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Put a roasting tin or baking tray in the oven for 5 minutes to heat through really well. Take out of the oven and quickly tip the kumara on to the hot tray. Spread out in a single layer, then dash it back into the oven before the tray loses any more heat. Roast for 20 minutes, turning once, until golden brown and tender. Eat while still hot, but not so hot that they burn your mouth.
Kumara crème brûlée
The Brits tend to like their kumara and sweet potato served along with the main course, salted and savoury, but they are in fact sweet and suave enough to work nicely in puddings. And if you don’t believe me, just give this one a try.
Mashed with cream and eggs, kumara become as smooth as butter. Add a little heat and they bake to form a tender custardy mixture that is perfect topped with a crisp crust of sugar. Although many traditional recipes partner them with cinnamon and other warm spices, I prefer to add vanilla to highlight their chestnut-like taste.
Serves 6–8
1 kg (21/4 lb) kumara, give or take
30g (1 oz) unsalted butter
30g (1 oz) caster sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
200 ml (7 floz) whipping cream
4 egg yolks
To finish
caster sugar
Bake the kumara in their skins just as if they were potatoes, or peel and boil until tender and drain thoroughly.
Preheat the oven (or reduce the temperature if you’ve baked the kumara) to 140°C/275°F/Gas 1. Weigh out 350g (12oz) of the hot kumara flesh, then mash with the butter and sugar until smooth. Now stir in the vanilla, cream and egg yolks. Divide among 6–8 ramekins. Stand them in a roasting tin and pour enough water into the tin to come about 2 cm (scant 1 in) up the sides of the ramekins. Place in the oven and leave to cook for about 40 minutes until just firm. Take out of the oven and lift the ramekins out of the hot water, then cool, cover and chill in the fridge.
Up to 2 hours before eating, preheat the grill thoroughly. Sprinkle the surface of each baked kumara custard with a thick layer of caster sugar, then place under the grill. Don’t get them too close to the heat – as with any crème brûlée, they need to be close enough for the heat to melt the sugar, but not so close that it burns before it liquefies and caramelises. As the sugar begins to melt, turn the custards every few minutes so that they caramelise fairly evenly. Take out and leave to cool and set. Eat with a little whipped cream.
Kumara fool
Make as for the crème brûlées above, but leave out the egg yolks and beat in a little more cream. Don’t cook the mixture – just spoon into bowls and serve as it is.
Oca (#ulink_4f4a1215-4dcb-54c5-936e-553bfa43a5fc)
Will the oca ever make it big in Europe? It ought to. It could…and I for one will be cheering when it does. This small tuber grows well enough here, but its real home is far, far away, up in the chilly heights of the Andes. And in Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru it is rated almost as highly as its compatriot, the potato. I first came across oca in a market north of Quito, the capital of Ecuador. It was the last stop of our holiday, so back came my haul of oca in the suitcase (smuggled in, if you must). We ate some, we grew some. We loved them. Almost end of story.
In fact that would have been the end, if I hadn’t spotted oca for sale here at home a couple of times in the past decade. If you are blessed enough to stumble across a rare basket of oca up for grabs, take them at once. The flavour of the fresh tuber lies somewhere between that of a new potato and a tart green apple, with a mealy, soft texture. Very good and just unusual enough to be interesting, without being weird.
The tart, appley tang comes courtesy of a splash of oxalic acid. If this sounds dismaying, reflect that this same acid gives rhubarb its distinctive sourness, far more astringent than the humble oca. Mind you, there are literally hundreds of varieties of oca grown down the backbone of the Andes and they vary from highly acidic to incredibly mild. The sharper varieties are not eaten fresh, but given a ‘soleado’, or a sunning. Left out in the sunshine for up to two weeks, the acidity dampens right down and starches turn to sugars. The result is an even smaller tuber, but with a startling sweetness closer to a sweet potato than any mouth-puckering stem of pink rhubarb. Dehydrated and frozen oca, known as ‘chaya’, are stashed away for leaner times.
The oca has travelled less than many vegetables, but it has at least dashed across the oceans to New Zealand where it is grown commercially in a small way. Here it is known simply as the New Zealand yam, despite not being a yam at all, or Maori potato, or more interestingly, as ‘uwhikaho’, or ‘uwhi’ for short.
