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This morning, after a couple of hours at my desk, I take out the secateurs and cut back the white roses, removing their spindly growth and confusion of crossed stems. Standing back to admire my work, I feel the roses can breathe once more. I come in, make coffee and set about sorting the larder – discarding and tidying. A sort of culinary pruning and removing of dead wood.
There is method in my madness. Even though this is the busiest time of year, I like to spend a day sorting out the food cupboards. A seasonal stock-take. A snapshot of what I have a little too much of (lentils, beans, coconut milk, maple syrup) and what I don’t have at all (light soy sauce, hoisin, honey and, crucially, dried yeast.) An inventory now means a slow picking up of necessities over the next few weeks rather than the horror and panic of a ‘big shop’ during Christmas week, when the rest of the country will be at it too.
There is only one way to tidy a kitchen cupboard and that is to take everything out. Everything. Moving things around from shelf to shelf and side to side doesn’t work. You need to see what you have, so I spend the rest of the morning with bottles, cans and storage jars spread over the floor. The shelves get cleaned, then everything goes back (or at least most of it), starting with the top shelf (dried beans and lentils), then working down.
I rather enjoy finding the oldest sell-by date, but the haul is a disappointment this time. A jar of chestnuts from two Christmases ago, a twelve-month over-the-date bag of prunes and a bottle of oyster sauce that seems magically to have escaped at least three previous stock-takes isn’t enough to satisfy me. I genuinely relish finding that box of coconut-flavoured sugar or jar of piccalilli that is old enough to have gone down on the Titanic.
A surfeit of maple syrup annoys me, though. It is one of the most expensive ingredients in the kitchen and I cannot imagine how I have ended up with three bottles. I put it down to the bottles being slim and stored sideways, thus becoming almost invisible, like a book in a bookshop with the spine facing out. This find does, however, give me the opportunity to try out an ice that may well end up on the table at Christmas.
Fig, maple syrup and Marsala ice cream
If you have an ice cream machine, churn the custard, syrup and yoghurt mixture first, then stir in the chopped fig and chocolate at the end. To prevent the custard from curdling, keep the heat low and, as it starts to thicken, remove from the heat, pour into a chilled bowl over ice or in a sink of cold water and beat firmly and continuously until most of the steam has gone and the custard is smooth. I like to serve the ice in chunks, like fudge, rather than in one large slab.
Serves 6
egg yolks – 4
caster sugar – 2 tablespoons
double cream – 450ml
vanilla extract – a few drops
maple syrup – 240ml
figs – 3
dark chocolate – 100g
thick, strained yoghurt – 200g
figs and physalis, to serve
Put the egg yolks and caster sugar into the bowl of a food mixer and whisk until light and fluffy. Warm the cream in a saucepan, switching the heat off just before it comes to the boil, then stir in the vanilla. Pour the warm cream on to the eggs and sugar and stir to mix. Rinse the saucepan, then pour in the egg and cream mixture and return to a low to moderate heat. Warm the custard, stirring regularly, until it starts to thicken slightly on the spoon, then pour into a cold bowl and stir or beat with a whisk to remove some of the heat. Leave to cool a little.
Pour in the maple syrup and combine. Chop the figs into small pieces, crushing them slightly as you go, then chop the chocolate into small, thin shards with a large knife. Stir the yoghurt, figs and chocolate pieces into the custard, then tip into a plastic freezer box and freeze for a good four hours, or overnight. Turn the ice cream out, then cut into large chunks and pile on to a chilled serving plate, perhaps with a few physalis and more slices of fig.
Dinner is a green and humble soup. The flavours are simple, the method is straightforward and the ingredients are everyday. Recipes like this, gentle, warming, unshowy and, it should be said, meatless, are the backbone of my eating. Yes, there is plenty to dazzle both plate and palate, but sometimes it is this sort of food I need, food without frills or fuss, calming, restorative and just a little bit nannying. Oh, and it has a flotilla of cheese and toast on top.
Cauliflower and leek soup with toasted cheese
I use whatever cheese is around for this sort of thing. Tonight, it is a mixture of Gorgonzola and Taleggio that needs using up, the two melting harmoniously over the pieces of toast. Use whatever you have.
