So I have been trying my very hardest not to do it. As the urge has pulled me I have pushed back. I have tried to back out, back away. I have used every excuse I could throw out there. I have been sad and mad and everything in between.
Now here I am in my kitchen, happier than the proverbial pig in shit.
I make lashings of beautiful lasagna. Out of necessity I am trialing gluten free things at the moment. I make beef and guiness pies, pork ribs, pastas, Moroccan chicken, apple strudel, chocolate puddings, shepards pie, lamb shanks, cheese cakes. I make all of the pastries and pastas from scratch, trialing the new flours. They feel different. This will take me a while to get used to it and I don't pretend to like it.
I think I love the cheese cakes the most. They are cute little ones.
I use smooth ricotta, cream cheese, egg yolks, eggs, vanilla and brown sugar in my cheese cakes. It gives them the soft glow of caramel. They are rich and sweet and of course I use salted butter in the base. Dollops of softly whipped cream, a few strawberries and it is bliss.
I look at my failed attempts of avoiding doing this thing and I can't remember why because it is exactly what I want to be doing. It is what I love. I am cooking - with purpose. I am cooking for him.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Tuesday
Strawberry Sorbet
Strawberries are in season at the moment. A friend of mine went picking last week and brought home a bounty.
I sit in the kitchen with my paring knife and hull the berries into a big glass bowl, putting about twenty of the most perfect looking ones to the side. Placing sugar and water in a saucepan I make a syrupy mixture, stirring until the crystals dissolve, watching it bubble lightly then leaving it to one side to cool.
Humming to myself I think about what else it needs. The fruit is so gorgeous at this time of year but it needs something...I have some tahitian limes that are destined for the sorbet but it needs something...Thankfully this is a staged recipe and I can leisurely ponder the ingredients with no adverse outcomes. While I am contemplating the missing dimension to the sorbet I heat some chocolate and dip the reserved berries, leaving the chocolate to harden.
I love the laziness of the day, rolling over on itself, wandering, pondering, thinking about food and fucking. My two favorite things. Collecting herbs for dinner I notice my mint. It is a little sad after the cold and only just starting to get its first flush of real new spring growth but the winter means smaller leaves with a much fuller flavour. I pick a tight handful. This is what I have been looking for!
Back inside I pull out my mortar and pestle. I have three actually, this one is dedicated to sweet things. The other two are for curries and savory spices and are employed depending on quantity of ingredients. I have a beautiful little hand made japanese one, too. It is made just for ginger and horseradish and sits unused but very much loved. It is palm sized and almost serrated on the inside with a tiny wooden pestle. Hung by its leather thonging, it watches over me as I work. In my work corner I have two such objects, functional and beautiful but which serve no real purpose in my cooking. Both are treasured, one from each of my grandmothers.
I wash the mint, spin it dry and throw it in with a small handful of sugar. As I pound the scent intensifies, the leaves grow darker, the sugar grating into the mint. Pausing for a moment I peel some zest away from a lime, the oily aroma clinging to my already fragrant fingers. I am just about to throw it in to the pestle but think better of it and put it to the side. The mint and sugar are locked in a feud, each trying to exert his own individuality in the confines of my bowl, trying to drown out the other. The sugar biting into the tenderness of the mint, the oil from the mint permeating the sugar, dissolving it slightly. The sounds of the fray lessen and bit by bit they unify into a fine, pale green powder with occasional glimpses of a of dark green speck of mint. Now they have surrendered to each other. Now they are something new.
One of my favorite desserts is a platter filled with big chunks of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with mint-sugar. Simplicity. Perfection.
I squeeze the limes by hand over the sugar and stir, the acid easily dissolving the tiny granules. It looks like a pale cordial. The berries go into the blender and I add the minty/limy mix, pulsing it until it is smooth. At this point I get rather torn as I love a beautiful silky sorbet but I do so love the wholeness of leaving the puree unsieved. I decide that since I have gone this far that the decadence in a perfectly smooth sorbet outweighs my delight in finding the occasional tiny piece of fruit.
I hum as I push it through the sieve and it falls in thick plops into the bowl. The colour is rich and red, not like the pinkyness of raspberries. The syrup is still not cool enough so I busy myself with other things.
The phone rings. It is Sir. Thankfully I am home by myself. Stretched out on the bed, one foot on the bed head I am cumming again at his word. I quiver and ripple, my body contorting itself, bending and writhing at his say so. I am twisted into knots, wound up and unwound. Breathless, it is finally finished. I am permitted to stop. I have the desperate desire to keep going forever and the physical exhaustion pressing me to go no further. He is timing me, counting my cums. His goal for me is twenty-five times in five minutes. He informs me that I came nineteen times in five-minutes and twenty-three seconds. My stomach aches and burns. I can feel every muscle screaming at me.
