Ah, writing about beetroot. In the words of giant pop band of the 90s Lighthouse Family - What Could Be Better?
I didn't grow up with beetroot. Just not part of the rotation in our household. Very occasionally when we got taken out to Garfunkels (for the £2 kids meals - such glorious days), Dad would get beetroot from the salad bar, along with everything else. But I never liked the cut of its jib. Oozing a dark unguent. Most suspicious, my five-year-old-self thought. I didn't ever appreciate that it is the pinkest food in the world (and as a five-year-old girl obvs I just lurrrrrved PINK). Digression verging on gender stereotyping rant? Myes.
So at the delightful farmers' market of wednesday last I bought a big bowl of beetroot for £1.50 - what a bargain! The scottish ancestors within me cackled with delight and cracked their knuckles at the thought of such sparing of expense. Satisfied with them and myself, I duly consulted cookbooks, sure there would be absolutely tons of stuff to do with roots from beets.
But here is the trouble with being lazy. No matter what dear Yotam Ottolenghi, Leon, Nigel Slater, or indeed Delia say, you just peel it all and put it in a roasting pan with oil, salt, pepper and the only type of vinegar you have in the cupboard - balsamic. Now the beetroot is Everywhere. In fact, I lied. I didn't put it all in the roasting pan. It didn't fit.
It certainly is jolly having it around. I mean, it is so PINK. And a cool fluorescent pink at that, not wishy washy 'I-could-give-you-salmonella' pink. Not, 'I'm-a-salmon-hear-me-roar(-weakly)' pink. PINK PINK. Cutting up beetroot with pinking shears would be a sheer delight. Also, although it is part of that category of vegetables that Do Funny Things To You That We're Not Meant To Talk About, it's not as objectionable as what happens after consuming Jerusalem artichokes (wikipedia it) or asparagus. Thus for the past two days, in which I have eaten roughly 1.5kg of beetroot, I have caught myself staring at some hapless fellow sufferer/student in the library thinking 'heeeheeeeeeee I have a secret'. If you don't know what I mean, you Clearly have not eaten enough of this delightful, subtle and obnoxiously psychedelic veg.
Being lazy, I also cooked up a big pot of bulgar wheat with onion and garlic and a completely half-arsed amount of cumin in it ("oh, it'll be like spiced yoghurt, only spiced bulgar wheat"). So that's all I've been eating really. Bulgar wheat, beetroot and roasted carrot (the carrot got lavished with a tablespoon and a half of honey. Treat your carrots right, and they'll treat you. To nothing. But they might taste nice independent of their well or ill wishings towards you).
At first, it was exciting. Just look at them colours! It's JUST like I'm in MOROCCO!
And then, OOH but feta makes it better. With lemon juice, pomegranate seeds, more spinach and black pepper, it was verging on taste-tastic.
And then.... exactly the same thing for lunch!
The best part about doing salad in a box has to be the Required dance-around-the-kitchen-shakin-the-box-up-yeaaah which Dave definitely did not walk in on. Lucky Dave. He always wears great socks.
Now, for the uncooked beets that lie dormant and in wait for me in the cupboard. What the hell am I going to do with them?
*Title pun kindly donated by Oliver James Westerby Cox (2011). Damn him for making it first.
I didn't grow up with beetroot. Just not part of the rotation in our household. Very occasionally when we got taken out to Garfunkels (for the £2 kids meals - such glorious days), Dad would get beetroot from the salad bar, along with everything else. But I never liked the cut of its jib. Oozing a dark unguent. Most suspicious, my five-year-old-self thought. I didn't ever appreciate that it is the pinkest food in the world (and as a five-year-old girl obvs I just lurrrrrved PINK). Digression verging on gender stereotyping rant? Myes.
So at the delightful farmers' market of wednesday last I bought a big bowl of beetroot for £1.50 - what a bargain! The scottish ancestors within me cackled with delight and cracked their knuckles at the thought of such sparing of expense. Satisfied with them and myself, I duly consulted cookbooks, sure there would be absolutely tons of stuff to do with roots from beets.
But here is the trouble with being lazy. No matter what dear Yotam Ottolenghi, Leon, Nigel Slater, or indeed Delia say, you just peel it all and put it in a roasting pan with oil, salt, pepper and the only type of vinegar you have in the cupboard - balsamic. Now the beetroot is Everywhere. In fact, I lied. I didn't put it all in the roasting pan. It didn't fit.
It certainly is jolly having it around. I mean, it is so PINK. And a cool fluorescent pink at that, not wishy washy 'I-could-give-you-salmonella' pink. Not, 'I'm-a-salmon-hear-me-roar(-weakly)' pink. PINK PINK. Cutting up beetroot with pinking shears would be a sheer delight. Also, although it is part of that category of vegetables that Do Funny Things To You That We're Not Meant To Talk About, it's not as objectionable as what happens after consuming Jerusalem artichokes (wikipedia it) or asparagus. Thus for the past two days, in which I have eaten roughly 1.5kg of beetroot, I have caught myself staring at some hapless fellow sufferer/student in the library thinking 'heeeheeeeeeee I have a secret'. If you don't know what I mean, you Clearly have not eaten enough of this delightful, subtle and obnoxiously psychedelic veg.
Being lazy, I also cooked up a big pot of bulgar wheat with onion and garlic and a completely half-arsed amount of cumin in it ("oh, it'll be like spiced yoghurt, only spiced bulgar wheat"). So that's all I've been eating really. Bulgar wheat, beetroot and roasted carrot (the carrot got lavished with a tablespoon and a half of honey. Treat your carrots right, and they'll treat you. To nothing. But they might taste nice independent of their well or ill wishings towards you).
At first, it was exciting. Just look at them colours! It's JUST like I'm in MOROCCO!
And then, OOH but feta makes it better. With lemon juice, pomegranate seeds, more spinach and black pepper, it was verging on taste-tastic.
And then.... exactly the same thing for lunch!
The best part about doing salad in a box has to be the Required dance-around-the-kitchen-shakin-the-box-up-yeaaah which Dave definitely did not walk in on. Lucky Dave. He always wears great socks.
Now, for the uncooked beets that lie dormant and in wait for me in the cupboard. What the hell am I going to do with them?
*Title pun kindly donated by Oliver James Westerby Cox (2011). Damn him for making it first.
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