POULET BASQUAISE – IN A TAGINE

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When I get a new kitchen implement or gadget I’m like a kid with a new toy. I tend to use it at every possible opportunity until I get bored with it, or until something better comes along. And this recently happened to me when we purchased a tagine.

The reason I’ve resisted getting a tagine for the past thirty years or so is that I’ve generally found North African cuisine to be disappointing, underwhelming and wildly overrated — a classic example of the whole being less than the sum of its parts. Rose and orange blossom waters, couscous and preserved lemons all have their charms and can, in the right hands, be used to make acceptable dishes, but those hands rarely belong to the chefs who work in the Moroccan or Tunisian restaurants currently spreading exponentially throughout western Europe. I’ve suffered regular disappointment eating my way through dozens of apparently exotic dishes, constantly amazed by their sameness and blandness. Even the impeccably crafted Maghrebi recipes in Claudia Roden’s 2005 magnum opus “Arabesque” (Michael Joseph / 2005) — for all their promise of delivering aromatic taste-bud rapture — mostly produce mysteriously bland and monotonous results, leaving one hankering for more “Arab” flavour and far less of the oh-so-scented “esque”…

As with the equally overrated Greek diaspora cuisine, I strongly suspect that one needs to go to the countries themselves to taste the real deal. Some cuisines are so grounded in their host environments and atmospheres that they lose their essence in transit, and this is unfortunately the case with the cuisine of the Maghreb, though fortunately not with its most utilitarian cooking vessel — the aforementioned tagine.

One of our staple winter dishes when we’re at our home in southern Spain is poulet Basquaise. The reason is simple, in that the three main ingredients (chicken, tomatoes and peppers) are excellent and cheap, and the dish is easy to make. I can quickly prepare it in the morning then heat it up in the evening after a long, hard day picking olives or pruning olive trees. I use the recipe from Gerald Hirigoyen’s fabulous book, “The Basque Kitchen” (HarperCollins / 1999) with only minor adaptations due mostly to expedience (I’ve never been able to get hold of piment d’Espelette for example and use spicy paprika instead). I had also always used the conventional skillets and saucepans Hirigoyen recommends for cooking the stew until the other day, when, at the very last minute, I decided to do the actual stewing in my new tagine.

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Another tip for making this dish extra special is to use dark red peppers, roast on charcoal, skinned and seeded. Regular chopped peppers are fine too, but lack the natural richness and touch of smoke.

The results were excellent. Whereas formerly the dish was reliable and very tasty, the simple act of using a tagine instead of a saucepan hugely intensified the flavour, turning it from a good dish into something truly special.

Here is the recipe with a grateful nod to Gerald Hirigoyen (and whoever it was who invented the tagine!):

Serves 4

Ingredients:

  • One 4lb free-range chicken (or the best you can afford)
  • Flour for dredging
  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 3 oz. diced pancetta or streaky bacon (unsmoked)
  • 1 medium yellow onion thinly sliced
  • 2 dark red bell peppers (preferably roast, peeled and seeded)
  • 6 garlic cloves, crushed
  • 4 medium very ripe tomatoes, cored and coarsely chopped
  • 1 bouquet garni (of fresh herbs – I use, bay, rosemary, thyme, oregano and parsley)
  • coarse sea salt
  • ¼ tsp. freshly ground white pepper
  • ¼ tsp. piment d’Espelette (or hot paprika)

Method: 

