Human stock

I fantasise about piling up on the richest creamiest buttery frenchy food and bolting the door shut to spend three slow months eating myself to death. With the Wife too, although she helpfully pointed out over dinner that this would put too much strain on the kids. But fuck it, we can use them for stock and prolong our twisted feast for weeks. I feel like this, I hope, because I have for two days now eaten nothing but fine fatty food the likes of which can kill if not kept in check.

Tonight, for Christ’s sake, were leftovers. Yet I sit here bloated and slow and hurting at the seams from the richness. I had held over half a celeriac and a quarter of a red cabbage from yesterday, so I braised the latter with half a mango that I found in the fridge and grated the celeriac for a rosti. This rosti ended up as the base of my tower, standing firm thanks to its egg-bound structure and supporting a spoonful of purple cabbage, a twist of rocket and five tiny discs of the tenderloin that I had eased out of the venison saddle and just rolled around in hot nutty butter for a few minutes. It looked spectacular indeed, surrounded as it was with some of the purple cabbage juice (which should have been a mustard vinaigrette to cut through the sweetness).

But it was blown over by the courses either side, the first being more crab ravioli and cream sauce. I spiked the crab with small-dice mango and the sauce was made by reducing a couple of glasses of leftover Cava, adding in the remaining cooking stock from yesterday’s celeriac and finishing it off with double cream and finely chopped parsley. There was a huge ratio of filling to pasta, and this is the way it should be done. The finale was precisely the same as yesterday’s, only the pie had had time to go slightly soggy and responded well to 15 minutes in a hot oven; and the ice cream had had time to shine.