Nigella Eats Everything

I’m surprised I’m writing this at all, dear reader. I’ve been staring at a blank screen, or in this case my notes app on my phone screen because my laptop suddenly and catastrophically broke, for days. You would have thought lockdown would be the perfect opportunity to bake up a storm, share those tempting treats on good old Nigella and maybe share some anecdotes about my lockdown experience but… Yeah… It’s one of those cases where if you need something done ask a busy person to do it. And, these days, I’m not busy.

Needless to say, at some point in the future (assuming coronavirus finally learns it has outstayed it’s welcome) I’ll look back on these four weeks of lockdown in New Zealand and think, what did I achieve when I had all that spare time?

I’ll tell you what I’ve achieved. A big fat nothing.

At least I can now say, ‘Je ne parle pas français’ without stumbling over the alliteration but fluency, or merely conversational French, is a little way off.

The days just drift by aimlessly, and the seven of us are swept along in the current, as morning becomes afternoon which becomes night then repeat. The jokes are abundant on social media, ‘Out of 1 to 10 what stage of lockdown are you?!’ The pictures range from a woman looking perfectly normal, to Britney Spears smashing a car. If my housemates and I were on a spectrum we would have reached the aimless stage of lockdown – I’d like to think that’s stage 5.

It’s now perfectly acceptable to lie slumped on the sofa gazing into space, threaten to shave your head, interrupt a tense card game to check on your Sims, and make up coronavirus-related lyrics to Disney songs. Insanity hasn’t quite hit. There’s still time.

We still sit and read for hours, and watch films, eat pasta, play round after round of cards, take naps, play rowdy and raucous games of beer pong and, on many occasions, listen to the nightly guttural moans of a horny deer in the mountains.

Often conversation flows but there’s also endless silences as we’re each absorbed into a world outside of these four walls, on our phones, in a book, or in a game. The virtual, make-believe world is so captivating. Meanwhile, in the less-important reality, there are four bananas blackening in the fruit bowl which each of us have threatened to make into banana bread but no one seems to be able to muster the energy to do so, so the bananas are still there.

That said, all of us have discovered our inner domestic goddesses while in lockdown. There have been the gooiest flapjacks made by a doubtful and wary Tony who added an extra 50g butter to the already buttery recipe. There’s been a lemon cheesecake, so fresh and tangy, a vicious brownie competition, apple and plum crumble and custard, Swedish chocolate cake, crêpes, cookies by the trayful, and Gaylord’s chocolate cake with chocolate ganache. A bowl of leftover ganache sat in the fridge for the rest of the week, spoonfuls somehow finding their way into cups of hot chocolate and quickly microwaved mug cakes.

When Gaylord and I set off on our adventure BC (before Covid) we were anticipating nights of pasta and butter, Pot Noodle, and cooked chicken from the hot food cabinet in the supermarket. Instead, in this luxurious prison, we’re tucking into steak with butter sauce, and bars of Whittaker’s chocolate – New Zealand’s secret weapon – not to mention all those baked goodies and now croque madames too. So, all in all, lockdown brings a big benefit, although not to our waistlines.

Croque Madames

So the reason I finally came here today was because we ate croque madames for lunch. At the Beach House, the beach-side cafe where I worked in Wellington, we sold croque madames by the spadeful; an oozy, bubbly croque drove people crazy I tell you! Sharp melted cheddar, creamy béchamel, salty ham, all sandwiched between two crusty slabs of bread. Another layer of béchamel is slathered on top, adorned with yet another slice of cheese, morphing into a cheesy double-decker, which crisps and colours golden brown in the oven. As they baked, Gaylord fried eggs in butter then slid them on top like a hat, except these hats were orange and ready to burst.

How to make Croque Madames

‘Croquer’ is the French word for ‘to crunch’ and therefore they use it for any crispy, buttery toasties. Croque madames are a messy, greasy, bechamel-coated toastie, with an egg. It’s counterpart, the Croque Monsieur, is the same but without an egg.

You can use whichever bread you prefer, although I do insist it is soft and white so it absorbs the grease like a sponge. Gaylord specifically required sliced bread for the Croques and who am I to argue when the dish and chef are both French? Maybe he knows something I don’t…

I also think a Croque’s moreishness is only heightened by Dijon mustard. Spread a little on the bread before building the sandwich and I promise the cheese and ham will do a little dance in your mouth. Obviously, if you truly hate mustard then the choice is yours.

It’s nice to return to the real world when there are croque madames to be had.