7 OCTOBER: GRILLING MUSSELS
The underestimated importance of the crisp, the soft, the coarse, the smooth, the infinitesimal details of how something feels in the mouth. Sometimes it is a question of purity, an ingredient you enjoy for what it is, unburdened by the tinkering of the cook; on other occasions it is a thoughtful partnership of one texture with another. Something crisp and soft in the same mouthful perhaps (the everlasting success of the ice-cream cornet), or a dazzling combination of textures assembled in a much more complex and exciting manner. The more adventurous stars of the Michelin guide can be very good at this.
Back to basics. The mussels I bought this morning are fat nuggets of juice-filled flesh, the colour of sand. They taste of the sea. My inclination to eat them raw is thwarted only by the tightness of their shells. I cook them briefly in a stainless-steel pan with a tight-fitting lid, the vast one I normally keep for stock. I need them to cook for the shortest possible time, until the second their shells open. They clatter out of the pan into a bowl and I twist and snap off the uppermost, empty shell from each.
Lined up like naval cadets ready for inspection, each mussel is placed on a baking tray, crowned with a spoonful of butter whose flavour and texture has been plumped up with coarse crumbs, finely grated parmesan, lemon juice and thyme leaves. I grill them, just until the first crumb of bread turns gold, until the cheese has started to glisten, until the butter has formed a pool surrounding each fat morsel in its pearlescent shell.
Grilled mussels with thyme and Parmesan
Mussels are cheap, sustainable (look out for hand-gathered and farmed ones) and curiously filling. When I feel I have had enough of chucking them into a pot with a glass of white wine and some tarragon, I grill them under a coating of buttery breadcrumbs.
large mussels 24
white wine 1 glass
For the herb butter:
butter 120g
parsley 4 bushy sprigs
thyme leaves 2 good tbsp
garlic 1 clove
chilli 1 medium-sized, hot
lemon juice a little
white breadcrumbs 5 tbsp
parmesan 3 tbsp, grated
Put the butter into a mixing bowl. Finely chop the parsley leaves, thyme, garlic and seeded chilli. Mash into the butter with the lemon juice, crumbs and parmesan. Season with salt and black pepper.
Put the prepared mussels (thoroughly cleaned and scrubbed, and checked for broken or dead ones) into a deep pan over a moderate heat, pour in the white wine, then cover tightly with a lid. Let them steam for a minute or two until their shells open. Lift the mussels out of the pan, pulling off the top shells as you go. Lay the mussels in their bottom shells flat on a baking sheet or ovenproof tray. Spread a teaspoon or so of the butter over each mussel, then cook under a preheated grill till bubbling. Enough for 2.
15 OCTOBER: SMOKE AND CRUNCH
Some recipes are just downright useful. A light lunch. A first course. Something to eat with drinks. A bit of dinner. Well, that’s smoked mackerel remoulade.
Smoked mackerel celeriac remoulade
celeriac 300g
lemon 1
radishes 8
Dijon mustard 2 tbsp
grain mustard 2 tbsp
capers 2 tsp
cornichons 8
mackerel 1 whole smoked or 2 large fillets
butter 60g
Cut away and discard the celeriac’s tough, whiskery roots, then peel it. Slice the white flesh into large pieces, then shred them coarsely into the same matchstick-thin shards you would for a classic remoulade.
Squeeze the lemon juice into a mixing bowl, then tip in the shredded celeriac and immediately toss to prevent it from discolouring. Trim the radishes, removing any leaves and stalks, slice them thinly and add to the shredded celeriac. Stir the two mustards, a little salt and the capers into the celeriac and radishes, then finely slice and add the cornichons.
Remove and discard the skin of the smoked mackerel, then break the flesh into large, thick pieces and add to the bowl, gently tossing the ingredients together. Pack the mixture down into a clean bowl or glass storage jar and smooth the surface quite flat. Melt the butter in a small pan, then spoon over the surface of the remoulade. Grind over a little black pepper, then leave to chill and refrigerate overnight.
Serve with hot toast. For 6.
31 OCTOBER: THE DEATH OF ALL HALLOWS
The old Hallowe’en, when hollowed-out pumpkins glowed ghoulishly, was a night I rather enjoyed. Walking along London’s Georgian streets, the occasional candlelit gourd to speed us on our way home to drink pumpkin soup and watch a crackly black and white horror movie, was something I looked forward to. Nowadays it’s all screaming groups in fancy dress ringing on doorbells. Trick or treat has become little more than licensed harassment.
