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200g (7oz) butter, softened
250g (9oz) icing sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
12 walnut halves to decorate
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Base-line two 20cm (8in) round cake tins with baking parchment and grease the sides. Whisk the sugar with the oil, eggs and milk. Mix the flour with the baking powder, ground almonds, poppy seeds, walnuts and carrots. Make a well in the centre and add the sugary liquids, scraping the last of the sugar from the bowl. Mix the ingredients thoroughly.
Scrape into the two prepared cake tins and bake for 40–45 minutes until firm to the touch – check by plunging a skewer into the centre. If it comes out clean, then the cake is cooked. While the cake is baking, beat the cream cheese with the softened butter, icing sugar and vanilla extract to make the frosting.
Let the cakes cool in their tins for 5 minutes, then turn them out on to a wire rack. Leave to cool completely, then sandwich together with about one-third of the frosting. Spread the remaining frosting over the top and down the sides, then decorate with the walnut halves.
Celeriac (#ulink_8caec55c-c5a8-5509-9f42-31e1a0399008)
Perhaps the most brutish-looking of vegetables (swede competes for the title, and it’s hard to decide which merits the crown most), celeriac is a form of celery with an absurdly swollen rootstock, known technically as a corm. Both celeriac and celery share the Latin name Apium graveolens, even though they look so very different. When the stems are left on celeriac, sticking up like a brush, the connection is more obvious. The stems are slender, but topped with the same leaves, as if someone had squeezed hard on the broad succulent stems of a head of celery, forcing all the liquid back down into the root to puff it up like a balloon. The odd thing is that celeriac doesn’t taste at all like celery. Celeriac tastes of nothing but itself. Most people love it, and many people find it infinitely preferable to celery.
So, discount the exterior and concentrate on the firm, cream-hued interior. Solid and dense and generously proportioned, it is a remarkably delicious vegetable. I’ve never really understood why we don’t use it more: over in France it is the substance of one of their favourite mainstream salads, sold in every charcuterie and supermarket, as popular as and infinitely better than, most of the coleslaw consumed here. Yet here it is still considered something of an outsider, idly hovering on the fringes of popularity. How much longer before it breaks through to become a household name?
Oddly enough, celeriac sales were boosted by the vogue for the Atkins diet. Celeriac is, apparently, very low in carbohydrate. What a godsend for those who missed potatoes. Here was a great substitute, particularly when mashed with shedloads of cream and butter. Now that the Atkins diet is no longer as fashionable as it once was, I hope that the celeriac habit endures – it is far too engaging a vegetable to drop the minute the diet is over.
Practicalities
BUYING
Celeriac is always big, but don’t buy the most colossal ones, as these may have swelled up so far that the centre has become spongy or hollow. Be satisfied with plain big. Choose celeriac that is firm and heavy with no soft, bruised spots. Store it in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, where it will keep happily for a week or more.
COOKING
Celeriac can be cooked in a number of ways, but before that you have to take off the outer layer and the gnarled tangle of roots at the base. I usually slice the celeriac thickly then discard the roots and cut away the skin around the edge of each disc. If I’m boiling the celeriac, I then hack it into big chunks, ready to drop into the pan. If not used immediately, celeriac discolours, so once cut drop it into a bowl of water acidulated with the juice of
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lemon or a dash of wine vinegar.
The most cherished way to serve celeriac is mashed, either à la Atkins, in other words pure celeriac and lots of rich cream and butter, or – rather nicer, both in texture and flavour – mashed with equal quantities of potato, a large knob or two of butter and some milk. Either way it begs for plenty of salt and a good scraping of nutmeg. Another fine variation that I make occasionally, especially as Christmas approaches, is a mash of celeriac and chestnuts – true, the colour is muddy, but the taste is divine. Unless you are saintly, use vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, and mash with double the quantity of celeriac, butter and cream. Nutmeg is essential. Distract from the colour with a sprinkling of chopped chives and a knob of melting butter in the centre of the hot mash.
As with most vegetables, celeriac can be sautéed (cut into small cubes) over a lively heat, or roasted in the oven, tossed in olive oil. To make celeriac chips, parboil thick batons of celeriac (just 2–3 minutes will do the trick), drain well and then deep-fry, or shallow-fry, or toss with oil and roast in a hot oven for 10–15 minutes.
I adore a celeriac and potato dauphinoise, rich and creamy. For this one, I usually blanch the slices of celeriac and potato in boiling salted water for a couple of minutes, before layering and baking slowly in the oven until heavenly soft and tender.
Raw celeriac is rather good too. I don’t like it grated – a bit slushy – but I do like it cut into juliennes (thin batons), which increases the prep time, but is worth the bother. Remember to toss it with lemon or lime juice as you cut it, to prevent excessive browning. Although there is no reason why it shouldn’t be added to any number of salads, the classic is always going to be céleri rémoulade, for which I give a recipe overleaf. Frankly, you just can’t beat it.
SEE ALSO CELERY (PAGE 124).
