Sara can go into a market, a roadside stand, or, probably, a clean dumpster, size up the possibilities in a nanosecond, do an efficient flavor triage with her big brain, nab this off the shelf and pluck that out of the ground, bang everything into a series of pots, and invent something swoony every day of the week. Recipes do not alarm her. She’d think nothing of pestling a
trilobite in a homemade mortar, whimpering it in wine, reducing,
draining, and severely beating it into a juiced raisin vinaigrette, just to make a thimbleful of the first of twenty ingredients in a dish. She could make a salad out of lawn clippings and you’d beg for seconds. Look. If Sara had been in the Donner Party, everyone would’ve looked forward to the funerals. All right?
And, this being the age of the internet, she’s also inclined to post photos of what she’s eating, just some perfect thing she dashed together out of scavenged items. Lentil entrails. Eau de dough. Whiskey barrel scrapings. She’s not lazy.
So if she posts a picture of something yummy that doesn’t look quite out of my league, I’m tempted to try it. This happened recently with her Courgette Fritters. Oh! I had questions. One, what’s the recipe? And, B, what’s a courgette?
Fortunately, the internet came through for me in a way my six years of French classes did not. She was frying zucchinis. Oh boy, I thought. Zucchinis, I can come by. Zucchinis will waltz right into your house if you don’t lock up. Sara was particularly fond of the “favoured Nigel Slater version.” I should’ve been forewarned by the bonus “u” but I went ahead and looked it up in all confidence, even though I’ve never Nigel Slated in my life.
Mr. Slater has an entire barking pack of courgette fritter recipes. He has regular ones, and auxiliary ones, and traveling ones, and ones for the Queen, and spares. I checked again: Sara had specified his buttermilk courgette recipe. All righty then!
Trouble. Right away trouble. Sure, zucchinis are easy to come by, but this recipe also called for milliliters and grams, and they are in short supply around these parts. The oil needed to be heated to a temperature that doesn’t exist in this country. Also, the courgettes were to be sliced into rounds no bigger than a pound coin.
I search my memory, which is breezy territory. I lived in London for nine months, almost fifty years ago. I do remember that when I came home, I thought our coins looked like play money. So the pound coin was substantial, for currency, if not squashes. I went ahead and decided my zucchini fritters should be about a quarter-inch thick, which dimension I, as a quilter, am very intimate with, and also that it doesn’t matter because I’m not a dab hand with a knife anyway and they’d just have to come out how they come out. Whatever points I lose by being short of grams would be made up for by my tossing off “dab hand” like that.
Nigel Slater might be a big deal with a gang of recipes watching his back but I doubt he has a single quarter inch in his kitchen. Or even his kitcheun.