But that still leaves us with the sodding pumpkin to deal with. A cinnamon-scented pie aside, pumpkin only works for me when it is accompanied by a savoury element, such as bacon or pancetta perhaps, onions, spice, mustard or cheese. Best of all is when the squash’s sugary flesh comes glowing from the oven, sticky with the caramelised juices of a piece of pork. Which is why I roasted a crackling-encased loin on top of thick slices of pumpkin tonight, the piggy juices trickling down the segments of golden squash. A glowing reminder of a night when, once upon a time, our imagination and candlelight were enough.
Roast pork and pumpkin
I don’t serve gravy with this, but if you wish, pour off the fat from the roasting tin, then deglaze over a moderate heat with a little white wine or cider, scraping at the encrusted pork and pumpkin juices. Season carefully and serve with the pork. Ask the butcher to score the skin. Leave the meat, uncovered, overnight, so the surface dries. That way lies crisper crackling.
pumpkin 1, small to medium-sized
olive or groundnut oil 2 tbsp
butter 50g
pork loin 1-1.25kg, rolled and tied
thyme 6-8 sprigs
rosemary 6 sprigs
Set the oven at 230C/gas mark 8. Remove the skin from the pumpkin, then slice it into five large segments. Pull out and discard the seeds and fibres from the middle.
Place the peeled and seeded pumpkin in a roasting tin, trickle with oil and add knobs of butter. Check the pork skin is dry to the touch. Wet pork will not crisp appetisingly. Put the loin on top of the squash, brush the skin with a little oil, just enough to allow the seasonings to adhere, then rub in a generous amount of sea salt. Grind over a little black pepper.
Tuck the sprigs of herbs on top of the pork and among the pumpkin, roast in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, then lower the heat to 180C/gas mark 4 and continue roasting for 60 minutes. Remove the pork and pumpkin from the oven, lift the pork out and put it somewhere warm to rest. Check the pumpkin for tenderness. It may need turning over and returning to the oven. Let it roast until truly tender and glowing.
Once the pork has rested for 20 minutes, carve into thick slices, together with its crackling, and serve with the pumpkin. Serves 4-5.
8 NOVEMBER: A SALAD THAT SORTS
The quiet joy of preparing the day’s salad bowl is something of a ritual in this kitchen. Becalming, life-enriching, strangely grounding. In this house, salad is eaten solely for the pleasure of something raw, a quiet celebration of vegetables, herbs and, occasionally, fruits that are consumed in their purest form. Rarely, if ever, is it eaten for “health”.
Today, however, my salad is eaten as a cure. A bowl of leaves, spices and nuts that is clean, crisp and uplifting. To shredded red cabbage and carrots I add fat black grapes, some toasted almonds and grated ginger, whose hot citrus-scented flesh I regard as an ingredient that heals above all others.
Ginger, grown in tropical, humid regions, is celebrated as much as a healer as it is as a culinary ingredient in both Indian and Chinese medicine. The gingerol contained in the rhizomes is believed to contain therapeutic qualities. Along with turmeric, ginger is prescribed for everything from colds to arthritis, migraines to nausea, and while the pharmaceutical industry obviously has a vested interest in rubbishing such claims, I am more than happy to go along with any long-established notion of food as healer. Food is always my first medicinal port of call.
A salad of red cabbage, grapes and almonds
red cabbage half a medium-sized
carrots 100g, skinny ones
olive oil
almonds 100g, skinned
fennel 1 small bulb
black grapes 120g
radish sprouts a handful
For the marinade:
ginger 25g
white-wine vinegar 100ml
For the dressing:
egg yolk 1
Dijon mustard 1 tbsp
olive oil 5 tbsp
Finely shred the leaves of the red cabbage, discarding the tough bits. Slice the carrots finely lengthways, using a vegetable peeler, and toss with the cabbage. Peel the ginger, then grate it very finely, almost to a purée, and stir into the vinegar. Pour over the vegetables, toss them gently, then put them to one side, covered, for a good hour. Toss the vegetables occasionally to keep them wet with marinade.
Warm 1 tbsp of olive oil in a frying pan, add the skinned almonds and let them toast till golden on both sides. It is probably best to do nothing else while the nuts are toasting, as they have a habit of burning.
Halve the head of fennel, then slice each half thinly and add it to the dressed carrot and cabbage. Halve and seed the grapes. Put the egg yolk into a bowl, stir in the mustard and a pinch of salt, and beat in the olive oil. Pour the dressing into the cabbage and carrot, then add the grapes, almonds and radish sprouts. Serves 2-3.
15 NOVEMBER: THE GLOW OF MAPLE SYRUP
There is a sticky shelf in the pantry –home to a leaky jar of molasses, several pots of set and liquid honey, golden syrup in a green and gold tin and a bottle of maple syrup. No matter how fastidiously one wipes them, the various jars and pots always leave a syrupy ring on the shelf. A calling card in molten sugar. Maple syrup has all the stickiness of golden syrup with the addition of the most glorious nutty, smoky notes. The syrup is made from the sap of black, red and sugar maples, but delve a little deeper and things start to get complicated.