Roast chicken with apple, celeriac and hazelnut stuffing
Celeriac makes a good basis for a stuffing, a strong enough flavour to come through without fighting the taste of the chicken. The celeriac ‘chips’ around the outside semi-simmer and semi-roast as the bird cooks, absorbing some of the juices from the chicken for extra flavour.
Serves 4
1 plump and happy free-range chicken a little olive oil
1/2 celeriac, peeled and cut into ‘chips’ salt and pepper
Stuffing
1/2 celeriac, peeled and finely diced
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
30g (1oz) butter
8 sage leaves, chopped
1 eating apple, cored and diced small
40g (11/2 oz) shelled, skinned hazelnuts, roasted and chopped
80g (scant 3oz) soft white breadcrumbs
1 egg, lightly beaten
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6.
To make the stuffing, begin by sautéing the celeriac, onion and garlic together in the butter until tender – take plenty of time over this, say 10 minutes or more, so that their flavours really get a chance to develop. Stir in the sage leaves and cook for a further 30 seconds or so. Now mix the vegetables and buttery juices with the apple, hazelnuts, breadcrumbs, seasoning (be generous with it) and enough beaten egg to bind.
Fill the cavity of the chicken with the stuffing. You’ll probably have more than you need, so pack the remainder into a shallow ovenproof dish and bake alongside the bird until browned and hot – it won’t taste as good as the stuffing inside the bird, but it gets the crisp crust as a bonus.
Place the stuffed bird in a roasting tin or shallow ovenproof dish and smear a little olive oil over its skin. Season generously with salt and pepper. Pour a small glass of water around the bird and surround with the celeriac chips. Roast for about 1
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hours, basting the bird occasionally with its own juices (add a little more water if it needs it) and turning the celeriac chips occasionally – they should soften and catch a little brown here and there.
Test to make sure that the chicken is cooked by plunging a skewer into the thickest part of the thigh – if the juices run clear then it is done. If they run pink and bloody, then get the whole lot back into the oven for another 15 minutes and then try again.
Let the chicken rest in a warm place for 20 minutes before serving.
Céleri rémoulade
Whenever we’re in France we head straight for the charcuterie to buy garlic sausage and a tub of céleri rémoulade. In this instance ‘céleri’ is short for ‘céleri-rave’, in other words, celeriac. ‘Rémoulade’ indicates that it is tossed in a mustardy mayonnaise, to transform it into one of France’s favourite salad dishes. Few French domestic cooks ever make their own – why bother when the shop-bought céleri rémoulade is so good? Outside France it is another matter – especially if you make your own mayonnaise, which takes no time at all in a processor or liquidiser. The celeriac itself is best cut by hand, rather than grated, which inevitably produces an over-fine mushy salad. Soften it to agreeable floppiness by soaking in lemon juice and salt for a while.
Either serve your céleri rémoulade as one amongst a bevy of salads, or make it a first course, perhaps accompanied by some lightly cooked large prawns, or thin slices of salty Parma ham.
Serves 6
1 small celeriac
juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons single cream
3 tablespoons home-made mayonnaise
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
salt and cayenne pepper
Peel the celeriac, removing all those knobbly twisty bits at the base. Now cut the celeriac in half, then cut each half into thin slices – you’re aiming roughly at about 3–5mm (
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–
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in) thick, no more. Cut each slice into long, thin strips. Toss the celeriac with the lemon juice as you cut, to prevent browning, then once all done, season with salt and cover with clingfilm. Set aside for half an hour or so to soften.
Drain off any liquid, then toss the celeriac strips with the cream, mayo, mustard, salt and cayenne. Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve.
Speedy mayonnaise
I’ve given up on making mayonnaise the proper, old-fashioned way. Nowadays, I opt for the quick liquidiser method, which yields up a mayonnaise that is every bit as good and so much less stressful.
Two brief notes. Avoid the temptation to increase the amount of olive oil. In quantity it gives an unpleasant bitterness. The second is the old familiar: as home-made mayonnaise inevitably contains raw egg, do not offer it to the very young, the old, pregnant women, invalids.
Makes roughly 250ml (9floz)
1 egg
1 tablespoon very hot (but not boiling) water
1 tablespoon lemon juice
250ml (9floz) sunflower or grapeseed oil
50 ml (2floz) extra virgin olive oil
salt
Break the egg into the goblet of the liquidiser and add the hot water. Whirr the blades to blend, then add the lemon juice and salt. Measure the oils into a jug together. With the motor running, pour the oil into the egg, in a constant stream, until it is all incorporated. By this time, the mayonnaise will be divinely thick and glossy. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
Roast celeriac with Marsala
This is a repeat recipe, originally printed in my book Taste of the Times, which is now out of print. It is so good, however, that I have no qualms about including it again here. As the celeriac roasts, it absorbs some of the raisiny flavour of the Marsala (but not the alcohol, which just burns off), whilst caramelising to a golden, sticky brownness. Excellent with game, in particular.
