Over the last two years, because of my husband’s job, I’ve been very lucky to spend some significant time in the UK, London mostly. As an art and food lover, and an obsessive walker and city person, there is literally no better place. I’d work until the early afternoon, when the US was still asleep, then explore. From the museums to the historic houses, to the cemeteries and parks, I ticked many miles and soaked in as much of the place as I could. I felt like this place and I had many common interests, not excluding a thing for wallpaper.
The food, of course, was a big deal. With so many amazing influences and specialties, London could make New York seem overly commercial and a bit pedestrian. I ate Vietnamese on Kingsland Road, Turkish and Lebanese and Persian, Indian everywhere, and found that I had a deep and broad love of British food, found best at our local. Food shopping was an activity all of its own. I had a guy at the local farmer’s market who would sell me squid for cheap. My favorite Middle Eastern market provided me with too many choices of grains, beans, spices, and herbs—types not easily found here. I relished learning all of the proper names for vegetables, so as to pretend I belonged: courgettes, rocket, aubergine, and, my favorite to throw into a conversation, mange tout. I sussed out all of the special foods that are super expensive in NY that were more reasonable there, and gorged on them: pomegranates, mache, avocados, lamb, English cheese, delicious bread, marmalade, harissa. Likewise I avoided cocktails, switched to tea, and started ordering wine by the “large” glass.
Favorite pub, with Bananagrams.
And the art was life changing. I began to embrace mumbling to myself at the awe-inspiring beauty of things I saw. Some things cannot be quieted, and why quiet an expression of pure joy? It’s rare. And, of course, the point of everything.
The art I love most is a bit weird, not popular or universally appealing. I much prefer a thing that speaks of who made it and their frame of mind, sour or sweet, their gestures and intentions and obsessions. The "imperfections" and oddball choices are the things that move me.
In cooking, too, perfection isn't my goal. Further, I don’t think perfection in cooking is even possible. You can test a recipe 1,000 times, and factors—your ingredients, your equipment, your environment, your tastebuds—will still come into play. So instead, like with art, I focus on what brings me joy, what I can make for the ones I love, and how the process makes me feel: curious, creative, productive, satiated.
I love making my mom's English-style tomato chutney for these same reasons. I like the way it needs to cook down slowly in the oven—it's that same "productive" feeling of reading the real estate section on a Sunday afternoon while having laundry swish around in a machine somewhere. I like giving it to friends. Its intense, sweet tanginess, studded with golden raisins and toasted almonds, may be too weird for some, but it makes me happy.
The British have a wonderful way with condiments. A jar of this chutney is a great gift, but it’s also nice as something to kick around the fridge to perk up these dull January days. On a sandwich (the English call this type of combo “cheese and pickle,” a to-go version of a ploughman’s lunch), or on eggs, or with charcuterie or a cheese plate, or on the side of plain lentils and rice, this reminds me wonderfully of my mom, and home, and of London, which, these days, feels a bit like home too.
Tomato Chutney
In a big non-reactive pot or a Dutch oven (ideally enamel-coated aluminum or cast iron, like Le Creuset; uncoated metal will react badly with the acid), mix together:
- 2 (28-ounce) cans crushed tomatoes
- 1 large onion, finely diced
- 5 garlic cloves, finely diced or grated
- 2 to 3 inches fresh ginger, grated
- 1 cup brown sugar (or a combination of brown and white)
- 1 cup apple cider vinegar (white would work fine too)
- 1 cup raisins (I prefer golden)
- Salt to taste
- Cayenne to taste
Bake, uncovered, at 300 degrees for about 2 or 3 hours, stirring once in a while. It should cook way down, by about half, and get jammy. When cool, stir in 1/2 cup toasted, slivered almonds. This makes quite a bit—at least a three jars—and keeps more than a week in your fridge, especially if you’re sure to use a clean spoon when serving.