Practicalities
BUYING
The commonest of oca, the ones that I’ve come across, are relatively small – say about 10cm (4in) long – have a waxy reddish skin and a crinkled form. In fact, they look a little like pink fir apple potatoes. Unlike most vegetables, freshness is not critical. Smooth skinned, plump oca will be gifted with a more distinct note of acidity than those that are beginning to shrivel a little having had time to develop more sweetness. In other words, this is a two-in-one vegetable, which is a rare and delightful gift from Mother Nature. So, as long as they have been stored well, wrinkles are not to be derided. Soft damp patches or worse still, a hint of mould, are not good things on the other hand. However, since you are not likely to come across oca frequently, you can’t really afford to be too choosy. Just throw out any that are beyond saving.
Oca, as you may well have inferred, keep well in the right conditions. The vegetable drawer in the fridge is just fine, but if the sun is shining, you might prefer to spread them out on trays outside (cover with muslin if you have some to hand, to protect from flies) to sweeten up a little. You can even freeze them – not a bad idea if you’ve found a rare clutch of oca for sale. As with any other vegetable, damp is destructive, so keep them dry.
COOKING
Oca can be eaten raw, especially the sweeter sunned ones, say in a salad, or cut into strips to dip into a chillied tomatoey dip perhaps. I prefer them cooked, exactly as you would a potato. In other words, rinse them, trim off ends, but don’t even attempt to peel. Then boil them in salted water until tender. They can also be roasted in the oven, coated in a little olive oil to prevent drying out, or steamed, or sautéed. They make heavenly crisps, but perhaps that is something to save for a time when oca have hit the big time and are as widely available here as they are in the highlands of Ecuador.
Parsnips (#ulink_34b84627-dded-5f6d-88c2-c1e1d5bbff3b)
The parsnip is an honest vegetable. No airs and graces, no pretensions to grandeur, no fancy frills and ribbons. It has a solid sunny nature, the kind that one can rely on time and time again. You can trust a parsnip – trust it to come out well, to cook up nicely, to sit comfortably alongside most winter dishes. Your parsnip doesn’t fade into the background – there’s no doubting its presence – just takes a comfortable stance amongst the other elements on a plate.
I like parsnips a lot, saving them for the colder months of the year, which in the past was the only time when you ever got them. Until recently, no parsnip was worth eating if it hadn’t been touched by a frost or two. Now we get them all year round. That’s modern varieties for you. So maybe I’m being a stick-in-the-mud when I ignore summer parsnips, invariably perfectly shaped and clean as a whistle. Although I know that you can, for instance, make a handsome salad with lightly cooked parsnips, I’m really not that interested when the sun is hot, or even tepid, in the way of so many summer days.
Parsnip is a comfort vegetable, one that rides to the rescue when the courgettes have long since swelled to marrows. Plain buttered parsnip is nice, mashed parsnip good, parsnip crisps excellent and roast parsnips totally irresistible. Frosts may no longer be crucial to the success of the parsnip, but nature has a habit of getting things right. Parsnips are definitely better adapted to cold weather, natural fodder for us humans when the cold weather sets in, but well out of kilter with the warmth of summer.
Practicalities
BUYING
Most of my adult life, I’ve bought parsnips from either a greengrocer, or from the supermarket, clean as a whistle and ready to cook. I’ve never been disappointed. Until recently. Until I signed up for a weekly veg box and began to receive the occasional helping of dirty parsnips amongst other vegetables. They have been something of a revelation, inducing retrospective disappointment for all those parsnips that have fallen short of these paragons over the years. Yes, I am now convinced that it is worth scrubbing the jacket of earth off those long ivory roots, just for the exquisite flavour that lies underneath. These have been the best parsnips I have ever encountered, putting all others in the shade. That mucky soil coating does indeed keep flavour locked in, just like my mum always said (actually, she was usually talking about potatoes, but the theory is the same). Look out for the muckiest roots you can find next time you visit a winter farmers’ market and leap on them with glee. As long as the dirt is not there to mask stale parsnips pulled far too long before from the ground, I have no doubt that you will notice the improved taste.
