Loving Concentration

Julia Child gets her knickers in a twist about the difference between sautés, stews and fricassées. I myself, who cannot claim to be anything more than a competent cook, shall defer to the mistress of French cuisine. After all, a misplaced apostrophe provokes my conniptions, and she is entitled to feel the same about fricassée. 

But I must use frying chicken. p.271 is a little greasy after all these years, but I know she is Goldilocks-ey about this. The flesh of a young chicken is too soft and tender, so it dries out too quickly. An older chicken is better, but takes longer to cook. A middle-aged chicken is clearly just right. Over the years, I have always disregarded this advice. It is, after all, difficult to tell the age of a multi-pack of chicken fillets. Nothing immediately suggests whether it is a spring chicken, a prized peri-menopausal bird, or an old broiler like me. They all have such perfect skin, you see. 

Having diced the chicken, I am now urged to dry it with a towel, as though it’s just come out of the shower. Sorry Julia, but I shall use paper towel. I always think salmonella is better off in the bin, not spreading on the hook by the door. 

We used to keep chickens years ago. Thought it might be fun, but it wasn’t. The eggs are so fresh you can’t peel them, so they’re only good for cracking. In addition, no one tells you what to do with a dead chicken. Of course, the chicken is the ultimate prey. There is not a religion or tribe or ethnic micro-pocket in Micronesia which doesn’t eat them, so it’s no wonder they look stressed. And because they know that a hundred pairs of greedy eyes are watching their every move, they play hale-and-hearty until the very moment of death. They simply cannot afford to show a moment’s weakness. One minute they’re playing Mother Goose, and the next they’ve carked it. 

Dead chickens are surprisingly heavy, and not the sort of thing you want decomposing in your outside bin. Eventually, we decided that a hedgerow was an adequate send off - and to be fair, they were never there the next day. Foxes, one supposes: about the only unsociable mammal England has left. 

Now I must cook the thinly sliced carrots, onions and celery. Celery apparently makes you attractive to the opposite sex. I suppose it must depend what you do with it. 

These ingredients, perfectly sliced, are now fried in a heavy pan with a great dollop of butter, until they are almost tender but not browned. And then, when they are just threatening a sun-tan, I must push them aside ruthlessly and add my hopefully middle-aged chicken pieces. I should then wait until the chicken has stiffened slightly, and is no more than a light golden yellow. 

Was Julia Child repressed? Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps it is me, getting all flustered over pricks and juices. Still, I get the impression that Julia was very mild-mannered until her third gin, when she might jump on the table and bear her giblets to all and sundry. 

Here she goes again: the chicken is exactly as described above, but now she adds, and swelling slightly, which is yet another thing to watch out for. I am peering at it, my nose just inches away, waiting for a sign of tumescence. 

Oh yes! There it all goes. Off the heat - NO! Lower the heat - and sprinkle with salt, pepper and flour, rolling and coating as you go. 

Cook slowly and cover for four minutes. 

What can I do in four minutes? Should I ring Monica? No, I’ll probably see her later on. It is impossible to have a four minute conversation with her. She’ll bang on about the new Book Club offering, which is perfectly crap in every respect. I don’t really like Monica any way. She’s just one of those friends you pick up over the years but can never remember where from. And actually, I think Julia orders me to turn the chicken and vegetables over after two minutes, so I’ll do that instead. 

Now I have some boiling to do. 1 1/4 pints of chicken bouillon, (tap water and a stock cube), 1/2 pint of dry white wine or 1/4 pint of dry white vermouth. Do they still sell vermouth? I don’t even know what it is, but if it was here I know I’d drink it. I’ve always been a bit of a drunk; mostly disguised but not always. 

So I have a marvellous bottle of Rhine wine, bought a few years back when me and Johnny went on a cruise. I am sorry to disabuse other nations, but their white wine makes me nauseous. It is the Germans who make the best, but you rarely see the good stuff on international shelves because they’ve already drunk it. What the Germans are not noted for, (perhaps unfairly), is their sense of humour, but the man who sold us this bottle told one joke after another. A genuinely funny man. I later found out that he killed himself in his wine cellar shortly after I bought this bottle, so I shall pour the exact amount into my fricassée and drink the rest in his honour. Life can be harsh but wine doesn’t have to be. 

Oh! And here’s Julia at her 1970s best! In addition to the boiling wine and chicken stock, I must add a small herbal bouquet: parsley, bay leaf and thyme - tied in washed cheesecloth. This reminds me of one of my mother’s boyfriends, who had a footballer’s perm and wore cheesecloth shirts. I am grateful, looking back, that he wasn’t also Jimmy Savile, that other icon of the decade. 

I do not have a hand-crafted ‘herb bouquet,’ but I do have herbs in a pot. I can’t just toss them in, though. I’ll be picking bits out of my teeth for days. I have an old piece of muslin that I used when Adam was a baby and that will do, as long as I don’t dwell on the provenance. After all, it will be dropped in a boiling pot of wine and bouillon (tap water/stock cube), so if a lingering germ survives this maelstrom of torment, it deserves its moment. 

I should mention that the French always cook their chicken on the bone, but Johnny and Adam never liked that method, which is a shame. I remember occasions in the past when I got quite cross with both of them: I sought to emasculate them because they didn’t like picking the flesh off the bone. What a strange woman I can be. Take Monica, for instance. Is she really so bad? I watch as everything comes to simmering point, thinking of her for no particular reason except it stops me thinking of everything else. 

And I conclude, as I add more salt to taste, that Monica really is that bad. She has been having an affair with my husband.