Canada and America have different grading systems for quality, translucency and flavour, while Vermont, the largest producer, has even more detailed codes. From extra light through medium and amber to dark, the labelling is strictly regulated. Grades within grades.
I have always wanted to make a biscuit that tasted of maple syrup. A clear and frosty winter’s day that smells of maple-syrup biscuits has an element of fairytale about it. And that is exactly what I do on this bone-cold afternoon, rolling the butterscotch-coloured dough into a log, slicing it thickly and baking biscuits that crumble softly.
These are just possibly the most delicious biscuits I have ever made. So I sit, drinking coffee, picking up maple-scented crumbs with a damp finger, breathing in soft notes of smoke and syrup.
Hazelnut maple biscuits
hazelnuts 120g, whole, skinned, plus 20g to finish
butter 225g
light muscovado sugar 50g
dark maple syrup 50ml
plain flour 250g
salt a pinch
Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Put the hazelnuts on a baking tray in a single layer and toast them until they are lightly coloured on all sides. Moving them around every now and again will aid even browning. Remove them from the oven and crush to crumbs using a food processor. They should be fine, but not as fine as commercial ground almonds. The nuts should feel a little gritty between the fingers.
Cut the butter into small pieces and put it into the bowl of a food mixer fitted with a flat beater attachment. Add the muscovado sugar and beat till pale and fluffy. Pour in the maple syrup, a tablespoon at a time, beating continually. If the mixture appears to curdle, don’t worry, just keep beating. It will eventually become a smooth, soft mixture.
Sieve the flour and the salt, then fold in the nuts. Gradually incorporate the flour and nuts into the creamed butter, sugar and maple syrup. Roll the dough into a thick sausage about 3cm in diameter, then wrap in clingfilm or greaseproof paper and refrigerate for an hour. Don’t be tempted to skip this step, no matter how impatient you are to get your biscuits baked.
Set the oven at 160C/gas mark 3. Unwrap the dough and slice it into about 16 biscuits. Place them snugly on a baking sheet lined with baking parchment. Roughly halve the remaining whole hazelnuts and put a few on top of each biscuit, pressing them gently down into the dough. Bake for 20 minutes. They won’t look cooked at this point, but let them cool for a few minutes on the tray, then carefully lift off with a palette knife and cool on a wire baking rack. Makes about 16.
21 NOVEMBER: BRIGHTLY SHINING LEAVES
They shine so brightly they could be made of emeralds and rubies. It’s not often I see beetroot with leaves in such fine fettle this late in the season.
You either like the earthy, mineral sweetness of beetroot or you don’t. The root itself is currently a little over-used, popping up on menus as regularly as blood splatter in an episode of Dexter. Roasted, the root becomes especially sweet, though it’s the very devil to time accurately. Depending on their age, beets (as they are called in the US) can cook in anything from 30 minutes to over an hour when wrapped in foil and baked.
Armed with Latex gloves, you can easily peel the skin from a cooked beetroot. A good clue as to whether the root is cooked is how effortlessly the skin slips off. The leaves cook in a matter of minutes, the exact time being longer than spinach, less than chard. I keep them away from water, preferring to turn them repeatedly in butter and olive oil.
Tonight, dinner is cobbled together from those green and crimson leaves, a couple of potatoes and a can of chickpeas. A hotchpotch, yet the ingredients glow in the pan like a peep into a Victorian jewel box. I make the beetroot stems and their leaves smart a little with something acidic – lemon juice, but I could have used red wine vinegar – to balance their sugar and calm their mineral notes.
Beetroot leaf sauté
potatoes 2, large and floury
olive oil 3 tbsp
carrots 2
garlic 2 cloves
chickpeas 400g tin
beetroot stems 50g
beetroot leaves 150g
lemon 1, small
mint a small handful
Cut the potatoes in half and then into small cubes. I really don’t think it is necessary to peel them. Pour the olive oil into a wide shallow-sided pan, add the potatoes and leave them to cook over a medium heat. Peel the carrots, cube them similarly and add to the pan. Peel and finely chop the garlic, add to the potatoes and carrots, season with salt and pepper, and continue cooking, stirring from time to time, till the vegetables are approaching tenderness.
Drain the chickpeas and tip into the pan. Let them warm through for 10 minutes. Chop the beetroot stems into small pieces, then stir into the pan. Roll the beetroot leaves into a short cigar-like cylinder, then slice into ribbons and fold into the potatoes and chickpeas. Squeeze in the juice of the lemon, chop the mint leaves, stir in and serve. For 4-6.