The trouble with this, of course, is that nice, neat, scrubbed parsnips will begin to disappoint. Nothing to be done about that. If you can’t buy them dirty, buy them clean and be sure to pick out roots that are firm and not too heavily blemished. They’ll keep for a few days, but not as long as carrots, I find. Flabby, aged parsnips are not only dull in taste, but also a complete pain to prepare. Put them in the compost bin and vow not to forget about good parsnips again.
COOKING
I like my parsnips peeled, but with organic ones this is not strictly necessary, especially if you have very small parsnips that can be cooked whole. What is necessary with sizeable parsnips is the disposal of the woody core. Cut the fatter parts of the parsnips in quarters lengthways and lop out the white heart – another candidate for the compost bin – before cooking.
Most recipes for parsnips begin with a spell in boiling water (just long enough to soften, but not so long that they go mushy) but after that they will almost certainly demand something more. ‘Kind words butter no parsnips’ is an old saying, distinctly out of vogue in the 21st century when kind words are considered essential to the development of children, dogs and houseplants. But way back when it was heard tripping from the tongues of the wise and wealthy, toughness was an altogether more praiseworthy quality for training the young and the wayward. The point here is the essential buttering of those parsnips. There is no debate on this issue. Parsnips, lovely vegetables that they are, are magically enhanced by lashings of butter or good oil, or dripping, or cream: butter on boiled parsnips, cream and/or butter in mashed parsnips, goose fat or oil and a touch of butter for roast parsnips.
The soft, starchy nature of parsnips makes them candidates for any sort of mashing or puréeing. Straight parsnip mash is perhaps too intensely sweet for most tastes – I find it nicer mashed with, say, half the volume of cooked potatoes, as well, of course, as butter, milk or cream, salt and a heavy dose of freshly grated nutmeg, or a few pinches of cinnamon. Parsnip and potato mash makes a fine topping for old-fashioned cottage, shepherd’s or fish pie.
Alternatively, you could purée the parsnip with plenty of thick béchamel sauce, again softening the total parsnip essence. This mixture can be turned into a gratin of sorts, by mixing in an egg or two, spreading out thickly in an ovenproof dish, scattering the top with freshly grated Parmesan mixed with equal quantities of breadcrumbs plus a few dots of butter and then sliding the whole lot into a hot oven to cook until browned and bubbling. Very good indeed.
Parsnip soups are terrific too, made along classic soup lines, pepped up with curry (see recipes) or with fresh root ginger, cut half in half with apple or pear, or aromatised with lemon thyme. Croûtons or crisp grilled bacon or pancetta are excellent with parsnip soups.
My mother occasionally treated us to Saratoga chips. ‘Saratoga chips’ was the original name for potato crisps, supposedly invented by a disgruntled chef in the town of Saratoga, but my mother’s Saratoga chips were proper British chips, made with parsnip. Great name, great treat. Parboil ‘chips’ of parsnip, being really, really attentive so that they don’t overcook to a pap. Drain well and dry, then deep-fry until golden brown and serve sprinkled with grains of salt. So good. Parsnip fritters are pretty appealing too – again parboil pieces of parsnip, then dip into either a beer batter or a tempura batter and deep-fry until crisp and golden brown. Serve with wedges of lemon, and salt flavoured with crushed toasted cumin. For a smarter starter fritter, cube par-cooked parsnip and stir into the beer batter along with roughly chopped small shelled prawns or shrimps, then fry spoonfuls in hot oil until golden brown.
I often add parsnips to stews, just 20 minutes or so before the stew finishes cooking so that they have time to absorb some of the flavours, but not so long that they collapse. They are good in a chicken stew, but even better in an earthy beef stew.
And finally, try baking a parsnip cake – replace the carrots with grated parsnips in the recipe on page 28. You’ll be amazed at how good the cake is, and you can keep your family and friends guessing the mystery ingredient for hours.
Tortilla-wrapped refried parsnips
Tortilla night at Hacienda Grigson, but madre mia, no beans to refry!!! And then we thought – wait a moment, hold on, but wouldn’t the starchy texture of parsnips work rather well as a substitute? And you know what, they were better than a mere substitute, bringing a welcome new vigour to what has become one of my family’s favourite suppers.
