Watch the pigeon!

Back in another lifetime, when R and I were still living in West Yorkshire, we had a chance conversation in the pub with a friend of a friend. Dave enjoyed hunting, but his family were not very interested in eating what he shot, so he usually ended up feeding the game to his dog. We both expressed horror at this situation and said that we would be delighted to buy any surplus from him.

And so began our education on the topic of cooking and eating game.

Throughout the season, almost every Sunday afternoon we would come home to find something hanging from the door handle. A brace of pheasant. A bagful of wood pigeons. Half a dozen rabbits. Or, best of all, a hare or a couple of woodcock.

The first time this happened, we discovered a brace of pheasant outside the door. Complete with feathers, insides and the like. We both stared at them for a few minutes - while logically we knew that just-shot birds came with all the aforementioned, I think we had both fondly imagined that the feathers would just drop off automatically! So we stared at them for a little longer and then boldly decided to hang them in the cellar for a bit.

I am not keen on very high game so after a couple of days I decided that Something Had To Be Done. R came home from work that day to find me sitting in the (empty) bath, having donned a pair of Marigold gloves, plucking away surrounded by a sea of feathers and wearing my best Margo Ledbetter face! Eventually I handed the now-denuded bird to him and announced that he could do the rest.

Armed with my well-thumbed copy of John Seymour's Complete Guide to Self-Sufficiency, we squinted over the pictures and tried to match them with the bird in R's hand. It probably took half an hour or more to finally prepare the first pheasant for eating, but we got there eventually. And so we established the division of labour that we retained until he died - I would remove the fur or feathers and cook the beast. R would do the squelchy hand-up-the-critter's-nether-regions bit.
That suited me fine.

We often received wood pigeons. In the UK they are classed as vermin, so there is no closed season for them. The first time, I foolishly sat and plucked the entire bird. Fortunately this doesn't take very long with a pigeon, but I quickly realised that the only bit on a pigeon that is worth eating is the breast, and you can simply pull the skin back and remove the meat.

Last weekend I was in the fishmonger's shop and he had a nice selection of game for sale.

Nope. I don't understand either why game should be sold by the fishmonger, rather than the butcher, but that is often the case here. And this weekend he had some nice-looking wood pigeon.


As someone else had done the messy plucking and evisceration part, I bought a couple, froze one and removed the breasts from the other. There really isn't anything else on a pigeon that is worth eating as the legs and wings are unpalatably bitter, but the carcase makes a great stock.

So, what to have with it?
The garden is starting to run down now. The only likely candidates I could find were leeks, the last of the courgettes and some peppers in the greenhouse.

But those three form the base for a very good risotto, particularly the Tromba d'Albenga courgettes which are rather more substantial than the average courgette and can stand up to cooking for a half hour or so.

Thereafter it was simple.
Cook the risotto. Heat up some butter in a frying pan and quickly sear the pigeon breasts. Two minutes on either side is enough. Remove to a warm plate for a few minutes while you add some of this year's favourite ingredient - sloe gin - to bubble away until reduced to give a small amount of a slightly sticky sauce.

Then simply assemble.
A portion of risotto. Sprinkle on some chopped parsley. Slice the pigeon breast and place on top, then pour over the reduced sauce. That's it.
This isn't a risotto that needs parmesan cheese.

Something fishy

Originally posted 02.05.09

For a pair of unashamed foodies, our knowledge of the world of fish was remarkably scant for a long time. We had a few standards that were trotted out every time – salmon fillet, various versions of white fish in a sauce, kippers for breakfast or perhaps kedgeree for Sunday brunch. But never anything very exciting or out of the ordinary.

Then we moved to Wales and found to our delight that our nearest town had a proper fishmonger. And a helpful and enthusiastic one at that. Over the years, he helped to extend our fishy education. Part of the Saturday morning ritual was to visit Derek the fishmonger to see what looked good. Always enthusiastic about his products, he was keen to teach us how to make the best of them. From him we learned how to fillet fish properly (both flat and round), dress crabs, shuck oysters, pot tiny brown shrimps. We learned what to do with samphire, the relative merits of brown and rainbow trout, not to ignore a fish just because we had never heard of it before and when which fish was in season and therefore at its best.

Derek’s shop was also the scene of one of my more dramatic meltdowns in the early days after R died. It was during the period of no appetite and I was following the sound advice of simply eating what I fancied, regardless of cost or whether it provided a balanced diet. That day, my fancy turned to crayfish tails.

I knew the moment I walked into the shop that he was going to ask where R was. But not even this foreknowledge could prevent the floodgates opening. The poor man sat me down and patted my hand for a while, but we were both very embarrassed afterwards.
Now we stick to safe topics like the weather or rugby, but he never fails to add a couple of extra prawns to my order or round my bill down to the nearest pound.

One discovery (or perhaps rediscovery) from Derek's shop was mackerel. Before, it mostly came in a tin and was covered with a dubious sauce. Then we found that it had a season, and that a mackerel freshly landed that morning, with plump body, shiny scales and bright eyes was both cheap and difficult to beat for flavour.

R’s favourite way to cook it was to dredge the fillets in seasoned oatmeal and then quickly pan-fry in butter until the topping was crispy. Served with new potatoes, broccoli from the garden and a generous spoonful of rhubarb or gooseberry chutney, it set me up perfectly for cleaning up the scene of devastation that I invariably found in the kitchen after he had cooked it!

For me it has to be devilled mackerel. Melt some butter and add to it some brown sugar, mustard powder, ground coriander, paprika, chilli powder, balsamic vinegar, S&P. Then slash the skin of the fish on both sides and slather on the buttery goodness. If the BBQ is fired up, cook the fish on there. If the weather is not so clement, line your grill pan with foil and grill for 3-4 minutes on each side.

That's all it takes for fishy perfection. And practically no washing up either.