When I changed into a baby, rice pudding seemed like a piece of magic. Not as top because of the magic tricks our circle of relatives buddy Tom had up his sleeve. However, he could alternate the face on a playing card, pull a 50-pence piece from our ears – and, later, he reduced his wife in half at their wedding reception and even joined The Magic Circle. But rice pudding becomes a piece of a bit of magic nonetheless.
I would regularly help make it by scattering three tablespoons of pudding, rice pearls, and sugar within the dish before pouring over a pint of full-fat, cream-capped milk. It becomes my first revel in a now-familiar kitchen notion: “Nothing proper will come of this.”
Three tablespoons of rice imperceptible within the milk is honestly, blatantly insufficient rice… But then, one way or the other, it’s far. Three hours in the oven, six stirs, and a few minor magic later, the rice has swallowed the milk and plumped into a fat pudding with crusty, scrapable edges and leathery pores and skin.
I’m glad to say that nothing has changed. The identical stream of mind appears every occasion I make rice pudding now, with the cooking parrots on my shoulder pronouncing: “That isn’t enough rice/You must upload more/Nothing accurate will come of this.” Then I understand that the proportions are from Jane Grigson and, therefore, spot on and that rice pudding is a bit magic, particularly if you upload thick strips of lemon zest and bay leaves alongside the milk and serve it heated with cold cream.
When I first read a recipe for red meat cooked in milk, I had the same notion: to be aware of how the milk curdles during cooking, doing nothing to steer me. However, it turned into the latest trip to Bologna – a resilient metropolis with red, wealthy magic and one of the homes of this cooking pork – that satisfied me in any other case.
I’m optimistic there may be a scientific clarification as to why milk is this fantastic medium to cook dinner matters, with its capacity to assimilate and rework the other elements. In the case of red meat, a milky braise not only seeps in and tenderizes the flesh but also transforms the flavor and appearance of the beef into one closer to the veal.
Having given a lot to the beef, the milk infused with garlic, herbs, and meat juices curdles right into a curious sauce that strikes a chord in my memory of both ricotta and creamy gravy. Some recipes advise sieving the sauce. However, that seems like a faff and misses the point: all that craggy goodness spooned over the skinny slices of meat (or boiled new potatoes and spring greens).
The last bit of milk magic, an awful lot extra about the technological know-how of resting, is that this red meat dish is even higher tomorrow. Reheat the pan lightly, turning the joint often within the sauce. Much top will come of this.
Dry the pork loin and rub with salt and pepper. In a deep frying pan or casserole dish just a little larger than the joint, melt the butter and a touch of olive oil, then brown the common on all sides till it’s far a rich golden color.
Add the herbs, garlic, and any other pinch of salt, then pour over the milk. Heat the milk until it is almost boiling, then reduce to a gentle simmer. Half-cover the pan and go away to simmer for 2 hours, turning the beef every 20 minutes.
By the end of cooking, there must be a thick, bronze-colored milk curd sauce. If there seems to be too much liquid, elevate the joint out of the pan, continue preparing dinner until the liquid has reduced, then return the common to the pan.