I lie still for a while, listening to the nothing in my house. My eyes closed, my body tired, my mind not considering sleep as an option in the near future. Eventually I rouse myself and move lazily to the kitchen. I bite into one of the strawberries, cracking through the chocolate, juice filling my mouth. I eat while pulling the frozen basin out and placing it on the bench, pouring in the syrup, the strawberry puree and sprinkling over the tiny pieces of lime zest. I switch it on, watching it swirl for a while and slowly gather myself for a shower.
On my return I am rewarded with a pretty, red, undulating convergence of flavours. The tiny vibrant flecks of green look divine.
I scoop a spoonful while the machine still whirs and smile to myself as it melts into my tongue; drifting off, floating away in both body and mind.
I sit in the kitchen with my paring knife and hull the berries into a big glass bowl, putting about twenty of the most perfect looking ones to the side. Placing sugar and water in a saucepan I make a syrupy mixture, stirring until the crystals dissolve, watching it bubble lightly then leaving it to one side to cool.
Humming to myself I think about what else it needs. The fruit is so gorgeous at this time of year but it needs something...I have some tahitian limes that are destined for the sorbet but it needs something...Thankfully this is a staged recipe and I can leisurely ponder the ingredients with no adverse outcomes. While I am contemplating the missing dimension to the sorbet I heat some chocolate and dip the reserved berries, leaving the chocolate to harden.
I love the laziness of the day, rolling over on itself, wandering, pondering, thinking about food and fucking. My two favorite things. Collecting herbs for dinner I notice my mint. It is a little sad after the cold and only just starting to get its first flush of real new spring growth but the winter means smaller leaves with a much fuller flavour. I pick a tight handful. This is what I have been looking for!
Back inside I pull out my mortar and pestle. I have three actually, this one is dedicated to sweet things. The other two are for curries and savory spices and are employed depending on quantity of ingredients. I have a beautiful little hand made japanese one, too. It is made just for ginger and horseradish and sits unused but very much loved. It is palm sized and almost serrated on the inside with a tiny wooden pestle. Hung by its leather thonging, it watches over me as I work. In my work corner I have two such objects, functional and beautiful but which serve no real purpose in my cooking. Both are treasured, one from each of my grandmothers.
I wash the mint, spin it dry and throw it in with a small handful of sugar. As I pound the scent intensifies, the leaves grow darker, the sugar grating into the mint. Pausing for a moment I peel some zest away from a lime, the oily aroma clinging to my already fragrant fingers. I am just about to throw it in to the pestle but think better of it and put it to the side. The mint and sugar are locked in a feud, each trying to exert his own individuality in the confines of my bowl, trying to drown out the other. The sugar biting into the tenderness of the mint, the oil from the mint permeating the sugar, dissolving it slightly. The sounds of the fray lessen and bit by bit they unify into a fine, pale green powder with occasional glimpses of a of dark green speck of mint. Now they have surrendered to each other. Now they are something new.
One of my favorite desserts is a platter filled with big chunks of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with mint-sugar. Simplicity. Perfection.
I squeeze the limes by hand over the sugar and stir, the acid easily dissolving the tiny granules. It looks like a pale cordial. The berries go into the blender and I add the minty/limy mix, pulsing it until it is smooth. At this point I get rather torn as I love a beautiful silky sorbet but I do so love the wholeness of leaving the puree unsieved. I decide that since I have gone this far that the decadence in a perfectly smooth sorbet outweighs my delight in finding the occasional tiny piece of fruit.
I hum as I push it through the sieve and it falls in thick plops into the bowl. The colour is rich and red, not like the pinkyness of raspberries. The syrup is still not cool enough so I busy myself with other things.
The phone rings. It is Sir. Thankfully I am home by myself. Stretched out on the bed, one foot on the bed head I am cumming again at his word. I quiver and ripple, my body contorting itself, bending and writhing at his say so. I am twisted into knots, wound up and unwound. Breathless, it is finally finished. I am permitted to stop. I have the desperate desire to keep going forever and the physical exhaustion pressing me to go no further. He is timing me, counting my cums. His goal for me is twenty-five times in five minutes. He informs me that I came nineteen times in five-minutes and twenty-three seconds. My stomach aches and burns. I can feel every muscle screaming at me.
