Real Alligator Pie

I did a little research on alligator meat the other day, for reasons which no doubt lie too deep for words within my psyche. It began, I suppose, when I discovered that ‘Pigman's' or 'Swineherd’s pie’, which I flattered myself I had invented, was in fact a well-established dish.

I know little about so-called exotic meats. I’ve never had ostrich or kangaroo, although I did once chew on a piece of biltong. I’m ashamed to say I’ve only eaten venison once and rabbit hardly ever. I may have eaten horse and dog in certain dodgy establishments but I was not aware of it. Probably my gastronomic summit is stuffed chine, a Lincolnshire delicacy unappreciated by the rest of the world.

What about Alligator Pie, I thought, and checked it on the net. And there it was.

It seems to be a strange American pudding with unbaked pie crust, mixed with cream cheese and sour cream. Pecan nuts can be used to give the pie a vague resemblance to an alligator’s skin...

It sounds awful and I doubt it looks anything like an alligator.

On looking further I found a poem called Alligator Pie by Dennis Lee, a Canadian poet. It’s a jolly little rhyme, the title poem of a book of children’s verse, and reminiscent of Blue Suede Shoes.

It’s also the title of a long-forgotten TV movie, also from Canada, that even IMDb knows little about.

So how would you go about making a real Alligator Pie, a dish that would belong to the family that includes Shepherd’s, Cottage, Swineherd’s and Fish?

First, as they say, catch your alligator. I would recommend delegating that task.

In terms of cholesterol and fat content, alligator is a healthier option than chicken, or so I read.

The best cut is considered to be from the tail, which has the texture of veal and the taste of chicken, pork, rabbit, fish or frog’s legs. In other words, it tastes like alligator. Apparently you can find meat in the feet as well, rather like pig’s trotters, I guess.

The mid-section meat is darker and tougher and is usually diced for stews. It can also be minced for sausages, and therefore, I propose, for Real Alligator Pie (UK version).

Serves 6

Cooking time: 1.5 -2 hrs

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs alligator meat, coarsely minced
3 onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, crushed
3 sticks celery, chunks
4 oz chillies, diced
1 tin tomatoes
7 fl oz chicken stock – or soup. (Make it partly with milk)
I pkt sage and onion
Herbs, etc to taste.
2 lbs mashed potato, maybe with mashed broccoli (green, you see).

Method:

Brown meat in oil; soften onions, etc; add liquid, bring to boil and simmer until meat is cooked. Thicken if necessary.

Turn in 2 inch-deep dish and spread potato over the meat. Decorate with alligator teeth if available.

Eat with chicken gravy.

This recipe can be adapted for snake meat.

Now all I need is a volunteer.

Hot Chocolate

My reaction to the recent research into the relative ‘buzz’-inducing qualities of chocolate and kissing was at first dismissive. On reflection, though, I came to feel that such research could add to the stock of human knowledge, only if conducted more rigorously and supervised more closely. Probably by me.

Perhaps I shall return with a statement of methodology. I do have some very interesting ideas for experimentation. The fundamental flaw in the research was that the buzz-seeking scientists overlooked one basic fact, namely that a bar of chocolate is an end in itself, but a kiss is the first step on the road to a much more important destination. Put another way, a kiss is merely an hors d’oeuvre, the prelude to the entrée.

Bearing that in mind, it seems odd that anyone should waste time counting serotonins released by the brain and putting a stop-watch on the duration of raised heartbeat. It’s a clear case of comparing chalk and cheese. Who would choose a bar of chocolate in preference to a kiss and what – on a good day – it leads to.

However, being a man who suffers the liberal curse of seeing the other point of view, I’ve been pondering how an obsession with chocolate can be preferable to a sexual relationship.

The first thought that comes to mind is that there is no need to install chocolate in your home in order to enjoy it frequently. And even if you do, will you ever hear a Mars Bar complain of being neglected when you go out to the pub; or call you a pig when you come home drunk and feeling peckish? No, chocolate is readily available, and furthermore it’s cheap. Since when does a Snickers bar expect half a lager and a packet of crisps before allowing you to nibble it?

And there is such a variety of brands. Chocolate can be very dark, coffee-coloured or milky white. It may be sweet or bitter, soft-centred, crunchy or creamy. It may be flavoured with peppermint or rum or liqueurs. You can eat it ice-cold or drink it piping hot.

