For about the last six months I’ve had a recurring dream. Not the wake-up-screaming-and-sweating kind of recurring dream in which I see my own death, but the kind where I wake up in the morning and slowly stretch before padding downstairs. It’s only when I’m half way through brushing my teeth that I realise that my dream was, in fact, a dream and now I’m going to have to deal with yet another day.
I bet you’re thinking that in my dream I am a racing car driver, or an astronaut, or a Norse God rending the very heavens themselves asunder with my power and glory – but if I’m honest with you I’m dreaming of being a butcher. Yes, in my dream I’m running my own business, supplying fresh meat to a delightfully middle class village somewhere in the countryside. I’ve got one of those red-and-white pinnies, a straw boater, a great big twirly moustache, ruddy cheeks and powerful forearms. I’ve got a German Shepherd called Corben Dallas who is quite dopey and, occasionally, goes on daring raids in to my shop – only to emerge seconds later trailing a string of plump sausages from his maw while I run after him screaming cartoon obscenities such as “@!!#*” and “@@!*”, which doesn’t impress the vicar very much at all, I can tell you. At the end of the day, I close my shop, climb in to my car, and drive home to my lovely country cottage to find my wife painting in her studio. We eat pie, we go the local for a pint of “Mother Hendry’s Gallbladder”, and eventually retire home to our big, comfy bed. I am a butcher, and I am happy.
I rather suspect that I have over romanticized a) country living and b) butchery as a career, but I do think that this dream I keep having is in some way indicative of the fact that I need a change. Perhaps that’s why I started this blog – a new chapter, if you like, a new adventure in which I learn new things, try out new ideas, and ultimately that might point me to where I want to be in life. You never know do you, eh?
In the spirit, then, of learning new things, I spent the last weekend in Essex with my parents and my grandparents. For some reason, I have been craving one thing and one thing only for around a month – Mussels. I’ve only ever had them once before, but that sensational burst of sweet, salty flavour coming ready packaged in its own cutlery was something that I could no longer rationally ignore. So I got on the ‘phone:
“Mother,” spake I “I am coming to visit upon you this weekend and I have a menu request. “
“Stop speaking like an idiot.” She said.
“Sorry. I’m having this craving for mussels, any chance we could have them for tea on a Saturday?”
“Sure, we’ll have Gran over as well, and you can write about them on that blog that you do.” she replied.
Which was fine, but for two things. One, I had never cooked shellfish before I cooked those prawns a few weeks ago and two, I’m pretty sure that if I visit my mum I don’t have to cook. But, such is life, and so it was that I came to find myself stood in a kitchen, my step dad as a teacher-come-head-chef to one side of me, with the following STUFF:
- Mussels – a whole heap of them. We bought three little bags of them from the fishmonger, feeding 5 people
- Two large onions
- A whole garlic
- White Wine
- Parsley
- Some good crusty bread
- A couple of knobs. Of butter, that is, not the people who are cooking it
The first lesson I learned on Saturday was that mussels really are nature’s fast food. Besides the prep time – and to be honest, I would think that some fishmongers might do some of the prep for you – these little beauties will be ready to eat in less than 15 minutes. Be prepared to eat with your fingers and to abandon all pretences. This will not be a clean meal to eat but in terms of fun, sociability and togetherness it’s an absolute winner. Do you want to know exactly how pretentious this meal shouldn’t be? Look at our setup for the dining:
Yes. What you can see there are – 2 bowls from a Wagamama gift set, a salad bowl, 2 items of Tupperware and a microwave dish. We haven’t been deliberately bohemian, nor is this a desperate attempt to appear ‘ironic’ or ‘edgy’. No. Simply put my mother amazed me by not having enough bowls for five people. But we are Vikings, damn it, and we want mussels in our faces and the vessel in which is presented to us is unimportant. You watch, Heston’ll be doing this soon and the critics will go mad for it. There. I think I’ve defended the lack of bowls enough now.
So, you have your mismatched bowls, the wine is cooling, and your family are safely ensconced in the sitting room watching Saturday Telly. Get yourself a sharp knife, and let’s cook.
Moules Mariniere – The Viking Gets Shellfish
Firstly, take your mussels and plunge them in to cold water, like this:
Then pick one out of the water, and locate the beard of the mussel – little hairy or tendrilly bits at the edge of the shell. Use a short, sharp knife to trim the beard from the mussel. What always freaked me out about mussels was the various different rules and regulations that one must adhere to when cooking a mussel. “Only ever stand with one foot on the floor while cooking them” some people yelled at me “never look a mussel in the eye on a Tuesday” others sang, before dancing off in to the fog of my imagination. As it turns out, it’s pretty simple.
One: If a mussel is open before it’s cooked (as in, when you’re trimming it), give it a tap with the back of a knife. If it closes on its own, it’s fine to eat. If it doesn’t close, it’s dead. Throw it away unless you have some kind of desire to be extremely ill. I can’t emphasise enough how much I don’t recommend that.
Two: If a mussel remains closed after it has been cooked, then throw it away. It is dead, and it will make you most sick indeed if you eat it.
Three: When you are picking a mussel out of its shell to eat, if it’s really stuck in there then don’t eat it.
And, the overreaching rule: If In Doubt, Leave It Out. Or, as I did, repeatedly show mussels to your Mum saying “is this one alright? How about this one? Or this one?”
Right, so. Your mussels have been shaved, and now on to what to cook them in. Finely dice 2 large white onions, and peel all the cloves out of a bulb of garlic.
In a large pan (or two, depending on how large your large pan is) over a low heat melt your butter. Once that’s done, add the onions and cook slowly until soft. Crush in the garlic, and carry on cooking gently for two or three minutes.
Add a good slug of wine (around a quarter of a bottle), and then chuck the mussels in to that winey, steamy, garlicky pan along with a handful of parsely. Increase to a medium heat, and cover immediately, ideally with a pan lid that has a little escape hole for steam.
Steam for 2-3 minutes, uncover, and then stir with a wooden spoon to get all of that onion, garlic and wine coating the mussels. Put the lid back on, and steam for another 2 or so minutes. You’re ready to go when all of the mussels have opened nice and wide.
Spoon in to bowls and serve with thickly sliced crusty white bread – and be generous with the broth that the mussels cooked in, that’s the second best part. Find an empty shell, and use it as a pincer to pick the mussels out of their shells. Eat. Devour. Get all dribbly on your chin. Enjoy, because it’s bloody amazing.
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| I suspect this is the first and only time my Gran's hands will appear on the internet... |
Drink with a medium white that has lots of zingy lemon flavours, sort of like this one:
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| And hey, why not throw in a bottle of red? |
Follow up with a good spread of cheese and crackers, and what an evening you shall have!
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| I'll be honest, I just wanted to put this picture up... |
This is so very simple, and extremely impressive. There was at least one in our party who isn’t the biggest fan of fish, shellfish or otherwise, who gladly ate all that was put in front of her and didn’t even look at the emergency ham sandwich that had been prepared. What followed was an evening of family – eating together, drinking together, and laughing together – and that is something very special, and very important.
And so ends another entry in to this little old blog of mine. Special thanks this week must go to Viking Mother and Stepdad who a) paid for the ingredients, b) put Mrs Viking and I up in their house for the weekend and c) taught me how to cook mussels – with minimal swearing and a lot of Port.
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