Serves 4
leeks, medium – 3
butter – 30g
olive oil – 2 tablespoons
cauliflower – 1kg
vegetable stock – 1 litre
bay leaves – 2
parsley leaves – a good handful (10g)
sourdough bread – 4 slices
cheese (any good melting type) – 100g
Discard the coarse part of the green leaves from the leeks and roughly chop them. Warm the butter with the olive oil in a deep pan. Add the leeks and cover with a lid. Cook over a low to moderate heat, stirring and checking their progress regularly, until the leeks are soft but without browning them.
Trim and thickly slice the cauliflower and add to the leeks. Stir briefly, then pour in the vegetable stock and bring to the boil. Add the bay leaves and a little salt, then lower the heat and leave the leeks and cauliflower to simmer for fifteen to twenty minutes, until soft. Process half the mixture in a blender until really smooth. Add a handful of parsley to the remainder and process in the blender to a thick, rough-textured consistency. Mix the two together and check the seasoning, adding salt and ground black pepper as you think fit.
Spread the sourdough bread with a little butter or olive oil and place under a hot grill, toasting one side to a light crispness. Turn the bread over and cover the other side with thick slices of cheese, then return to the grill until melted. Divide the soup between shallow bowls and float the cheese toasts on top.
14 NOVEMBER
Candlelight and roast cabbage
I wake early, sit at my desk and write. A daily ritual which if missed sets my world briefly off its axis. For the best months of the year, it will still be dark, a prickle of cold in the air, the slightly-too-long arms of my sweater (my writing jumper, a dear old friend) slipping softly over my fingers as I type, as if I was wearing fingerless gloves.
I do most of my early morning writing by candlelight. There is a warmth to the light given by a single flame that no electric filament bulb can ever match, and shadows that flicker grey on white. Occasionally, in winter, the candles will gutter, the flame weaving a little as it burns, a flash, a hiss and a spit, as if someone has walked past, and then it steadies itself once more.
My love of candlelight has its history in the light given by a particular candle that would be burned at home, unfailingly, over Christmas, then put away again until the following year. A heavy, square, rough-sided candle, each side framing a paper stained-glass window. To this seven-year-old child, it seemed like a magic lantern, each window a door to a world in which wonderful things happened, but also a place of safety and warmth. A hollow in which to disappear, like a rabbit-hole or a wardrobe with a magical world past the fur coats.
There were other candles too, including those which, once lit, sent tiny brass horses spinning round a pole, and others huddled in a bunch whose wax slowly welded together as they melted, achieving a glowing island. The candles disappeared from our Christmas under the instruction of my stepmother, who thought they were dirty things, producing smoke and dripping wax on her lovingly polished tables. A somewhat strange decree, coming, as it did, from a lifelong chain-smoker.
A candle is not just for Christmas. Turn the lights off on a winter’s night and light a candle or two instead. Instantly, the smell of cordite, and soon the scent of beeswax. Shadows to feed the imagination, flickers of flame, perhaps the scent of woodsmoke by which to read a book. None of this would I wish to live without. At home, we light them even during summer, though they tend to be in tall glass jars on the long garden table, lit as the night starts to fall.
Whale sperm and beeswax
The heart and soul of a candle is the wax from which it is made; it is what glows and produces a pillar of warm light in the room, but this hasn’t always been so. The fat from nuts and trees, from bay berries and even rice was used long before the introduction of wax. In the West it was tallow, basically rendered beef fat, which is softer than the wax we know today and gave off much dark, acrid smoke, rather like beef fat on a griddle. There is evidence that candle makers – chandlers – went from house to house, making saved beef fat into useable candles.
In the Middle Ages, we progressed to beeswax. Cleaner and with a warming, honeyed fragrance, they were more expensive to make and initially the preserve of the wealthy and of churches, where they were an integral part of religious ceremonies. Cheaper candles were made from spermaceti, a waxy substance obtained from the spermaceti organ found in the head of a sperm whale. Spermaceti candles, also known as standard candles, were the ones used for measuring candlepower, the unit, no longer used, that measures the luminous intensity of a candle. You can get 500 gallons of spermaceti from a large whale. Is this book useful or what?
