One for the journey

It's not all about the results, for me, it's often about the journey itself. Which is a good thing, especially when things don't quite work out. Such as my cassoulet, which was inspired by Mr Shannon's culinary work.

The cassoulet is, of course, a journeyman's food. Hearty, rich and fattening, full of delights, it is just the thing to spoon up after a long walk or ride. It is just as welcome packed into a jar, or tin, and preserved for the trip itself. The history of my many walking tours in France can be catalogued by the tinned cassoulets I have eaten. The most rewarding, if hardly gourmet, was spoooned from the tin in a Lourdes campsite. Heating a tin of cassoulet on a camp stove is a venture doomed to fail - it needs a four.

Amongst travellers, pork and beans has a strong tradition. The Vaqueros who, even to this day, herd cows on horseback through the barren, remote plains of Spain huddle over campfires in the evening to stir pots of chorizo and beans.


You will find a left-field variant of chorizo and chick-pea stew at Brindisa - more luxurious, but little different. The same goes for their American counterparts, as is well known. The Italians also do a different pork and beans, to which I am somewhat indifferent. So Cassoulet is just one amongst many.

It's the range of meats that does it. To make a cassoulet you need, at very least, some chunky Toulouse sausages, a good slab of pork (belly, of course), and - essentially - some duck confit. Which you should - of course - make yourself.

Confiting is deeply fashionable right now, so I needn't digress into the process. Chefs of the moment will confit almost anything - duck, pork, rabbit and fruit have all found their way into the lard. Its popularity may have something to do with the recessionary times, as the confit is the ultimate in comfort food. Easy on the fork, easy on the palate, and deeply enrichening. Gary Rhodes once confited some bacon, which was surprisingly effective.



Anyway. I digress. The pork, the meats, the beans, there are countless recipes out there and every one is right. It shouldn't be that complicated (but it can be). I didn't realise how few beans there are in a tin, so my ratios were all wrong. For some reason I was encouraged to add tomato puree, which gave the result a somewhat lurid orange hue. A French cassoulet is pale, on the way to bland and stodgy, as it should be.



Thrown in were the sausages, pork, a couple of lamb chops (lamb, you say?) and a brace of confit legs, fresh from the jar. Bits and bobs, this and that, and a good time in the oven - lid on, lid off.

Despite the colour and the want of beans, it tasted mighty fine. One to try again, I think. And next time I'll drop the orange.

Concluding the act of rectification

I know, I have been remiss. It has been weeks since I started, and I am continually sidetracked. Meanwhile, the Wormwood has flourished in this heat and could well be ready for a second, more flowery, cropping. Who knows.



So where were we? Oh yes. I was, in intent at least, explaining how to conduct an extraction of wormwood.

Many herbs are simply steeped in water or alcohol to retrieve the flavour. Wormwood needs steeping, and then some. The initial mash is inhumanly bitter and toxic - a mere taste will bring you out in the worst manner of gagging. I gnawed idly at a leaf, for curiosities sake. It was not to be recommended.

The only solution is to take an alcohol mash an distill it - gently, via a water bath. This withdraws the essence and leave the foulness behind. No simple matter. For starters, you need some exceedingly strong alcohol. And second, you need a still.

Fortunately, exceedingly strong alcohol can be found, on occasion, in Polish grocers. It may take some hunting. An easier option is to visit Gerrys on Old Compton Street, and ask for Rectified Spirit. This baby's only 0.1% shy of 80% alcohol, which apparently is where the law draws the line. I'm not sure what it's ordinarily for - as a snifter, it is quite an ordeal. The chaps at Gerrys won't bat an eyelid when you ask for this - though they may offer a free condom (they did this for my brother once, he never could explain quite why).



En passant, I paused for a fine coffee round the corner where they promise the finest beans (I forget the name), and later lunched with Mr Norton. It was a heady day. Anyway. To business.

You must Crush the Wormwood leaves lightly, and leave to soak in the spirit - overnight at most, perhaps less. The mash is the most wonderful rich green, which stains everything it cares to touch.



Once you have the spirit, go find a still. This is where the law may become more hazy. Distilling, they say, is illegal. Actually, it is not - it is rectification which is illegal, and then only if you don't have a license. Rectification, of course, is what makes weak alcohol strong. Now, if your alcohol content is already well nigh on 80% (ABV, not proof), you're not going to be making anything stronger. So no, this is not rectification - of alcohol, at least - so one is still on the right side of the law. One must assume.

This is not the first still I have made. In the past I extracted essential oils using a complex steam contraption, amongst other things. So I knew what to do. It did involve a torturous half hour watching the staff at Leyland SDM wrestling with the concept of measuring a coiled pipe, not to mention wrestling with the pipe itself ("are you stupid or what"), an unexpected drive-by conversation with a colleague ("you doing some plumbing?" - no - *ahem*) and a flurry of trips out to find suitable bungs. Even Argos receives a namecheck, though thankfully Sammy, on the High Street, had the goods and so saved the trip. Nothing is ever easy.

The arrangement, when finally assembled, was somewhat ramshackle and relied on delicate positioning of the cutlery drawer.


And there, finally, I took the mash into the boiler vessel and set it to heat. I watched, relaxed, whiled away the hours while the wormwood essence wormed its way through the coil of the still (the "worm"), and dripped, discreetly, into a bowl.




Who knows if such footage should be aired in public, but I value your discretion in these matters. This is, after all, science. Note in the background hear the trilling of a local blackbird.

It took some three or four hours to complete the process. Now and then I would dip a finger in the resultant liqour and taste, my nose filled with the heady herbal essence. It now remains sealed, bottled, waiting quietly for future use. Oh yes.

An act of rectification - part 2

Timing is everything. And, I admit, I didn't have time before to continue this epic. I will, I promise, divulge the mysteries of rectification - in time - but first, a little more background.

For a grower, timing really is everything. Us middle-class foodies may snort knowingly about seasonal produce, but there is far more to it than gnawing, pompously, on the tip of a Norfolk asperge. The seasons are our harsh and brutal masters, and there are no second chances.

I like to make marmalade, for instance. When I can. The Seville season lasts no more than two weeks, and if I miss it, I'm done for. It means a year without marmalade - for me, and the rest of my family.

Right now, the poppies are out. My crop failed for years, but this spring I turned the soil and ancient, dormant seeds split into life. With this heat, the heads are as big as a thumb. Slip a few of these into a vodka bottle and you'll have a fine sleeping draft - I know nothing of the legalities, so wouldn't recommend it. Blink, and they're gone to seed - no laud for you.



When harvesting herbs, it is not just the season that counts - there is more. The weather must be clear, bright and scorching hot. The air must be dry. You must pick at the apogee of the day, when the heat and brightness are highest. This brings all the essence to the fore - the scent, the botanicals, the oils, are all concentrated into the leaves.

Some years, the right day never arrives - which is why, in the early June heatwave, I took my chances with the wormwood.
It is not about the weather alone. With herbs, particularly the medicinal or mystical types, the act of picking must be correct. Ancient alchemists would have to harvest in time with rare planetary and lunar alignments. With such stringent rules, and such rare conjunctions of the elements that make the time right, the energy imbued in the process is increased many fold. The more difficult the act, the greater the energy.

In Magic, these processes become even more arcane - the wand must be cut from a virgin hazel with a knife never before used. By making the knife itself, the Magician can increase the energy, and power, and even more if he has mined the ore. It can be endless.

Which is why I had to harvest the Wormwood when I did. It is not about the flavour alone - it is about the energy, the very spirit of the herb, which vibrates through the bottle which will encapsulate it.


As for the process itself? Next time my friends, next time.