The great and the grelos

I'm going to put my neck on the line here, with a bit of a bold statement; I think it's fairly safe to say that Spring is finally here. Even in this drizzly, meteorologically-blighted part of the world, it feels as though we've taken a step towards summer, or at least, shuffled away from winter a little bit. With spring comes an abundance of produce from the garden, and in the last week or so, I've yanked radishes from the veg patches, picked field lettuce from the gardens, and grinned from ear to ear as plates of freshly cut asparagus have been placed on the dinner table.

For the Galician gardener this variety comes as something of a relief, as up until now the fresh crop has been limited to some cauliflowers, the odd chard if you're lucky, and a never-ending supply of grelos. I suppose it is for this reason, that grelos are such a bona fide Galician staple. No garden is complete without a patch of their straggly stems, shooting skyward in the hope of finding some sunshine amidst all the rain. They're also the traditional accompaniment to any hearty Galician meal. All the meat in a cocido means nothing without them, you'll inevitably find a few bobbing about in a caldo, and a plate of pink, juicy lacon is naked if deprived of their accompaniment. If it's early spring, and a Galego is doing the cooking, there's a strong chance they'll make their way onto the dinner table somehow, amongst all the potato and pig fat.

Despite sounding like the inhabitants of an alien planet in Star Wars, grelos, along with their relatives, the nabos, are actually part of the turnip family. Both are hardy enough to withstand the frosts of Galicia's raw winters, and eager enough to sprout that they pop up before most other greens have come out of hibernation. As is the case with the turnip, generally only the root of a nabo is eaten. With grelos, the root is discarded and fed to the cows, whilst the humans get the leafy green tops, and turn them into a slimy, over-cooked mush.

If truth be told, spring marks the end of grelo season. As soon as they start to flower, they're past they're best – it's time to chop their heads off and start again for next year. And that sort of makes this post obsolete; like telling you how to roast your turkey on the 6th of January. Anyway, I've started, so I'll finish...

They're barely grown anywhere outside of Galica, certainly not in any great quantity. Even in neighbouring Austurias, which shares similar geography and climate, they are far less of a fixture in both agriculture and diet. Bizarrely, they've never really made it beyond the mountains, which is far less than can be said for the many Galegos who've traded this rainy little corner of Spain for more exotic lands. In fact, so many people left Galicia for South America, that the slang term for a Spanish immigrant there is a Galego, no matter which province they come from.

Another little sociological aside is the curiously Galego trait of morriña, a kind of nostalgic for what they no longer have. For all those who've left the province for pastures new, this means a constant feeling of acute, rose-tinted home-sickness. I've heard stories of ex-pat Galegos welling up at the very mention of their homeland, stopping to clear the lump in their throats before they've even finished telling you about the bad weather. This may explain the huge export market for grelos, which are tinned and shipped to ex-Spanish colonies the world over. Those misty-eyed ex-pats need a taste of home.

Whilst we're on the subject of second-hand trivia, I have it on good authority that morriña is not actually a socio-psychological condition, but a chemical one. Apparently the granite bed rock in Galicia contains abnormally high levels of plutonium. So it's not home sickness those émigrés are suffering from, it's withdrawal symptoms. Xago's Grelos, now with added radioactivity – you can almost see the slogan now...

What was the point of all this again? I think the plutonium must have gone to my head.

Two ways with grelos

Whilst grelos may not be the most glamourous of vegetables, they are certainly ubiquitous. At the Reitoral de Chandrexa, we had so many we ended up feeding the stems to the pigs (for some reason only cows will eat the bulb), whilst at Tanquian, I spent a whole day picking them, and managed to fill twelve carrier bags full. I spent much of that time day dreaming up recipes to use them...

Grelos con salsa de hollandaisa

A variation on the classic asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You could also substitute the grelos for purple sprouting broccoli.