Now I must remove the chicken to a side dish. Not just any old plate - but a side dish. The rest can simmer for a while yet. I must say, my kitchen is alive with good smells.

And now I should attend to the onion and mushroom garniture. This is one of my favourite words. 

Garniture. It should be what garden furniture is called. 

I prepared this yesterday. It involves two dozen pearl onions and fresh mushrooms stewed in butter and lemon juice. My son once tripped out on mushrooms I had innocently foraged from the woods, so I’m a little cautious these days. That said, me and Johnny ate the same fricassée and we were both fine. This suggests one of two things: me and Johnny are just tough old coots - too cool to drool, or my son had taken something earlier and blamed it on my cooking. The second option is the most likely, of course. Children are idiots. 

I pour the juices from the garniture into the pot, skimming off the fat. This is one of life’s unsung pleasures; little moments of intense concentration which, done badly, might render a fricassée into a stew. And then I must boil and reduce, which sort of explains how I felt when I discovered my husband’s affair. When the sauce thickens, it will coat a spoon. And then she writes: Correct seasoning. You should have 3/4 pint. 

In all the years I have been making this recipe, because it’s Johnny’s favourite, I have never understood what the bollocking blazes Julia is talking about here. Perhaps she was on her third gin. I think I know what she means, but it belongs in the next paragraph. 

Of course, one of the chief differences between a fricassée and a stew is the colour. A stew is brown and brawny. A stew is a Yorkshire sheep farmer or a Mediterranean fisherman. A fricassée is a camp cousin, pale but full of witty anecdotes. A fricassée works in an office but attends outrageous cabarets in its free time. A stew goes to bed at ten, but a fricassée stays out until the winter dawn. 

To achieve this distinction, one needs two egg yolks and 1/4 pint of cream. A stew is a married couple. A fricassée is an affair. I rather like separating the egg from the yolk. I once worked in a kitchen when I was younger. I used to delicately use an egg cup and saucer, until the chef barged me to one side, cracked an egg into his beefy, scarred palm and just let the albumen slip through his fingers. So much easier, and no washing up. In fact, if you have a disgusting teenager, just get them to separate some eggs. It is like music to a wild beast. 

And I must beat the egg yolks and the cream, whilst carefully adding spoonfuls of hot sauce until I have reached the 1/2 pint mark. Julia always insists on a wire whisk, but has a purist’s dislike of aluminium. When she first met her future husband, he complained that she was a “sloppy thinker” and had an “unbecoming blond moustache”. Now I am immediately cross about this second remark: not because I care what he thought of the woman he later came to adore, but because he should have written blonde. I wonder if he had an affair. Perhaps she did. 

So then, you get this pleasing blond(e) mixture which you pour slowly back into the pot, adding some drops of lemon juice and a fraction of nutmeg. The chicken is still on the side, like Monica. And after a little stir and simmer, I pour the sauce into another container. 

I arrange the chicken and the garniture in the pot and pour the sauce over it. I am supposed to sieve the sauce but there are some instructions, however well meant, which are meant to be disobeyed. But here’s a little thing you might not know. When resting a sauté, a stew or a fricassée, one should pour a little cream over the top to prevent a skin from forming: a hack that cannot be too widely known. 

When reheating, there is a little more butter to add. Julia calls it enrichment butter. I used to think this alluded to a certain process I had to follow to achieve a better butter, like an Indian ghee, but I was wrong. She was merely being poetic. God bless her and all who sailed in her. 

My phone rings. It’s Monica so I ignore this. The thing is, I’m just not that bothered by it. After thirty years of marriage, I should expect a little something to go on behind my back. After all, I had a very passionate affair with a Welsh builder several years ago and if Johnny knew, he didn’t say anything. And you know, Monica was just payback, I expect. She has an oblong face and lives alone with a marmalade cat. She hasn’t had much love in her life and if Johnny gave her a bit of it, who am I to judge? She has great taste in men but poor taste in literature.  

It’s over now, in any event. 

The phone rings again. I’m in demand. It must be the aroma of my fricassée drifting over the rooftops. It’s my son, Adam, in the car with his wife. 

‘Be there in ten, mum. You nearly ready?’

I just needed a dust down and put some lipstick on. Maybe remember to take off my apron and turn off the hob. ‘I’ll be ready, love.’

‘We’re not bringing the kids. You know.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Okay. So the Miner’s are expecting us at 1.30. They’re putting on sandwiches and there’s a grand behind the bar. Should be a good send off.’

‘Do you think it was my cooking?’ I asked him. ‘All the butter and cream.’

‘Mother, he was hit by a forklift. Do I need to worry about you?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll stay over tonight. Shall we get a takeaway?’

‘I’ve made a fricassée.’ 

‘Dad’s favourite,’ he said. ‘Mine too.’ 

‘“To La Belle France: whose peasants, fishermen, housewives, and princes - not to mention her chefs - through generations of inventive and loving concentration have created one of the world’s great arts ..”’

‘Eh?’

‘Mastering The Art of French Cooking. Page one. I’m going to cook them all. I am beguiled by the loving concentration.’

‘I can’t eat it all, mum. I’ve got a family.’

‘And I have a book club and oblong Monica, and the next time I make this recipe the meat will be on the bone. Not all diced up and shredded and disconnected, but like it’s meant to be.’

When Adam pulls up, I am not trying to think of my husband, the man I love. I know that I will shortly see him lowered to the flames, which is not the done thing these days. Generally everyone leaves, and then they do it. But I want to face it. I want everyone to face it. The moment requires a loving concentration.

And tomorrow I shall make that most basic of challenges. Leek and potato soup.