And I’ve noticed that no kind of chocolate ever complains when you sample another. Have you ever been nagged by a Bounty bar because you wanted a Turkish delight for a change, or a Crème Egg once a year? A Kit-Kat is not going to make you feel guilty because you couldn’t resist a Cadbury’s Caramel when you saw that sexy rabbit advertising it.

A Crunchie bar doesn’t moan if it lies there untasted because you don’t fancy it, having wolfed down a bag of Chocolate Brazils on the way home from work, or a Galaxy look at you reproachfully when you leave it half-finished. A Toblerone doesn’t demand to be eaten twice or a Malteser complain that you ate it too quickly and thought only of your own pleasure.

Oh yes. I could be persuaded. Just imagine.

All the way home he has been conscious of the hard, neat package, surprisingly heavy in his jacket pocket, bumping against his hip. He goes up the stairs quickly, two at a time, and is panting slightly as he closes the door behind him.

He’s had to steel himself against the temptation to touch it, to hold it, afraid it might melt with the heat of his hand. But now the moment has come. His heart beats faster and appetite throbs urgently in the pit of his stomach.

He longs to tear off the flimsy wrapping, drop the shreds to the floor and fall upon the chocolate with greedy, voracious teeth. But no – wait. It will be better to wait. To delay the moment of satisfaction. He tenderly places the blue-clad object of his desire in the fridge.

He pours a drink and tries to think of other things, but his mind is constantly drawn back to the waiting chocolate. Cold and hard now, but how quickly it will soften for him.

Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. He always comes back to Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. The others offer novelty, variety, the excitement of discovery, but Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is his one true love

The room is dark. The single lamp throws his shadow falls across the waiting, expectant bar. It seems so tiny, so helpless, so yielding.

He fetches the peppermints. Peppermints will enhance the taste, heighten his pleasure. The hot, white disc burns against the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth. He picks up the chocolate.

He gently eases the sleeve of paper the length of the bar and gazes at the shiny underwrapping. The foil is crisp and tight, stretched over the ridges of the individual chunks. He carefully eases the silver apart and slowly the slim, dark body is exposed. Saliva wells up under his tongue and its tip tingles with an exquisite sensation that is near to pain.

He touches it; he senses a slight stickiness on his moist fingertips. He grips firmly and the bar breaks. Again, then again. And at last he inserts the first square into his mouth and his eyes closed as it dissolves, spreads round his mouth and oozes down his throat.

He takes another chunk, he takes two. He can’t resist biting into them. He pushes another one in, chewing, chomping. He picks up another – wait, wait, no, to hell with it – he’s chewing faster now, his mouth is full, he’s drooling. But he can’t stop. He’s gulping, he’s groaning, he’s gasping.

Oh God, it’s all gone. He slumps back, exhausted, full, empty, sick with himself. Appetite sated, appetite for appetite lost. He could cry with frustration. A flood of despair and disgust rushes over him. He lights a cigarette.

He thinks. He remembers there’s a packet of Coco Pops in the cupboard. He’ll be able to eat them in a while.

London

As I stood on Newark station, awaiting my connection for London, an express train came through. I was searching there for the right word to describe the few brief seconds it took to pass by, because ‘thundered’, ‘roared’, ‘flashed’, all the usual clichés, seemed inappropriate. This train just appeared and disappeared into the distance. A warning klaxon, then hundreds of awesome tons, with no rattles and a minimum of clatter, went by with a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh as each carriage expelled the trapped air in front of it. I thought how beautiful engineering could be.

I laughed at myself a little, knowing I would be writing about it, because I was reminded of essays I would write at school about ‘My Holiday’ of ‘My Trip to the Zoo’. In these I would invariably describe the sleepless anticipation of the night before; list the exciting things I had seen and done; and wind up with the declaration that I had arrived home ‘tired but happy’.

On this occasion the sights of the capital were incidental to this country mouse visiting his town mouse son. The sights of the capital were secondary to the pleasures of talking and drinking.

The first drink was in an O’Neills’s bar near King’s Cross, all Guinness and lager and London prices. So off to Soho by bus – it pays to have a good guide in this place – to check out three pubs of a traditional kind, where real ale is available at reasonable prices, that is, below £2 a pint.