Serves at least four

a bunch of grelos, say 20-30 stems (or a bunch of asparagus / purple sprouting broccoli stems)

two egg yolks

125g unsalted butter

lemon juice

a pinch of salt

Put the egg yolks and butter in a heat proof bowl, and place over a pan of simmering water, as you if you were melting chocolate. Gently whisk as the butter melts, so the two mix together. Keep whisking as you heat, and after a few minutes, the sauce will begin to thicken. Add a pinch of salt, and a squeeze of lemon juice to taste, and remove from the heat.

Meanwhile, steam or boil your greens so they are just tender, and remove to a serving plate. Drizzle the sauce over the top, or use it as a dip.

Lasagne de grelos y castañas

Chestnuts are common as muck in Galicia, but if you can't find them, hazelnuts or walnuts would work just as well. Spinach or broccoli would both make ample substitutes for the grelos.

Serves at least four

one big bunch of grelos (or one large bag of spinach / head of broccoli)

one packet lasagne (or some fresh, home-made stuff if you have the time and the paraphernalia)

a large onion, finely sliced

a couple of cloves of garlic, finely chopped

a large tub of ricotta cheese

nutmeg

a few handfuls of chestnuts (or other unsalted nuts), shelled

salt and pepper

parmesan

Lightly toast the nuts in a dry frying pan, over a medium heat. Keep an eye on them, and give the pan the occasional shake, as they do have a tendency to burn. After a few minutes, they will have a bit of colour, and you'll smell the warm, nutty, aroma. Add a little olive oil to the pan, followed by the onions and garlic. Sauté until the onions are soft and slightly golden. Remove from the heat. Blanch your greens in lightly-salted boiling water for a few minutes. Remove and mix with the onions. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Lightly grease a suitable oven-proof dish, and put a layer of lasagne on the bottom. Put a layer of the vegetable / nut mixture on top, followed by some generous splodges of ricotta, and a grating of nutmeg. Repeat the layers until you've used up the mixture. Put another layer of lasagne on the top, plus some smaller splodges of ricotta, and a good covering of parmesan. Sprinkle a few more nuts on top, and bake in the oven for half an hour so if using dried pasta, 15 minutes or less if using fresh.

Serve with salad and crusty bread.

Pressing issues

That age old dilemma... You've finished making your chorizos for the year. Your lacon has been quietly maturing with the legs of jamon in the humadaria. Your panceta is just about ready to be brought up into the kitchen. There's a manita in the bottom of the fridge that you plan to use in a caldo, but those two pigs heads that are hanging in the basement still need to be put to good use... Sound familiar? Not, to me either. Until I came to Galicia, that is, where if you don't have at least half a pig hanging in your store room, plus a couple of live ones in the garden, your house is quite frankly incomplete.

Whilst the 'nose to tail' philosophy is still something of a novelty in Britain, in Galicia, you'd be looked at like a fool if you didn't eat the head, tail, feet, tongue, brains or in fact any other scrap of flesh that it was possible to obtain from an animal carcass without resorting to mechanically-aided extraction.

So, what to do with those spare pigs heads? Make cachucha, of course; Pressed pig's head.

Cachucha

This is the Galego version of what those who adhere to the nose to tail philosophy will know as 'brawn'. The key difference as far as I can see is that the brawn recipes that I've seen use fresh pig's heads, whilst in cachucha, the meat is inevitably salted and lightly smoked. Most don't even use any additional herbs or aromatics, but I've included some here, because a few bay leaves aren't going to offend anyone, and let's face it, if your stock pot contains literally nothing but piggy-smelling face meat, you're going to feel a bit like you're making dog food.

Makes enough for one large terrine

one pig's head, salted and lighlty smoked. On the bone, but split into quarters

bay leaves, thyme, rosemarry, pepper corns (optional)

water

Put the pig's head in a sufficiently large pot, and cover completely with cold water, and leave to soak. Change the water every twelve hours or so for at least a day and a half.