16 DECEMBER: GAME PIE, PARSNIP CRISPS
Pigeons are to the urban gardener what rabbits are to the farmer. They peck the yellow crocus buds from the snow and make a lunch of our treasured cabbage seedlings. They can also strip a row of peas in minutes.
While I will happily watch the wrens and robins that visit this garden for hours on end, and will listen enthralled to the woodpecker tapping away at the grey trunk of the robinia, I think pigeons are best observed simmering in a pot.
Of course, the birds we buy from the butcher are not the city pigeon and thank goodness for that. But even with that knowledge up my sleeve, there is still an element of “serves you right” that accompanies the cooking of this particular bird. I got my own back for the crocuses today by simmering a pack of pigeon breasts with mushrooms and a broth made from Marsala and dried porcini. The birds were bathed in a sauce as dark as a medieval wooden floor, mellow with dried and fresh mushrooms, and made festive with frozen cranberries. An element of crunch was introduced to the general softness with slices of parsnip cooked on top of the stew, their surface crisp, their underside chewy and soaked in blisteringly hot pigeon gravy.
Pigeon, parsnip and porcini pie
A special pie for Christmas, with a soft game and mushroom filling and topped with parsnip crisps.
porcini 20g, dried
water 750ml
chestnut mushrooms 250g
butter 50g
olive or groundnut oil
pigeon breasts 500g
plain flour 1 heaped tbsp
For the top:
parsnip 1, large
cranberries 100g
butter 80g
rosemary 1 tbsp, chopped
Put the porcini into a heatproof bowl, then pour over boiling water. Cover and set aside for 15 minutes to give a clear, golden brown broth. Slice the chestnut mushrooms thickly, cook them with some of the butter and oil in a casserole or deep-sided frying pan till they are nut brown, then remove and set aside. Add a little more butter and oil to the pan and return to the heat. Season the pigeon breasts, then brown nicely on both sides in the butter and oil. Return the mushrooms to the pan, scatter the flour over and cook briefly, then pour in 600ml of the porcini stock, stir well and add the porcini. Simmer gently for 10 minutes, then set aside.
Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Peel the parsnip and slice thinly into discs. Transfer the pigeon mixture to a large pie dish or shallow casserole. Scatter the cranberries over the surface. Melt the butter in a pan, add the finely chopped rosemary, then add the sliced parsnips and toss gently. Place the parsnips on top of the pigeon mixture, making sure they are all covered in butter, then bake for 45-50 minutes, until the parsnips are crisp and the filling is bubbling. Serves 4-5.
18 DECEMBER: DARK CHOCOLATE AND SUGARED FRUITS
I decorated sheets of dark chocolate today, for snapping into jagged shards and serving with coffee. I scattered the liquid chocolate with segments of preserved clementines and crushed sugared rose petals, toasted almonds and chopped pistachios, letting the chocolate set until brittle.
Chocolate fruit and nut slice
The sweetness of the rose petals and crystallised fruits means a dark chocolate is more appropriate here than a sweet, creamy milk version. It is, of course, up to you.
hazelnuts 100g, skinned
dark chocolate 400g, 70%
mixed crystallised fruits pears, citrons, clementines 400g in total
sugared rose petals a few
sea salt flakes 1 tsp
Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Put the hazelnuts on a baking sheet in a single layer, then bake for 15-20 minutes, removing them when they are thoroughly brown. Put a pan of water on to boil, with a heatproof glass bowl resting snugly on top. The bottom of the pan shouldn’t quite touch the water. Break the chocolate into pieces and let it melt in the bowl. It will melt more smoothly if you don’t stir it, just leave it to melt, occasionally pushing any unmelted pieces under the surface.
Line a 22x32cm tray with baking parchment. Pour the melted chocolate into the tray, and shake firmly to spread over the surface. Chop the crystallised fruits into small wedges or dice. I think a mixture of sizes looks best. Scatter the fruits over the chocolate. Break the rose petals into small pieces and distribute them between the fruits. Roughly chop the hazelnuts and scatter them over the chocolate. Lastly, add the sea salt flakes and leave in a cool place to set. The fridge is ideal for a short time, but don’t leave the chocolate in there longer than an hour. Snap into jagged pieces. Serves 10.
To read Nigel Slater’s essay on the lifelong pleasure of cooking, go to: theguardian.com/lifeandstyle and for the first 12 recipes from his Kitchen Diaries III, go to theguardian.com/nigel-slater-recipes
A Year of Good Eating: the Kitchen Diaries III by Nigel Slater (Fourth Estate, £30). Click here to order a copy for £18 from the Guardian Bookshop
