The fine art of a thrifty kitchen

Eating the last of the Sunday roast with fried rice on Thursday or freezing cheap berries as a winter treat feels, in a small way, like beating the system.

Although – I realise with a shock – it is almost a decade since I lived my life by the academic calendar, September still feels like an occasion for new beginnings. This autumn, my resolutions revolve primarily around saving money and I’m starting with a little book by Claire Leavey entitled How to Run a Thrifty Kitchen, which promises “advice from the ancestors . . . updated for modern living”.

Much contemporary wisdom on the subject involves cutting back but not here, as is clear from the first paragraph: “Cutting down what one spends upon food is not necessarily economy. Getting the same food value at less cost is.” Advice from 1932 that rings true today: Ireland is the only European nation that spends a smaller percentage of income on food than the UK. Leavey believes that instead of slashing budgets further, Britons should work on getting more for our money.

To this end, she counsels readers to switch to cooking with solid fuel, build a haybox oven, start a wormery to use up food scraps and make their own nettle wine – all of which (with the possible exception of the last, which I’ve always found to occupy the cat’s pee end of the flavour spectrum) are no doubt eminently sensible suggestions. But if you can’t run to an airy, north-facing larder, her smaller changes may be just as effective.

I don’t need to tell you to look out for special offers when you go shopping or that apples will be cheaper in October than in June – but do you need to buy anything in the first place?

Any thrift drive should start with a thorough kitchen inventory. If you’re like me, you will have several weeks’ worth of potential meals growing old at the back of the freezer or cupboard. Working out how to turn the dregs of several bags of pasta, some peas and a cheese rind into a decent dinner can be a surprisingly satisfying culinary challenge.

When shopping’s back on the agenda, remember the premium placed on convenience. Buying everything at the same shop will save you time but rarely money. Shop around. Rice, cooking oil, herbs and spices (always whole –more versatile than ground, they’ll also last longer), dried pulses and frozen seafood are usually better value at Asian grocers.

The same goes for seasonal fruit and vegetables at street markets. It’s also easier to purchase fresh meat, cheese and fish in exactly the quantity you need from a butcher, deli counter or fishmonger, rather than overbuying the pre-packed versions in the supermarket.

If you don’t have the luxury of choice locally, go online. You may need to buy in bulk but it doesn’t take much imagination to get through a bag of basmati.

Similarly, try to avoid processed foods that can be made at home more cheaply. For the price of a couple of jars of fancy pasta sauce, you could get a huge drum of tinned tomatoes, some garlic and a bay leaf and cook enough in half an hour to see you through the winter. Use your leftovers to make stocks and soups and rediscover the joys of classics such as breadand- butter pudding and bubble and squeak.

Think about fuel use, too. Invest in a tiered steamer so that you can cook several things at once. And if you’ve got the oven on for dinner, bake a loaf of bread or some vegetables for lunch at the same time.

My favourite new pennypinching gadget, however, is the pressure cooker: no longer prone to exploding, it cooks tough cuts of meat and pulses in a fraction of the time.

I’ve found such small measures not only economical but a source of profound satisfaction. Eating the last of the Sunday roast with fried rice on Thursday or freezing cheap berries as a winter treat feels, in a small way, like beating the system.

As Leavey writes, “It’s time for us to rediscover and reclaim the power to feed ourselves.” Drink, however, I’ll leave to the professionals.

 

Drag odds and ends out of the fridge and the bottom of the veg box and you could have the makings of a feast. Image: Andres Marroquin Winkelmann

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 16 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Syria: The deadly stalemate

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The decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era