For future reference I shall name them (all Sam Smith’s):

'The Duke of Argyle' in Great Windmill St
'The Glasshouse Stores' in Brewer St
'The White Horse' in Archer St

Then through Trafalgar Square to acknowledge the great Horatio. Am I right in thinking he’s looking towards France? Certainly he has his back to the truncated pregnant woman on the spare plinth. And there are no pigeons. Has Uncle Ken finally succeeded in his mission to eliminate them, aided by his battalions of hawks? Today pigeons, tomorrow the militarist-capitalist-imperialist power structure.

The train towards Crystal Palace took us past The Den, a lowly place compared with the Emirates Stadium which I had noticed as I approached King’s Cross. We had passed a small demonstration earlier, policed by a couple of bored constables, demanding that we refuse to play football against Israel. Judging by the abject performance later, our players had taken the message to heart.

The evening was spent in another pub where I was struck by the way my beer was pulled. I take an interest in these things. The perfect pint of real ale is drawn in this way. The bottom of the glass is held to the end of the spout and the handle given one long uninterrupted pull back, followed by a shorter one, and then there should be a pause, usefully occupied by the exchange of cash. Then a final pull should produce a pint with a creamy head and the beautiful sight of the beer clearing from the bottom. After a couple of minutes, you will have a fine, translucent amber-gold drink.

We tried out a Wetherspoon’s on Sunday, where I noted that my Pedigree was pulled in the manner prescribed by the video the company uses to train its staff. Excellent. I had another couple, just to make sure.

Occasionally we broke off from investigating these momentous matters to chat aimlessly about political philosophy, the conflict between individual freedom and social cohesion, the limits of free will, and other such inconsequential matters. I recall getting rather bogged down in an analogy about ants. I’m told that the film Antz addresses these issues.

No conversation with my son avoids the cinema for very long. The sins of critics, the inhumanity of Kubrick and Hitchcock, the undervaluation of John Wayne. I got to see The Sweet Smell of Success for the first time in ages and enough of Mulholland Drive to give me an appetite for much more.

Monday morning and we were back to Trafalgar Square to spend a short time in The National Gallery. I just wanted to catch up on the major paintings – artistic tourism – but was particularly impressed by the two Rubens hung side by side. These were Samson and Delilah and The Massacre of the Innocents. It was handy to be able to eavesdrop on a guide comparing and contrasting the two works. I was tempted to buy postcards of them, but there was no way they could do justice to such huge and detailed masterpieces. So I treated myself to these three, paintings by artists I did not know and which for some reason caught my eye:

The Virgin in Prayer by Sassoferrato (1609-1685). See also: http://sonofmavis.blogspot.com/2007/06/to-stumble-across-something-beautiful.html

St Francis in Meditation by Zurbaran (1598-1664)
Self-portrait by Rosa (1615-1673).

There was an hour and a half to kill and so I had a couple of drinks. First at King’s Cross in its crowded, expensive bar. And then I made the weekend come full circle by going back to the O’Neill’s pub.

As I got up to leave I gestured to a man standing nearby that my seat was now free. He thanked me and then asked if we were in London. I assured him that we were, but that further topographical advice was beyond my competence.

‘I’ve just got out of prison,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Well,’ I said, resisting the temptation to say, ‘What for?’ and wished him good luck. He shook my hand. And then, as we do somewhat illogically in Lincolnshire, I left with the words, ‘Be seeing you.’

I’m always surprised how quickly you get from London to Newark, but arrived there to find my train was cancelled and I had to rush across Newark to catch an alternative, which stopped at every village possible and didn’t have any toilets.

So it was that I arrived home tired, but sweaty, pissed off and broke.

The Curse of the Killer Yoghurts

Another example of the tabloidisation of the news was the report about the shocking wastage of food in this country.

‘One third of all food thrown in the bin shock,’ blared the headline. Whether this was one third in terms of cost, weight, volume or nutritional value was obviously too complicated to be mentioned.

The report continued with the information, the small print as it were, that one half of that third was inedible, including such things as potato peelings, egg shells, tea bags, fish bones and the fat from meat. The kind of thing that would have gone into pigswill before it was so foolishly banned.

I have a friend who was brought up to leave a little on his plate. He even leaves a few drops of beer at the bottom of his glass. It’s all very irritating to someone like me who was always told to clean his plate while thinking about the starving millions. If ever I offered to put my cabbage in an envelope and send it to India, I was rewarded for my altruism with a clip round the ear.

One sixth, of course, is not as dramatic, but never fear. They had another statistic ready. ‘It still means that 15 pence out of every pound spent goes in the bin.’ Well, that depends whether you eat eggs with your chips or caviar.