  1. Cut up the chicken into 12 pieces: Quarter the bird then cut the wings from the breasts and the legs from the thighs; cut the wings in two discarding the tips; cut the breasts across into two pieces (reserve the carcass, offcuts and wingtips for stock).
  2. Dredge the chicken thoroughly in the flour.
  3. Heat the olive oil in a heavy skillet, on a medium-high heat and sauté the diced pancetta until the crisp and the fat has run, then set aside on a plate.
  4. Add the chicken to the skillet in batches (don’t crowd the pan!!) and brown thoroughly on all sides (about 5 minutes per batch), then remove to the plate with the pancetta.
  5. Add the onions and peppers to the skillet and sauté for at least five minutes, deglazing the pan as they cook — after about five minutes they should be soft and beginning to brown at the edges.
  6. Add the garlic to the skillet and sauté for a further two minutes.
  7. Return the pancetta to the skillet together with the tomatoes, bouquet garni, salt, pepper and piment d’Espelette (or hot paprika) and mix well.
  8. Turn this sauce mixture into the bowl of a large tagine.
  9. Lay the chicken on the sauce mixture, cover with the tagine lid and place on a medium flame.
  10. Once the lid of the tagine is too hot to touch (normally around 15 minutes) turn the heat right down to minimum and simmer for 20 minutes.
  11. Remove the breast pieces of chicken and keep warm — continue cooking for about another 20 minutes then, when sure the remaining chicken is cooked return the breasts to the tagine.
  12. Cook for a further five minutes, until the breast pieces are thoroughly re-heated.
  13. Discard the bouquet garni and serve with chunks of crusty, rustic, white sourdough bread.
  14. Wash down with a big Pyrenean red…2016-jan-basque-chicken-3

2016 review

2016 has been a year of travel firsts for me: My first visits to New York City, Padua and Stockholm were all memorable in different ways – good and bad, but mostly good and sometimes extraordinary. Being in NYC during the second biggest blizzard to whitewash the Big Apple since records began was thrilling, and walking down all-but deserted, snow blanketed streets like Madison Avenue and Broadway was to experience a kind of benign apocalypse. These are the sort of memories which etch themselves so deep into the fabric of one’s being, they become a part of who one is.

While Padua and Stockholm offered nothing quite so spectacular, they did, in their own distinct and quirky ways impress and give pause. I returned from one feeling refreshed in spirit and from the other, in body, both to unusual degrees.

In purely colourist terms, the overriding impressions of the three cities were white and platinum, silver and blue and ochre and gold – I’ll leave it to the imagination of the reader to guess to which/what each refers…

In addition to travelling there were all the regular and irregular events and postings which go to make up a pretty typical year in the life of this blogger. Presented below is a snapshot record of those events and postings.

This then is me signing off for 2016, wishing all my followers, viewers and accidental visitors a wonderful Christmas, or Hanukkah (or both), a Happy New Year and loads of good luck for 2017.

New Years day
New Year’s Day – Regent’s Canal towpath – London

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Me in Madison Avenue – NYC/January 2016

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A Padua canal

Texas Trip, San Antonio 5 Oct 15
San Antonio

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St Martin’s nude

Toulouse 8
Toulouse Series

Two Chefs
Lime Chicken Curry recipe

Girl Dancing 1
Dancers series

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Nobles to Nobel – Stockholm

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Mountains of Moab – Yahweh’s Kingdom – From Israel towards Jordan

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Becky – oil on paper

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Girls series

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DON’T TOUCH! (Don’t series)

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My Gal…(Chile 1991)

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Wanderers – working sketch – ink on paper

 

 

 

 

 

 

WANDERINGS AND WONDERING OF YOUTH

Regular readers of these pages will know that travel comprises a significant part of my life, even to the point that I once had homes concurrently in three different countries.

But, when I look back now, of all the hundreds of journeys, vacations and adventures since my first flight – aged three – to Zurich from London on a Swiss Air Caravelle (I remember that we sat facing each other with a little table between us, as on a train) – there are eight trips of which every detail remains etched into my memory.

All of these trips were specifically formative in that they either changed my life in a literal sense, or my perceptions of life in some fundamental way. Followers of this blog might already be aware of some of these episodes.

Firstly there was the trip to Israel in 1967 just weeks after the Six-Day War which blew both my 7-year old mind and my 1960’s, suburban British olfactory senses. I vividly remember being on the Golan Heights, walking along the safe paths marked out by Israeli mine disposal teams, into Quneitra and dozens of Syrian military documents blowing on the dusty hot winds like confetti. And equally, I recall the first time I tasted real humus and roasted eggplant and being almost emotionally overcome with the sheer pleasure of it;

Then there was a gastronomic drive along the length of France in 1970 which turned me into one of the England’s most precocious connoisseurs of food and wine;

A year later, I was treated to my first visit to Spain where I discovered the hitherto (to a typical Jewish lad like me) forbidden twin joys of fried bacon and fresh shellfish in addition to poolside cocktails and luxury hotels. The fact this was all part of a photographic shoot for Max Factor and that I spent the entire time in the company of two of the UK’s top fashion models was the icing on the cake for a sexually curious eleven-year-old;

Fourteen years after it was Andalusia again, but this time a romantic five days in Seville, in the company of a beautiful law student, where I discovered the exotic joys of tapas washed down with ice-cold fino and late-night flamenco.