Serves 4
1 medium-large celeriac
a little sunflower oil
a knob of butter
5 tablespoons sweet Marsala
salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Cut the celeriac into 8 wedges, then trim off the skin as neatly and economically as you can. Toss the wedges in just enough oil to coat. Smear the butter thickly around an ovenproof dish, just large enough to take the celeriac wedges lying down flat (well, flattish, anyway). Lay the celeriac in the dish, season with salt and pepper and pour over the Marsala.
Roast for about 1 hour, turning the wedges and basting every now and then, until richly browned all over and very tender. You may find that you have to add a tablespoon or two of water towards the end to prevent burning.
Chervil root (#ulink_7b471492-2880-54c0-8681-7409e3664a6f)
The rarity of chervil root is a small tragedy. I have come across them a mere three or four times in my adult life and I regret profoundly that they are not more common, for they are nothing short of delicious. I first discovered them in a market near Orléans in France. This is their home region. However, even in France they remain bemusingly rare. This may partly be due to their appearance. They don’t look at all promising. Small, brown, dirty cones, looking for all the world like a pile of rough-hewn, old-fashioned children’s spinning tops, they don’t exactly shout ‘buy me’. It may well be that you or I have strode past them without even noticing their presence. Oh that it weren’t so. These insignificant morsels are blessed with a remarkable flavour, something like a cross between a chestnut and a parsnip, and if only you could lay your hands on them, I have no doubt that they would soon become all the rage.
Practicalities
BUYING
There’s no point angsting about freshness – just grab hold of them if you are lucky enough to find any. Ideally, they should be pleasingly firm, but personally I’d snap them up even if they were just a mite softer and wrinklier – the taste is still good, though they are harder to peel in this state.
COOKING
Give them a good scrub to remove any dirt (however much elbow grease you employ, the skin will remain unappealingly grubby-looking). The skin is edible, but not especially so. Peel the little darlings before cooking for the best results. They taste fab just simmered in salted water until tender (like a parsnip, this is not a vegetable that benefits from the al dente school of cooking), drained well and then finished with a knob of butter. Even more devastatingly divine, however, are roast chervil roots. Again peel before cooking, then roast in a little olive oil or oil and butter in the normal fashion, until tender as butter inside, lightly browned and a little chewy outside.
PARTNERS
Cooked this way, they go spectacularly well with roast beef, or a good steak. I dare say that chervil root has enormous potential and could be mashed, chipped, souped and so on. One day, maybe, I’ll get to find out, but that will just have to wait until the day I can source them regularly, and easily. Roll on that day.
Hamburg parsley (#ulink_11f78771-ff60-5a75-a8d8-a68e49ebca79)
As entries go, this one will be very short. Not because Hamburg parsley doesn’t rate, but more because it has become increasingly hard to find. I don’t think I’ve seen it for sale for the best part of a decade, more’s the pity. Therefore my aim now is merely to prime you, just in case you stumble across a tray of Hamburg parsley unexpectedly. If you do, please buy some and encourage the seller/grower to spread the word.
Although it looks like a shocked parsnip, colour washed out to ghostly off-white, and is about the same size and shape, Hamburg parsley is actually nothing more unusual than a form of the commonest of herbs, parsley. They share the same Latin name, Petroselinum crispum, but the energy flows down to the root of the Hamburg variety, swelling it out to a satisfying girth. Not for nothing is it also known as parsley root. It is far less sweet than a parsnip and does have a distinct parsley zing, which is surprising at first.
COOKING
Although you could serve it as a straight vegetable, just boiled and buttered, the flavour is strong. In practice, it is more usual to add it in moderation to stews and soups, cut up into chunks. In this context, it blossoms, imparting something of its parsley scent to the whole, and absorbing other flavours to mollify its own in a most beguiling manner. If you have only one or two roots, you might prefer to boil and mash them with double or triple quantities of potato and plenty of butter to make excellent, parsley-perfumed mash to accompany some dark, rich, meaty stew.
Jerusalem artichokes (#ulink_8c8bec33-1515-5f8a-a566-d423f1f628be)
Once upon a time, many centuries ago, intrepid explorers crossed the Atlantic Ocean at great peril and discovered all sorts of miraculous things. There were potatoes and tomatoes and chocolate and gold. There were chillies to make up for a dismaying lack of black pepper. Less lauded and celebrated, however, was the discovery of the Helianthus tuberosus. It belongs to a later period of exploration and intrepidity, when the pioneering spirit of the first settlers in North America led them to the flaps of Native American tepees. This time, along with turkeys and cranberries, they also sampled the delights of one of the windiest vegetables known to man, the knobbly Jerusalem artichoke.
Not as celebrated as potatoes or tomatoes and never exported with quite the same passionate love/hate devotion, nonetheless the Jerusalem artichoke was a significant addition to the greater vegetable repertoire. It has since gone in and out of fashion and now hovers amongst the bevy of vegetables that are almost but not quite popular, but still beloved by many devotees.