And they trotted out all the interest groups. Axes were being ground on all sides. Ready meals are the wrong size. Supermarkets are to blame for making food too cheap – yes, food is too cheap. The government is to blame for insisting on back-covering sell-by dates. Councils aren’t doing enough to recycle. The ice-caps are melting under the weight of tea bags, and the planet is being destroyed by rancid yoghurt.

All this was pushed aside the next day when suddenly we were told not to worry about teenage binge-drinkers. Now, the real problem is that of middle-aged, middle class tipplers, who knock back a bottle of wine every night. And what’s more, it’s going to get worse when smoking is banned in pubs.

I’ll finish now and have a large glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape, while searching for a recipe for potato peel wine.

Christmas Day

Up at six o'clock and planning the day, while listening to Radio 4. A Yorkshire Christmas. Why does everyone think Yorkshire is so special? Especially Yorkshiremen. After all, they live there and should know better.

There's some woman singing a song about wassailing, 'a typical Yorkshire tradition'. Oh yeah?

And there's Ian Macmillan, poet and Yorkshireman. I suppose you have to try especially hard to prove yourself a Yorkshireman when you're called 'Macmillan'. I've always thought he is so popular on radio is because he's a poet with an accent. He's got this way of telling nostalgic tales slowly and deliberately, which makes them sound full of significance.

I'll have to walk into town today if I want to go the pub, which I do. I certainly can't be cooped up in the house all day. I don't like the local pubs, too expensive, too cliquey. I'll go to my pub where I can be cliquey.

Five miles there and five back will give me an appetite for dinner, which today is duck. Breakfast is usually garlic mushrooms but I'm having a slight change today. I'll note down the recipe in a minute.

The radio's just told me about Yorkshire pie, sword-dancing, singing pubs. They're now claiming that Malton helped inspired A Christmas Carol. And obviously they've had to mention J B Priestley. And there's the obligatory vicar. 'Christmas is a time when God tells us we are special.' Please!

This pub singing is good. It's proper singing, not the drunken 'base football player' stuff. I've been listening to While shepherds watched sung to the tune of O for a thousand tongues to sing. Lots of parts.

Stilton, Walnut and Mushroom Parcels

Ingredients (for one person)

4 large flat mushrooms, minus stalks

1 tbsp (olive) oil

1 shallot (I'm using spring onions and a bit of an ordinary one)

50g chopped walnuts (let's hope I can find the nutcrackers)

50g fresh breadcrumbs(I don't normally like using metric weights, but I'm too lazy to translate)

1/8 tsp (freshly grated) nutmeg (I know, but I've had to reduce these quantities)

1 1/2 tbsp milk

1 tbsp thyme

1 tbsp parsley (all these are fresh, etc but I've a jar of mixed herbs to use up

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil (this is for drizzling, hardly worth the cost)

50g blue Stilton, thinly sliced

fresh thyme sprigs to garnish (optional, very)

Method

Preheat the oven to gas mark 6, 200C

Cook the shallot in the oil till soft (I think I'll add some garlic)

Mix in the walnuts, breadcrumbs, herbs, nutmeg, milk. Season

Spread it over a couple of mushroom caps and top with the cheese

Put the other mushroom caps on, like a lid. Tie them with string

Into the oven and bake for 20 minutes.

There's an argument going on on the radio about the nature of 'happiness.' They'll never agree because none of them has defined the word and they are all advocating a different emotion. Joy, contentment, resignation, pleasure. Any one of them would suit me.

I think I'll listen to Terry Wogan for a while. Funny old day, Christmas.

Merry - (happy, joyful, contented, carefree, pleasurable, sensually satisfying) - Christmas.

President de Gaulle was being interviewed.

'Monsieur le President. Are you happy?'

De Gaulle: 'Do I look stupid?'

Pigman's Pie

Ingredients:


1 kg pork mince
0.5 kg apples, de-pipped, sliced, but not skinned
1 large onion, chopped
1 tin chopped tomatoes
6 cloves of garlic, squashed (more if you like garlic - stick a whole bulb in, why not)
1 pkt sage and onion stuffing (cheap)
Mushrooms - as many as you like
Gravy granules

Other bits and pieces that you want to get rid of, celery, spring onions, whatever; but remember it's pork and apple, so you might want to add a few more of those if you've got a lot of odds and ends to use up

Salt, pepper, if you can be bothered

Method

Cook the apples in just enough water till they're softish. A spoonful of sugar, a bit of cinnamon if you've got it. Strain and - nb - keep the liquid

Cook the onions till soft

Add the garlic, cook a bit more

Add the mushrooms (obviously rough-chopped)

Put in the mince and cook till brown

Then the tomatoes

Other bits and pieces

While this is going on, heat up the apple juice (add water to make it up to about 3/4 litre) and when it's boiling, add the gravy granules, probably about 6 teaspoonfuls. (Use your common sense and initiative here).