Wax for candles is obtained from a variety of sources, stearin (purified animal fats), paraffin, cinnamon, soya and palm being among the most common, but the most valued is the traditional beeswax. Even unscented they are capable of creating, almost instantly, an atmosphere of calm, welcome and humble bonhomie.
The wick
The wick that lies at the heart of the candle is made of braided cotton or linen. Occasionally a stiffener, in the form of copper wire, is used. As the wick burns, the heat travels downwards, melting the wax that supports it. The wax vapours rise around the wick, catch light and burn, feeding the flame. The wax is fuel to the burning wick. The thicker the wick, the larger the flame. The liquid pool of wax around the wick is known to some as the bishop, though I have absolutely no idea why.
Trimming your wick
Candle wicks are treated to encourage them to burn more slowly. The wick should be kept trimmed – snip off any burned cotton with scissors before lighting. Too long a wick will encourage the candle to smoke. In some cases a long wick can collapse back into the wax. No one wants that. I often pinch the burned cotton between my fingers when I can’t be bothered to go and fetch the scissors. If my fingers aren’t covered in fountain pen ink, they are sporting smudges of candle soot.
A life lived by the light of a candle
This is an old house, and candlelight suits it. The wobbly walls, the floorboards that creak even when you are still, the draughts that seep from every window and door. Most rooms have a fireplace; three of them, including the kitchen, have two. The space comes alive when candles are lit, shadows are exaggerated, corners deepen, here and there walls show the outline of doors long blocked up. These rooms have stories to tell. In daylight or under electric lights, the house is like any other, a closed book.
At the table
Candlelight has the extraordinary ability to make any meal into a special occasion, even when it is simply a bowl of soup and some bread and cheese. The light it gives welcomes and warms, soothes and calms. Faces glow, details are accentuated. Our lines, scars and wrinkles are more beautiful than ever.
Scented candles for Christmas
Much as I appreciate the purity of an unscented beeswax candle, scented candles can be interesting. They can be charming or hideously overpowering, depending on the type of scent used.
Scents come in every possibility, from wet cloisters to toasted brioche, wax floorboards to freshly ironed linen, and every imaginable flower, leaf and spice. I have to hold my hands up here and admit that I may not be a food snob but I am most certainly a candle snob. Cheap scented candles are simply disgusting. They smell of air freshener. Here are a few I recommend for burning at Christmas. All are subtle, and I promise they are not going to make your house smell like a cheap gift shop or a massage parlour.
Carmelite by Cire Trudon
A favourite of mine, often to be found burning in my basement kitchen, and whose ‘wet’ scent seems appropriate for the old stone floors, low ceilings and rough white walls. A deeply peaceful scent, of mossy stone and water. Not for Christmas Day, but for quiet moments before everyone gets up. There are the faintest notes of orange and clove, with heart-notes of violet and cardamom. Or, as the creator puts it, ‘the black and white silhouettes of nuns, walking through the silence of a ritual mass’. Which is probably why it seems so appropriate in this house.
Spiritus Sancti by Cire Trudon
‘Splinters of crimson, gold and olibanum,’ says the creator, ‘under the nave of a cathedral, the jubilant choir and holy scents rise into the souls.’ There is magic in this scent, the perfect candle for Christmas Day. A fleeting note of incense too.
Santa Maria Novella
In 1221 Dominican friars built a monastery, just outside the city gate in Florence, and began to experiment with herbs grown in their gardens. Initially intended for the monastery’s infirmary, the pharmacy opened to the public in 1612, and the Dominicans officially started selling their ‘curative and ephemeral products’. To this day they sell their fragrances around the world. Their Melograno soap has been a permanent feature of my bathroom for many years. Their pale ivory Melograno candle is said to bring good luck and fortune for the coming year.
Ash by Perfumer H
A mixture of carde (a relative of the juniper plant), frankincense and amber. This is the candle I have burning pretty much permanently in my house on winter mornings. Understated, like the company that makes it, gentle and haunting, a scent as old as time.
