Feasting on Art

Within the history of art, the egg has been used to symbolise life, rebirth, fertility and potential. The icon has a long history and according to Silvia Malaguzzi in Food and Feasting in Art, “They symbolise rebirth, and that symbolic value was subsequently christianized in biblical exegesis and took the form of Easter eggs, the food of the Resurrection since the Christian Middle Ages.” Left with an inordinate number of eggs after Easter (pending they have not all been hard boiled and dyed) this recipe is an ideal way to convey an indulgent breakfast into a hearty supper. Apart from a slick of butter in which the bread is fried and a layer of melted cheese, there is little fat alongside the protein in the eggs and the tang of the mustard. Paired with a bitter salad of greens, this recipe is the antithesis of the surgary croissant french toast inspired by Morandi.

Claude Monet, Still Life with Eggs (Nature morte aux œufs), 1907
oil on canvas, 73 x 92cm, Private collection

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As an art historian, I find the artist’s conceptual process to be incredibly intriguing, it lends readability and a deeper understanding to the artwork. In interviews, I am often asked to describe my methods of adapting an artwork into a recipe and truth be told, my approach varies greatly from post to post. There is a general formula I tend to follow and as this blog nears the two-year mark, I decided to share my creative process for the recipe below. In the beginning of each month, I sit down with a calendar and begin combing through my image archives. I try to post a new entry once every five days and so I map out the month, reserving two Mondays to cook and photograph all of the dishes. I queue up artworks that pique my interest and begin listing out the ingredients depicted in each one. As an example, Still Life of Asparagus, pictured below by Nicolas-Henry Jeaurat de Bertry features butter, onion, garlic and white asparagus. After listing the ingredients, I start arranging and rearranging the signature item which ended up being the white asparagus in the recipe below. I tend to start with the recipe title and from the title, work out the ingredient proportions and method of cooking. With the soufflé edged with asparagus, I had a clear picture of how the finish dish should look but was unsure if the recipe would actually work the way I intended. Lucky for me, the soufflé emerged better than I had imagined and the asparagus, when plucked from the soufflé, acted as a vehicle to transport the spongy egg, an aspect I had not anticipated.

Nicolas-Henry Jeaurat de Bertry, Still Life of Asparagus, 18th century
oil on canvas on panel, 25.5 x 36 cm, Private collection

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In the mid-16th century, Spain began importing a vibrant red pigment from the New World that was so highly sought after that the source was held as a national secret. The dye was extracted from the blood of a female cochineal, a wingless insect that lives upon the leaves of the prickly pear. The dye was so valued that in the late 18th century, a French spy by the name of Nicolas Joseph Thierry de Menonville, snuck into the Spanish territory and successively procured a living specimen. The cochineal insect is closely related to the Indo-European kermes bug. Kermes insects live upon the scarlet oak and the red dye they produce was the most expensive pigment in the middle ages and very valuable to the Romans. According to Victoria Finlay, author of Colour: travels through the paintbox, “for many cultures red is both death and life – a beautiful and terrible paradox.” The connotations this colour, often made from the blood of insects, is embodied in Claude Monet’s Still Life: Quarter of Beef. This painting of a dead animal is created – is given life – through the death of the cochineal insect; yet represents a food source that sustains life. The small canvas represents the cyclical and paradoxical nature of the colour red.

Claude Monet, Still Life: Quarter of Beef (Nature morte : le quartier de viande vers), c.1864
oil on canvas, 24 x 33 cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris

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Until last week, the joys of a warm cheesecake were unbeknownst to me. With my ever present soft-spot for the previously cool but always creamy dessert, I would help myself to a rather generous wedge accompanied by a spoonful, or two, of strawberries in a sugar syrup. For my palate this was a bit too sweet, so I forfeited the syrup for purple grapes, already naturally sweet, crusted in a bit of crunchy sugar. This variety of cheesecake is typical of New York and is combined with the British/Australian tradition of using a crushed biscuit base. The first recipe for cheesecake is thought to date back to the Ancient Greek times but I have both William Lawrence and James Kraft to thank for developing and refining the unripened cheese, also known as cream cheese, in the late 19th – early 20th century. Philadelphia cream cheese is used in most cheesecakes, including the recipe below, and is essential in creating the light yet rich texture characteristic in the best slices.

Feasting on Art has clip in the October 2010 issue of Virgin Blue Voyeur, click here to view.

Henri Fantin-Latour, Still Life with Grapes and a Carnation, c.1880
oil on canvas, 30.5 x 47 cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

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The fluffy egg cake known as a soufflé can be made both sweet and savoury depending on the flavourings incorporated. In French, the word soufflé is the past participle of the verb souffler that translates to ‘to blow up’ – exactly what a soufflé does when it bakes. The method of creation is related to that of a meringue and the dish dates back to the 18th century. Often considered to be a fussy recipe, the soufflé is actually quite resilient and as long as whipped egg whites still retain some air they will not collapse. It is only when the soufflé cools that the dish will slump and so a quick oven to table service is essential. An old kitchen fable states a loud noise will cause a soufflé to fall but according to Howard Hillman in Kitchen Science ‘Though many a cook has blamed the collapse of a souffle on the spouse who slammed the kitchen door, the force of the shock waves from that deed is too weak to pop more than a few air bubbles, if any at all.’

Jean-Siméon Chardin, Still Life, c.1732
oil on panel, 17.1 x 20.96 cm, Detroit Institute of Arts

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