Add the sage and onion mix to the gravy and pour into the mince - by the way, you're going to need a big pan for this - did I mention that?

Give it a good stir and bring up to the boil. Then keep it simmering for 3/4 to 1 hour. Every few minutes, give it a another stir; it might tend to stick to the bottom of the pan.

Then forget about it till tomorrow. It should be reasonably stiff. If not warm it up again and add in some cornflour.

You can use the result as a base for a shepherd's pie type dish, or as a stew with added baked/boiled potatoes.

I've named it Pigman's Pie.

Culinary advice to a daughter

My drinking companions and I are all single men (more or less) and it should not surprise anyone that, as well as discussing women and the price of beer, football and politics, our deliberations often focus on cookery.

There's a lot of argument - is a chicken kebab a well-balanced meal; competition - who's found the best bargain this week; co-operation - I taught a friend how to make his own yogurt and he repaid the favour with a recipe for haslet. There are stories of failure - my attempt to make gin from a marrow was not a success.

Personally I come in for a lot of mockery because of the allegedly odd combinations of ingredients that I produce. I was actually beginning to doubt whether trout is an appropriate companion to macaroni cheese, when I came across the Arnold Bennett omelet, which reassured me.

These are my culinary principles:

• 
  
  Delia Smith is the true domestic goddess, not Nigella Lawson. The Word of Delia is what guides the true believer. But I must confess that I have been tempted to stray. I once watched Nigella stuffing a chicken, then smearing butter over its plump naked carcass, and sucking her fingers clean. I was seduced and for a while I was unfaithful, but I always come home to Delia.


• 
  
  Buy cheap and buy in bulk. Supermarkets. Own brand goods only. Bent tins and dodgy sell-by dates. If you want fresh vegetables, go to a market at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon. A freezer is an essential and has unexpected benefits. Imagine the thrill of finding a packet of crumpets and a brie under all those jars of mushroom soup you made last year.


• 
  
  Cook in bulk. This saves on energy and means that you only have to cook once a week. Admittedly eating cottage pie every day for a week can become monotonous, but use your initiative. Curry? Thank God for the microwave cooker.


• 
  
  Never throw anything away. A stew covers a multitude of leftovers.


• 
  
  Beans on toast is for wimps. Add onions, garlic and tomatoes to your beans and put it all on a jacket potato.


• 
  
  Percentages: 50% stodge (pasta, rice, tates); 25% veg; 25% meat, fish etc. This assumes you're starting with a basis of onions, garlic tomatoes and mushrooms.


• 
  
  Colours - there should three distinct colours on the plate.


• 
  
  Avoid sardines (unless they come in a tin, and then follow the guidelines for beans above).

My avoidance of sardines stems from a recent unfortunate experience. True to my principles I had a mountain of mashed potato to use up and a kilo of 'fresh' sardines in the freezer. Ever inventive, I thought 'Fish cakes'.

By the time the sardines had thawed the kitchen was already reeking and I had discovered the fish need gutting, a skill I do not possess. For this operation, according to Delia, I would need a sharp knife, an implement I do no possess either. But I persevered and soon the kitchen table was running with blood, some of it mine. My own guts were threatening to join those of the fish on the kitchen floor. The smell by now could justly be called a stink and ten minutes of grilling the sardines did nothing to improve it. I removed the withered and wrinkled creatures from the oven and realised most of the bones were still there. Oh dear, I thought to myself.

But, nil desperandum. I began picking and scraping and my efforts were rewarded with a return of approximately three ounces of fish.

I remembered another cooking principle, coined by W C Fields: 'If at first you don't succeed, give up - there's no point in making a damn fool of yourself.'

So, fish in the bin and bubble and squeak.

• 
  
  Final principle: treat yourself to a Chinese once in a while. You're worth it.

When I was a boy of fourteen my father was so ignorant that I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much he had learned in 7 years.

Mark Twain.