.
Gremolata. In a small corner of the kitchen, that is what is left of my working area, the pots and pans taking over, I place a small chopping board onto the work surface. From a tall jar holding various herbs, I reach for the parsley pulling a healthy handful. My knife makes easy work of the flat green leaves, the herbaceous aroma cutting through the smells of stew, stock, rice. With a plane I grate a garlic clove. Flurrying the flesh into the chopped herb. The basket of citrus fruit has an abundance of lemons. I take a particularly dimpled and gnarled one. Unwaxed. It too flakes finely into the parsley leaving the lemon white and pithy. I pinch the ingredients together, mixing with my thumb and two forefingers. Lemon and garlic oil fingerprints. It is enough.
I put on my oven gloves. Stooping down I open the door and take the bowls out first. Their rims fiery hot. Their bases, nicely heated. I return and squatting, ease out the Dutch oven holding the turkey and sauce. Knees not back. The risotto lid is off, and I stir in the melted butter. I tilt the pan and dip a large silver serving spoon into the yellow rice lifting a measure to the bowl. It forms a taught pile in the centre before relaxing, spreading slightly into a more comfortable form. I repeat with the other bowl. I take off the casserole lid. With my tongs and a spoon underneath to prevent the meat falling off the bone, lift a turkey piece and place it lightly on top of the rice. My ladle scoops up the jus, pouring it around the rice, creating an island of yellow in a sea of sauce. Finally, I pinch some gremolata and sprinkle it over the turkey. The warmth of the meat releasing the perfume of the parsley mix.
The buttery risotto rice ripples on the tongue, and the jus teases the tastebuds with its silky, sweet-saltiness. While the citrus garlic garnish provides a shock tang to temper the richness. The meat, the turkey, falls willingly from the bone.
I took a saw. For all my calm it is something I have never done before. I did not fret.
I took a saw.
'I did not fret.' :o)
I so want a picture!
Mouthwateringingly good Louis! I could taste every morsel. Well done! 👏👏👏😘