I lie still for a while, listening to the nothing in my house. My eyes closed, my body tired, my mind not considering sleep as an option in the near future. Eventually I rouse myself and move lazily to the kitchen. I bite into one of the strawberries, cracking through the chocolate, juice filling my mouth. I eat while pulling the frozen basin out and placing it on the bench, pouring in the syrup, the strawberry puree and sprinkling over the tiny pieces of lime zest. I switch it on, watching it swirl for a while and slowly gather myself for a shower.
On my return I am rewarded with a pretty, red, undulating convergence of flavours. The tiny vibrant flecks of green look divine.
I scoop a spoonful while the machine still whirs and smile to myself as it melts into my tongue; drifting off, floating away in both body and mind.
Saturday
Crime and Punishment (and pizza dough)
So JaT is in trouble. There have been one or two small hiccups on the path to sub-liness. The hard balance for me is that outside of who I am with Sir, I am Mistress.
Generally speaking Mistress does not ask permission from anyone for pretty much anything and when I do it is just cursory. Perhaps a more polite way of telling people what they are doing. Interestingly both recent transgressions have been brought to Sir's attention by me. As always he strikes the worst blow possible. He tells me he is disappointed. He does not get angry, does not say anything else, just that he is disappointed. I can deal with a mob of angry people, talk down a screaming banshee, brush off the silent treatment or a snide remark. Disappointment strikes harder than anything else.
So as I sent Sir my latest confessional (why I even felt compelled to tell him I do not know) I pulled out my trusty old faithful coping techniques.
I heat a bowl, measure out the warm water, throw in some sugar, mix it with my hands, sprinkle some yeast ontop and send the message. I wait while the yeast foams, mobile in hand. I pull out the 00 flour and throw it haphazard into the bowl. I don't know why I measured the water. I rarely measure anything when making pasta or bread. Grinding salt and pouring over the olive oil I keep glancing at my phone. I put my hands through the flour and into the warm water underneath and pull it through on itself. My phone beeps. My stomach drops. With one hand I mix while with the other I pull the message up. Tears sting my eyes, I kneed the dough and it comes together. I add just a little more flour and pound into it, folding it back on itself, pushing, pulling until I am done. Cleaning the bowl, oiling it, rolling the dough in oil and leaving it to proof, I wonder at whether I should reply.
I always wait like a kid at Christmas for dough to proof. There is a kind of magic about it going in a tightly bound ball and coming out a light fluffy mass of bubbly something. This time I am just wrapped up in my head. I could try to explain myself. I could apologize again. I could tell him it was no big deal or none of his business. The truth of it is that he was clear and my disregard of that cannot be explained away so I decide to say nothing.
I will have pizza tonight and hopefully in the process eat some of my guilt.
Generally speaking Mistress does not ask permission from anyone for pretty much anything and when I do it is just cursory. Perhaps a more polite way of telling people what they are doing. Interestingly both recent transgressions have been brought to Sir's attention by me. As always he strikes the worst blow possible. He tells me he is disappointed. He does not get angry, does not say anything else, just that he is disappointed. I can deal with a mob of angry people, talk down a screaming banshee, brush off the silent treatment or a snide remark. Disappointment strikes harder than anything else.
So as I sent Sir my latest confessional (why I even felt compelled to tell him I do not know) I pulled out my trusty old faithful coping techniques.
I heat a bowl, measure out the warm water, throw in some sugar, mix it with my hands, sprinkle some yeast ontop and send the message. I wait while the yeast foams, mobile in hand. I pull out the 00 flour and throw it haphazard into the bowl. I don't know why I measured the water. I rarely measure anything when making pasta or bread. Grinding salt and pouring over the olive oil I keep glancing at my phone. I put my hands through the flour and into the warm water underneath and pull it through on itself. My phone beeps. My stomach drops. With one hand I mix while with the other I pull the message up. Tears sting my eyes, I kneed the dough and it comes together. I add just a little more flour and pound into it, folding it back on itself, pushing, pulling until I am done. Cleaning the bowl, oiling it, rolling the dough in oil and leaving it to proof, I wonder at whether I should reply.
I always wait like a kid at Christmas for dough to proof. There is a kind of magic about it going in a tightly bound ball and coming out a light fluffy mass of bubbly something. This time I am just wrapped up in my head. I could try to explain myself. I could apologize again. I could tell him it was no big deal or none of his business. The truth of it is that he was clear and my disregard of that cannot be explained away so I decide to say nothing.
I will have pizza tonight and hopefully in the process eat some of my guilt.
Vanilla and Eggs
So, you'll never guess where I ended up last night?
Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.
I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).
Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.
I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.
Créme Pátissiérie.
It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.
I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.
I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.
I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.
I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.
Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.
The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.
Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.
I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).
Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.
I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.
Créme Pátissiérie.
It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.
I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.
I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.
I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.
I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.
Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.
The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)