About a decade later in 1991 saw my first flight across the Pond, where the sublime “New World” strangeness of newly-democratic Chile bludgeoned me back into painting landscapes and left me a life-long lover of cazuela de pollo;

Then, twelve years after that in 2003, there was our visit to southern India where I was held enthral to the equally glorious and wonderful strangeness of ancient Tamil Nadu and Kerala and where I discovered that a mostly vegetarian diet could almost be fun (not to mention hugely fattening);

In 2007, I made my first trip to Australia, which, especially in magnificent Melbourne turned out to be quite simply the most enjoyable and mentally invigorating shattering of dearly-held pre-conceptions I have ever experienced;

And finally, just this January, when the cliché “better (incredibly) late than never” took on a whole new profundity for me after my first visit to New York City left me and all my senses dazed, awestruck and ecstatic in equal measure.

However, when I ask myself what was the trip that played the biggest and most enduring role in shaping the adult I eventually became, it would have to be another of the trips I made to Israel; this time in in 1978, during the summer break of my first year at Saint Martin’s School of Art.

The pictures below are all that remain of my “Wanderers Period” and represent the most eloquent way I can describe the feeling and atmosphere of those six weeks; the highlight of which was when four of us – two guys and two girls – walked the entire circumference of the Sea of Galilee in two days. We slept on the pebble beaches, and lived on falafel and bags of crisps washed down with cheap wine, accompanied by the dulcet tones of Weekend in LA on our cassette player. Without going into details, it became my coming-of-age drama in every sense, emotional, intellectual, spiritual and of course, sensual. It was my “Summer of 42”, except it was 78. It was when I truly fell in love with life and this Earth (and the incomparable virtuosity of George Benson).

Most unfortunately, the large canvases that emerged from these sketches and scrawls I painted over the following year after my art school tutors deemed them “unsubtle, hopelessly romantic and naïve” – they were a bunch of passionless idiots, but that’s another story. Nevertheless, I think these pictures, for all their rawness, convey the power of an 18-year old’s emotions, lusts, yearnings and wondering (and one or two aren’t bad drawings either)…

MY GAL’ – THE FELLOW…*

One of my most visited posts was Before We Met – a photo record of my wife Dido’s career as a professional ballerina and model. Dido was injured out of the ballet in 1985, about four years before we met, and so very sadly, I never got to see her dance.

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Nevertheless, I was privileged to witness Dido as she utilised the single-minded commitment and personal discipline she learned as a classical dancer to retrain; firstly as an occupational therapist (OT) and then later as a scientist specialising in the development of children’s brains. These qualities combined with her intelligence, imagination and wit meant that ballet’s loss has been a considerable gain for countless numbers of children with a range of conditions from autism to hemiplegia.

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Seasoned readers and followers of this blog may already be familiar with our trip to Chile through my series Our Real Cartoon Adventure. But, for those who are not in the know, I should explain that in that in 1991 Dido – then starting out as an OT – was awarded a generous Winston Churchill Travelling Fellowship to go to Chile to study the role of folk dance as a therapeutic tool to support social integration and participation for children with learning problems. As we were only recently wed, and as Dido would be gone for several months we decided that I would travel along, ostensibly (and actually, to a significant degree) as her cameraman (still and video) and thus provide a visual record of her work.

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All but one of the photos presented here are recreational however, and provide a happy record of our travels through that wonderful country, from Lago Chungara in the extreme north to Lago Llanquehue in the southern Lake District. What I particularly love about these pictures is the way they illustrate Dido’s adventurous spirit, her sense of fun, her incredible toughness and her beauty – inside and out. Moreover, they provide compelling evidence that there’s lots of life to be had beyond showbiz!

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*In addition to being a Winston Churchill Fellow, Dido was recently made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts for her contributions to Neuroscience, Occupational Therapy and the Arts.