The parsnips, incidentally, can be cooked and mashed with their spices and onion way before they are needed, then gently reheated just before serving. The salsa positively benefits from being made an hour or so in advance, leaving time for the flavours to meld and develop.
Serves 4
750g (1lb 10oz) parsnips
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
salt and pepper
Salsa
250g (9 oz) sweet tomatoes, deseeded and finely chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
1–2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
2 tablespoons chopped coriander leaves
juice of 1 lime
To serve
8 corn tortillas
125g (41/2 oz) feta cheese, crumbled
6 crisp young lettuce leaves, shredded
pickled jalapeño chillies
1 avocado, peeled, sliced and tossed in a little extra lime juice
150ml (5floz) soured cream
For the salsa, merely mix all the ingredients together, then set aside at room temperature.
Prepare the parsnips as normal and cut into big chunks. Bring a pan of water to the boil (not too big, please) and stir in half the cumin seeds, all the turmeric and some salt. Now add the parsnip pieces and cook until tender. Drain, reserving some of the cooking water.
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan and fry the onion with the garlic and remaining cumin seeds until tender. Pile in the parsnips and, as they sizzle in the oil, mash them up roughly with a large fork. After about 3–4 minutes, add 3 tablespoons of the cooking water to moisten them, and carry on frying and mashing for a few more minutes until you end up with a thick, fragrant, rough mash, golden and appetising.
Just before serving, wrap the corn tortillas in foil and heat through in a low oven, or alternatively wrap in clingfilm and heat through in the microwave (check packet for timings). Put all the other extras into separate bowls and place them on the table, along with the salsa. Spoon the parsnips into a bowl and place on the table along with the hot tortillas.
It’s all ready to go now. Each diner takes a tortilla and adds a big spoonful of parsnip mash, spreading it roughly down the diameter of the tortilla, then tops it with as much cheese, salsa, lettuce, extra chillies, avocado and soured cream as they fancy. Then that lucky person just rolls it all up and takes a great big bite.
Parsnip and ham gratin
This is a terrific supper dish. Ham and parsnip are happy bedfellows, but need a good dose of spiky mustard in the sauce to bring them to life.
Serves 4
8 wee parsnips, or 4 big chunky parsnips
15g (1/2 oz) butter
8 slices very nice cooked ham indeed
30g (1 oz) Parmesan, freshly grated
Sauce
30g (1 oz) butter
30g (1 oz) plain flour
600 ml (1 pint) milk
2 tablespoons coarse-grain or Dijon mustard
salt, pepper and freshly grated nutmeg
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6.
Peel the parsnips. Boil small ones whole until just tender. With great big boys, you’ll need to quarter them lengthways and cut out the tough cores, before boiling them until just tender. As soon as the parsnips are cooked, drain, run under the cold tap and then drain again, really, really thoroughly.
To make the sauce, melt the butter and stir in the flour. Stir over a gentle heat for about 1 minute, then draw off the heat. Gradually stir in the milk, just a slurp at a time until you have a thick, smooth cream, then add more generously, stirring it in well each time. Bring back to the boil, stirring and scraping the bottom and sides of the pan. Let the sauce simmer genteely now, for a good 5–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until thickened pleasingly. Mix in the mustard, salt, pepper and a keen grating of nutmeg. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
Butter a baking dish with a little of the 15g (
/
oz) butter, and spoon a little of the sauce into the dish. Wrap the small parsnips individually in slices of ham. With the larger, quartered ones, wrap two quarters together in each slice of ham. Lay the rolls of ham and parsnip side by side in the dish, then pour over the remaining sauce. Sprinkle the Parmesan evenly over the top, dot with the remaining butter and slide into the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes, until golden brown and bubbling. Serve straightaway.
Thai-curried parsnip soup
Many moons ago, sometime in the 1970s, my mother, the food writer Jane Grigson, came up with a great idea – curried parsnip soup. It’s an idea that has gone mainstream, with variations and personalisations aplenty. This is my homage to her brilliant and innovative concept. As with her original, the wonderful sweetness of parsnip is balanced and beautified by the use of spices – this time round it’s ginger and lemongrass, aided by frisky doses of lime and fish sauce.
Serves 3–4
2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil
