In a pickle

I am something of a pickler at heart. I have made many pickles, preserves, and chutneys in the past. It takes time, and considerable effort, for the dubious reward of a jar to relinquish to relatives.

This cucumber pickle, on the other hand, is the epitome of simplicity and only takes little more than an hour. It is a pickle only in essence, and somewhat Japanese in origin.

Simply take your cucumber and run it through a mandolin as thin as you can. The mandolin slicer has a strangely therapeutic effect and is highly recommended. Though there is always the risk of entering a mandolin trance and not waking until ones digits are somewhat curtailed. You could, of course, use a knife.

Mix up a juice with a teaspoon of sugar, half that of salt, a good serving of vinegar, the slightest dash of soy and a hint of mirin, if it is there. Mix well with the cucumber.

And then wait a little while. While you wait, why not think up some words which rhyme with cucumber, and compose a poem.

Before serving, just squeeze hard on the juice, and you will be left with that crispy floppiness that goes with a good pickle. The hardcore amongst us will drink that juice before the guests arrive. (The pickle will stand to be held in its liquor overnight, but it will lose some freshness).

It makes for artful arrangement.


Here, served beside my dry hot ribs - slow baked with a paste of onion, garlic, chilli, peppercorns (regular and Szechuan), and salt before superheating with a cheeky honey glaze. Nice.


Did you know that in Humberside there is a vegetarian restaurant called the Humber Cucumber? It is shaped like an upright cucumber, standing some twelve storeys tall. The dining area can only seat twelve - the rest is little more than a green-shrouded scaffold. It is something of a local landmark, as you may imagine.

An act of rectification - part 1

Wormwood. The stuff of legend. A dank and mysterious herb, silvery in sheen. It dispels worms, as its name may suggest. Intestinal worms, that is, not earth worms. More famously, it is a key ingredient in Absinthe, that legend of drinks. Riddled with thujone, it imparts a hazy green colour, induces hallucinations and ear-chopping mania, and generally leaves people insane. Or so they say.


I have cultivated wormwood for some time now - but it has been years since I extracted the juice. Back in 2005 I made my own dubious approximation of Absinthe, but I shouldn't talk about that - the legislative niceties are too complex. The bottle pictured below have been it - I can't be sure, there is no label. The twig is something of a mystery. An awful lot of things were hazy back then, not just my labelling.



Since then I have long wanted to conduct another extraction - indeed, last year I promised my dear readers a bright green chilli and wormwood sauce. Last weekend that time came. I will tell you more - much more.

But first, let us disabuse ourselves of a few myths.

Absinthe has never made anyone mad - though it has made all too many people insanely drunk. Though absinthe is a strong drink it shouldn't be drunk strong, it should be drunk diluted.

Wormwood doesn't make absinthe green. That'll be the tarragon. Wormwood distillate is clear.

Thujone, the active ingredient in wormwood, is not a hallucinogen. There is more thujone in common sage than in wormwood. Nobody ever got high from stuffing a chicken.

Van Gogh did not cut off his own ear. A so-called friend did it for him.

I imagine I have shattered enough dreams for now. Hold fast for the next episode, where we delve deeper into the mysteries of wormwood extractions.

In the meantime, why not enjoy a cocktail? This little shooter's still holding out for a suitable name. 50% Jagermeister, 50% Hills, 100% destruction. I have only ever served two of these in my lifetime, and both recipients voided their stomachs shortly afterwards.