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Glyph and Lady (Cerro Unitas – Atacama)
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Lying down again at Coquimbo
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Racing the tanker…Pacific swim at La Serena
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Mi bella esposa neuva en La Serena
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Emerging from a near-freezing Lago Llanquehue
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A happy swimmer with Volcan Osorno in the background (Llanquehue – Chilean Lakes)
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A seriously cold Lago Todos Los Santos (Petrohue – Chilean Lakes)
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At work with the kids in Santiago.

CHRISTMAS CARDS – THE BI-POLAR SERIES

Of all the people I ever dealt with in the various branches of the art world – “fine” and commercial – by far the most disreputable (and this includes gallery owners, art dealers, advertising bods, and even agents!!) were the greetings cards companies.

A good example of what I mean is represented by the set of cards displayed below. Around 1990 I had the idea of doing humorous cards based on Arctic/Antarctic/Polar themes. I was particularly pleased with the way the dark blue starry skies and snowy landscapes threw the subject matter into sharp relief. They just looked great and I knew they worked and I knew they would sell well.

Anyhow, that Spring I arranged a meeting at the offices of one of the UK’s leading card companies to see what they thought of the designs. After a brief discussion the lady who interviewed me asked if she could keep the pictures for a week or so to enable the “production team” to give them full consideration…

Stupidly, I agreed to this, without even so much as a signed receipt from her proving that she had taken temporary possession of the designs.

About a week later, the lady met me in a cafe behind Selfridges in London and returned the artwork to me, saying that “the team” had decided that the designs were not for them after all.

To my dumb and ingenuous horror, my designs, redrawn by different artists appeared in the shops later that year. After speaking with a top London copyright lawyer I realised that my position was probably hopeless as I had no sure way of proving that the company had had possession of my designs, or that my designs predated those now being printed and sold – in their thousands! Moreover, he told me, even if I did win a legal case – back in those days at least – I would still most likely have ended up out of pocket.

It was an exceptionally painful lesson which contributed significantly to my decision to turn away from art.

Nevertheless, presented here, for the first time is that series of original designs. I think you’ll enjoy them – even if you’ve seen them before – sort of…

MY “DON’T” SERIES – (of greetings cards)

Can’t recall if I already mentioned that for a while I made a modest crust designing greetings cards and I also can’t  recall what on earth the concept was behind this “DON’T” series?  I cannot think of many occasions when one would either present, or wish to be presented with the sort of messages displayed here. Perhaps I actually intended them as posters for a psychiatrist’s waiting room? Who knows?

They were done using sheets of coloured acetates with drawn-then-stenciled figures positioned beneath. In the pre-digital age, this was a tried and tested method for artists on low budgets (without access to things like lithography or screen printing) to achieve clean blocks of solid colour and sharp edges.

Whatever, the images seem reasonably affecting looking at them now.

MOODY GIRLS – in tone and colour

Here is a sample of my latest digital reworkings of some of my most commercially successful old library and sketchbook images.

More beautiful girls, fully clothed (more or less) and in regular – taken-from-life (also more or less) poses.  The girl in the polka dot dress is an obvious homage to that famous Athena tennis girl poster (from my back garden in Edgware in 1979) and there are also two of my wife Dido (one in Chile – 1991 and the other in the gardens of the Alcazar in Seville – 1988). The other two are of a girl on a trip to Israel from around 1980 (one at Ramon Crater in the Negev and the other at Rosh Hanikra).

I’ve had a few queries regarding the “validity” of these works in comparison to actual paintings, drawings and lithographs etc. Well, all I can say – at the risk of sounding hubristic – is that it takes not a little skill, and an intense amount of work to produce each and every picture. To all intent and purpose I am painting and drawing with the mouse in a way remarkably similar to using pencils and brushes. Often, a digital picture can take longer to execute than one of my old gouache paintings, and the results, for me at least, are just as satisfying. I love the contrast of the natural lines and edges containing pure and clean blocks of tone and colour. The level of satisfaction at completing one of these pictures is likewise, at least as complete as I used to feel after a day or so working on a gouache.

