When I was a kid, rice pudding seemed a bit magical. However, not as good as the magic tricks our family friend, Tom, had up his sleeve: he could change the face of a playing card, pull a 50p piece out of our ears, and later cut his wife in half at their wedding reception and even joined The Magic Circle. But the rice pudding was still a bit of gentle magic.
He often helped by spreading three tablespoons of pudding rice pearls and two tablespoons of sugar on the plate, before pouring over a pint of whole milk and cream lid. It was my first experience of a now-familiar cooking thought: “Nothing good will come out of this.”
Three tablespoons of rice imperceptible in milk is clearly, shamelessly, not enough rice… But then, in a way, it is. Three hours in the oven, six scrambled and a little soft magic later, the rice has swallowed the milk and turned into a fat pudding complete with scratchy edges and leathery skin.
I am happy to say that nothing has changed. The same stream of thoughts pops up every time I make rice pudding now, with the cooking parrots on my shoulder saying, “That’s not enough rice/You must add more/Nothing good will come out of this.” So I remember that the proportions are Jane Grigson’s, and therefore accurate, and that rice pudding is a bit magical, especially if you add thick strips of lemon zest and two bay leaves along with the milk, and serve it hot with cold cream.
I
had the same thought when I first read a recipe for pork cooked in milk, the note about how milk curdles during cooking does nothing to persuade me. However, it was a recent trip to Bologna, a hardy city possessing a rich red magic, and one of the homes of this way of cooking pork, that convinced me otherwise.
I’m sure there will be a scientific explanation for why milk is such a wonderful medium for cooking things, with its ability to assimilate and transform itself and the other ingredients. In the case of pork, a milky stew not only filters and tenderizes the meat, but also transforms the taste and appearance of pork into one closer to veal.
Having given so much to the meat, the milk, which is infused with garlic, herbs and meat juices, curdles into a curious sauce that reminds me of both ricotta and a creamy sauce. Some recipes suggest sifting the sauce, but that sounds like a faff, and it misses the point: all that craggy goodness over thin slices of meat (or boiled new potatoes and/or spring vegetables).
The last part of milk magic, which is, of course,
much more about the science of rest, is that this pork dish is even better the next day. Simply reheat the pan gently, turning the joint regularly in the sauce. Much good will come out of this.
Maiale al latte (pork cooked in milk)
“
Brilliantly efficient” is how I would best describe this method. At the end of cooking, the pork should be tender and sitting in a little caramel-colored curd sauce.
Preparation 15 minCook 2 hrServe 4-6
1kg of boneless pork, with a good layer of fat. Salt and pepper50g butterOlive oil1 sprig of each fresh sage and rosemary3 bay leaves3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed1 liter of whole milk Dry
the pork loin and rub with salt and pepper. In a deep skillet or casserole that is slightly larger than the joint, melt the butter and a little olive oil, then brown the joint on all sides until it has a deep golden color.
Add the herbs, garlic and another pinch of salt, then pour over the milk. Heat the milk until almost boiling, then reduce to a simmer. Cover the pan in half and let it simmer for two hours, turning the meat every 20 minutes.
At the end of cooking, there should be a thick sauce of bronze-colored milk curd. If there seems to be too much liquid, lift the joint from the pan, continue cooking until the liquid has reduced, then return the joint to the pan.
Serve in slices, making sure everyone gets some of the herbs and curd.