After having changed the water at least three times, drain, rinse, and cover in fresh water, adding the herbs and any other flavours you choose. Bring to the boil, then simmer for three to four hours. Leave to cool. You now have some very tender pig face meat, and some very strong pig stock.

Pick the meat off the face and skull, trimming off any thick layers of fat. A bit of gristle is fine. Cut the ears, nose, and any other large pieces of flesh into strips. Layer and pack tightly into a terrine dish, cover with grease proof paper and tin foil, and use a brick, books, or any other heavy object to press down on the top of the terrine. Leave in a cool place over night, then refrigerate.

Serve in thin slices with toast and chutney.

Saint´s Week on the Sil

Semana Santa is a big deal here in Spain. Whilst some cities come to a stand still for holy processions, most people simply see it as a good excuse for a holiday. Like many others in the country, I headed for the hills, finding a rather fitting base for Saint's Week in an old church rectory, the Reitoral de Chandrexa, which sits perched on the slopes of the breath taking canyon of the Rio Sil.

The Sil carves it's way across Galicia's inland province of Ourense. This rugged, mountainous area is known as the Ribeira Sacra - one of the country´s best wine regions. As it twists and turns through the province, it creates a series of micro climates, which are perfect for Galicia's hardy and aromatic grape varietals, notably the godello and mencia. Grapes have been grown in the region for more than two thousand years, and when you consider the treacherous lengths that are gone to tend to the vnyards along the canyon, it's not hard to understand why wine making is looked upon here with divine significance.

Whilst there has been some time to visit the wineries (more on that to come), really I came here to work... The vicar has long since left the building, but the rectory is still in good use, now as a small farm and rural guest house. I arrived last week to a healthy measure of wine from the Reitoral's own vinyard, and hot empenada de cerdo – pig pasty – fresh from the oven. Each day is punctuated by the almost-regular chiming of the church bells, which ran 50-odd minutes fast, making their inaccuracy known roughly every fifteen minutes. Still, when the bells tolled three times, meaning it was sometime just after two, it was time to down tools and head to the house for a long lunch.

The cooking is distinctly Galego, but with many inventive twists. Chorizo con castañas, a dish that is typical of these particular hills, because of the abundance of chestnut trees. Lentijas con algas, lentils stewed with seaweed farmed in the shallow rias on the atlantic coast. Filloas – Galicia's version of pancakes – served with queso de pais – soft and creamy cow's milk cheese, made in the next village. Bread baked in the communal stone oven, which is shared with the surrounding households. Home-made jams, honey and juices. Cake made from a traditional recipe, served for breakfast every morning.

Pastel de Ourense

This most traditional of cakes is native to this particular corner of the Ourense province. Interestingly, it's made using a sour dough starter, meaning there's no baking soda or other rising agent. Served at breakfast time and after lunch, it's delicious as it is, but really comes into it's own when dipped into very hot coffee.

The recipe here may seem a bit loose, but that's because the landlord here at the Reitoral de Chandrexa has made it so many times, he just kind of throws it together as he goes about his other business. Be aware this is definitely one for the patient cook however, the sour dough means it takes a good half day to make.

Enough for a huge baking tray full

Make a sour dough leavan starter.

Mix with warm water.

Add half kilogram of plain flour. Form into a dough, cover, and leave to rise for five hours.

Cream half a kilogram of butter with twice that volume of sugar (about a kilogram).

Add twelve eggs, and another half kilogram of plain flour to the butter and sugar, and mix well.

Mix the butter / egg mixture together with the dough, and transfer into rectangular cake tins.

Bake in hot oven for 45 mins – an hour. At the Reitoral, they use a old fashioned wood burning stove, with a couple of large chunks of oak in the burner. If you don't have one of them, turn the dial to 180 degrees.

Remove from the oven when the top has turned golden brown and a skewer comes out clean after piercing.

Sprinkle with more sugar and leave to cool.

Serve for breakfast and after lunch with hot coffee for dipping.