Diptyque produce some fine fragances too, especially Ivy and Bay, both perfect for winter. And yes, they all cost a small fortune but let’s be honest, the ‘Christmas candles’ that smell of cinnamon and mulled wine are particularly unpleasant. I will walk a mile to save a penny, but when it comes to candles, I think we should go for broke.
Candle myths and tips
Storing
There is a candle shelf in the larder, next to my collection of balls of string. (I have string for every occasion, some as fine as cotton thread, and some for the garden that smell of tar. It’s a borderline obsession.) Like Christmas pudding, I buy candles one year for the next. I have been led to believe that the older and drier the wax, the longer they will burn. If you keep the lid on the box, the scent will not disappear for a good year or more. Aged candles seem to last longer. Candle experts disagree. This is distinct from curing, ageing a candle for a few weeks before it is first used, a process by which the wax and the perfume bond. Maybe I just like storing candles.
Bloom
Candles that have been in store sometimes develop a powdery coat, like a damson. This can be wiped off with a soft, dry cloth.
Burn rate
Look for candles with a long burn rate. It is usually marked on the box. This will tell you roughly how long a candle should burn for if burned continuously. Burning the candle in a draught will reduce its life.
A smoking candle
Occasionally a candle will produce plumes of black smoke. This is usually because the flame is being disturbed by a draught, causing the natural teardrop of light to distort and flicker. Rather appropriate if you happen to be reading a ghost story on a winter’s night. Annoying if not. Which is why candles on window ledges often burn less evenly than those on a table in the centre of a room.
Chilling your candles
I was brought up to believe that candles should be stored in the fridge, as a cold candle burns more slowly. Sadly, although based on truth, the wax warms so quickly once lit that the practice is somewhat pointless.
Incidentally, Fortnum & Mason department store, one of the capital’s prettiest Christmas sights, is, as Tom Parker Bowles says in The Cook Book, ‘a company built on spent wax’. William Fortnum, footman to Queen Anne, was allowed to keep the spent candles, which he then successfully sold on, before eventually teaming up with Mr Mason to open their eponymous Piccadilly store. Their selection of dinner candles remains dazzling to this day.
Roast cabbage with cheese sauce
Happy tweets and emails have been coming in today about my recipe for roast cabbage. There is something particularly heart-warming about this, especially as I wasn’t initially sure about the idea. I make it again, tonight, and sure enough, the readers are right, it is really good for a cold night. The Parmesan and old-fashioned sauce ensure its frugality goes unnoticed.
Serves 4
garlic – 2 cloves
olive oil – 2 tablespoons
lemon juice – 2 tablespoons
a small cabbage
Parmesan – 55g
milk – 500ml
bay leaves – 2
half an onion
butter – 30g
plain flour – 30g
bread, open-textured, such as ciabatta – a thick slice
smoked paprika – a pinch (optional)
sprouted seeds
Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6. Peel the garlic and crush to a paste with a little salt. Put the paste into a small mixing bowl and stir in the olive oil and lemon juice. Season with a generous grinding of black pepper.
Slice the cabbage into discs about 3cm thick and place them, just touching, on a baking sheet. Spoon the garlic and lemon juice dressing over the cabbage and roast for twenty-five to thirty minutes. Turn the cabbage over, dust the top of each piece with a heaped tablespoon of grated Parmesan, and continue cooking for fifteen minutes.
While the cabbage cooks, bring the milk to the boil with the bay leaves and onion, then remove from the heat and leave to infuse. Melt the butter in a saucepan, stir in the flour and cook over a moderate heat for a couple of minutes. Add the milk, strained through a sieve, stir until smooth, then leave to simmer over a very low heat for fifteen minutes, barely bubbling, while the cabbage roasts. Tear the bread into small pieces and grill or fry until crisp, brushing or trickling them with a little oil as they cook.
Finely grate the remaining Parmesan into the sauce and season to taste with a little salt (you won’t need much), some black pepper and, if you like, a little smoked paprika. Lift the cooked cabbage on to plates, spoon over some of the cheese sauce, and finish with the fried bread and some green sprouted seeds.
15 NOVEMBER
Frost fairs and braised brisket
