Saffron

......Paella is one of my favourite things to eat, many Spanish holidays cementing that country's national dish firmly into the psyche of British revellers. Generally, I believe it is not revered as much as it should be by holidaymakers, held in notoriety more than gourmet appreciation,  but I understand and enjoy its lure beyond the feel good hoilday vibe. I ordered it for lunch every day in Barcelona and once for dinner, enjoying the subtle differences between each version. A few extra prawns here, some chewy overcooked squid in another, that crust of crispy rice stuck to the bottom of the pan that sticks in your teeth with satisfying bite. But, the main fundamentals were consistent, rice, chicken, sea food and saffron. I firmly believe that saffron elevates this dish from something rustic, rural and hearty to something fit for a king, much like Biryani, that Indian dish of saffron yellow rice and meat.

Saffron's amazing ability to create colours from buttercup yellow through to vivid late sunsets is inspiring to a cook. The taste is subtle but enough to register; honey, earthy, floral with a hint of spice.

I once added too much saffron to a vanilla cream sauce to accompany some scallops. I was disappointed with the pale yellow the specified amount created and wanted something more vivid. I added so much the sauce tasted only of saffron, it's magic being lost through too much saturation. All the nuances of vanilla, chicken stock and cream were lost to a mud flavoured custard. I have never learnt the fine art of moderation.

Saffron and Pernod butter, here being mixed with goats cheese to stuff a chicken breast.

When I think of saffron being harvested, I imagine women wearing bright coloured saris picking it from thousands of delicate lilac crocuses, their worn, brown hands beginning to stain as they deftly remove the stamens with amazing precision. What happens to the disfigured petals? Do they get thrown into a heap to be used as decorations? I hope so, it would be a fitting end.

Of course I imagine the reality is much different, but it all adds to the romance for me.

The inferior safflower, sometimes presumptuously labelled as American saffron.

I once attended a friend's wedding in the New Forest in Hampshire, England, an area abundant with wild mushrooms and wild horses, moving slowly through the morning mist in packs, incredibly beautiful. The wedding meal was the best food I have ever eaten at a wedding, the main course being corn fed chicken wrapped in Prosciutto with delicate vegetables like baby turnips and asparagus and those wild mushrooms. But, it was the starter that really impressed me. Spaghetti with prawns, cream, wine and saffron, the strands visibly orange against the pink of the prawns and the white sauce. They added an element of bitterness, colour and a honey scent I will never forget.

As mush as I love the taste of saffron, it is the romanticized images and associations that it evokes that really hook me; Hot climates, Indian women finding peace from their noisy, chaotic world in tranquil, lush fields of flowers. Paella cooked on a large open fire with buckets of sea food and entire bowls of rust coloured saffron, an expectant, hungry crowd eager against the smoke, heavy with the smell of open-air cooking, roasting meat and the red strands. Indian rice and biryani, a golden hue and delicately scented, topped with marigolds and the faint aroma of rose water and images of horses and their foals running wild amongst magical forests.