But, as ever, this is only my opinion. See what you think…

OILS ON PAPER… “FORM THROUGH COLOUR”

I fancied myself as something of a colourist around the the time I started at Saint Martin’s (1978/79), when this selection of oils on paper dates from. The idea of expressing things like bodily posture and even personality and human attitude through blocks of colour – with just a bit of assistance from drawn lines – was a concept which had interested me since I’d first started looking at pictures by anyone, from Matisse to Mathew Smith.

The paintings here are all of people (including one each of my maternal grandparents) done from life, which even then, was unusual for me – I was always more of a studio artist than a “field artist”. All of my early oil paintings were done on paper (like those presented below) or board. It was only once the generous student grant kicked in (those were the days!), when I’d actually begun at St. Martins, with access to subsidised stretchers and countless yards of cotton duck that I was able to enjoy the use of canvas.

Looking at these pictures now I’m struck by how fresh they look, and despite some pretty crude handling of paint, how closely they portray the subjects.

All in all, they’re not half bad, and the pictures of my much-missed booba and zaida  (the bottom two – Becky and Harry Pizan) are surprisingly evocative and poignant- for me at least…

The Wilderness of Zin – Yahweh’s Kingdom?

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This next post is a rare acknowledgement by yours truly of the approach of a Jewish festival. The Ten Days of Penitence, beginning with Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year) and culminating with Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement ) are nearly upon us and it got me to thinking about desert landscapes.

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I nearly always think of desert landscapes when any of the four main (“Mosaic”) Jewish festivals come around (Rosh Hashanah, Passover [Pesach], Pentecost [Shavuot] and Tabernacles [Succot]) as they were all – according to tradition – conceived during the desert wanderings of the Children of Israel – sometime around the 12th to 11th centuries BC.

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These days most biblical historians, archaeologists and scholars dispute these wilderness origins for most, if not all of these festivals, dating them instead to reigns of the later kings of Judah – somewhere about the 8th to 7th centuries – or even as late as the Babylonian exile during the 6th to 5th centuries BC.

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But whatever the exact historical origins of these celebrations they are fundamentally related to the worship of the ancient desert god Yahweh – one of the several Israelite/Hebrew components for what would gradually evolve into the eventual single Jewish God.

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Having been fortunate enough to travel extensively throughout most of the “Mosaic Wildernesses” – known today as the deserts of Sinai and the Negev (or Arabah) it is not hard for me to understand how the ancients came to regard these spectacular landscapes as the domain of supernatural beings, and even gods. They have a mystery and a feeling of wonder, which in certain lights and conditions can be almost overwhelmingly sensually intense. The evening winds cascading and rebounding through the canyons of the southern Sinai mountains at dusk sounds like the angry roar of giants – or even the voice of the gods.

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However, the current scholastic consensus is shifting northwards from southern Sinai to the less lofty, though equally spectacular jagged hills and psychedelic plains of the central Negev – formally known as the Wilderness of Zin – as being the true domain of the Hebrew Yahweh and even the location of his sacred mountain stronghold of Horeb.

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Whatever the eventual verdict regarding the birthplace of the Jewish God will be – assuming a verdict is ever arrived at – Zin remains my favourite place on Earth. I think these images here give you a taste of the “divine” and rugged beauty of the place.

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A very hearty Shanna Tova to you all!

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STOCKHOLM’S INDIAN SUMMER

I get the feeling that a warm, sunny September in Stockholm is rarer than a hen’s tooth, and judging by the way the locals were eagerly soaking up the precious UV, like squirrels frantically collecting nuts for winter, this was an extremely welcome climatic anomaly.

In any event, the low-slung solar disc  was a tremendous bonus for me as it cast a magical golden light and long shadows on a city even more handsome than its inhabitants. In the images presented here I’ve tried to encapsulate the experience of  seeing colourful Stockholm bathed in that extraordinary light and contrast.

Mind you, rarely have I gone anywhere for a first visit with more preconceptions, and the sight of so many impossibly good-looking, blonde, bronzed sun-worshipers fulfilled two of those on a very long list. (The rest of that list, in regards to preconceptions both confirmed and shattered is a definite subject for a future post).  Enough to mention here that something I wasn’t expecting was the apparent identification many men of a certain age in Stockholm seem to share with Jeremy Clarkson – I’ve never seen so many men, in one town, of 50+ years of age, in white shirt, sports or leather jackets and tight jeans…