скачать книгу бесплатно
Pour the milk into a saucepan large enough to take the fish. Place the fish in the milk, add the bay leaves and peppercorns, then bring to the boil. As soon as the milk shows signs of foaming, lower the heat and simmer for ten minutes. Turn off the heat and leave the milk to infuse with the fish and aromatics. Heat the stock in a saucepan; it should simmer lightly whilst you are making the risotto.
Peel and finely chop the onion, then fry gently in the butter in a broad, heavy-bottomed pan. When the onion is soft and translucent, and before it colours, add the rice and briefly stir it through the butter to coat the grains. Pour in the wine, let it evaporate, then add the stock a ladleful at a time, allowing each one to be soaked up by the rice before adding the next, stirring continually and keeping the heat moderate to low. Once the stock has been used up, change to the milk, strained of its peppercorns. By the time almost all the milk has been absorbed, the grains should be soft and plump yet with a firm bite to them. Season carefully. The total cooking time will probably be about twenty minutes, maybe a few minutes longer.
Wash the spinach leaves, tear them into small pieces, then stir them into the rice. Break the fish into large, juicy flakes and add them to the rice, folding them in but keeping the flakes as whole as possible. Check the seasoning and serve.
Enough for 2 generous servings
FEBRUARY 9
A little brown stew for a little brown day
A certain calm comes over the kitchen when there is any sort of grain simmering on the stove. The steam from brown rice, spelt or pot barley brings with it a quiet benevolence that I am grateful for on a grey-brown day like today. With a house in turmoil (I remain holed up in my tiny study while the plasterers plaster, painters paint and welders weld) the homely smell of boiled rice is somehow reassuring.
All the grains appeal to me but I am becoming partial to the quiet pleasures of pearled spelt (think pearl barley but made from wheat). The pale-brown wheat grain makes a pleasing change from Arborio rice in a risotto and adds a chewy note to a herb salad, but is something to consider for bulking up a casserole, too. The small, oval grains plump up like Sugar Puffs with the aromatic cooking liquor from a stew, taking on a velvety texture whilst making the dish both more substantial and more economical.
The mushroom stew on the hob today is rich and earthy enough but is hardly going to fill anyone. A couple of handfuls of spelt, boiled in lightly salted water and drained, will help turn what is essentially an accompaniment into something resembling a main course. Mushroom sauce becomes mushroom stew.
Spelt is said to be easy on the digestion and I have to agree. Some of us who find modern wheat heavy and soporific have no such trouble with the modern versions of ancient strains such as spelt. The ancestors of this mild, nubby grain spread across central Europe during the Bronze Age and were in common use in southern Britain by 500BC. Available for years in the sort of food shops that smell of brown rice and massage oil, spelt has recently taken a step towards the mainstream.
The sense of peace and humble bonhomie you get from simmering grain (akin, I think, to Chinese dumplings steaming in their bamboo baskets) is slightly lost when pearled spelt is stirred into a risotto but is there in spades when it is simmering in water, its steam rising in soft clouds. Like brown rice, it has an affinity with mushrooms, onions and the more earthy spices, but has less of the hardcore ‘wholemeal’ character.
A little brown stew of mushrooms and spelt
Use fancy mushrooms if you wish, but I rather like this made with an everyday mixture of flat ‘field’ mushrooms and the small chestnut variety. Add the mushrooms according to their size and thickness, leaving anything particularly small and delicate till last. By field mushrooms I mean the wide, flat variety that are usually served on toast.
dried mushrooms: a tablespoon (8g)
pearled spelt: 250g
a medium onion
olive oil: 4 tablespoons
garlic: 2 cloves, crushed
assorted fresh mushrooms: 850g
tomato purée: a tablespoon
plain flour: a tablespoon
dried chilli flakes: ½ teaspoon
Put the dried mushrooms in a heatproof bowl, cover with 500ml hot water from the kettle and set aside.
Boil the spelt in lightly salted water for fifteen minutes, then drain and set aside.
Peel and roughly chop the onion. Warm the olive oil in a large pan. Add the onion and leave to soften, with the occasional stir to stop it burning, over a moderate heat. When it is pale gold – a matter of ten to fifteen minutes – add the crushed garlic and continue cooking for two or three minutes.
Finely slice the fresh mushrooms. Stir them into the onion and continue cooking for about five minutes, till they are starting to colour.
Stir in the tomato purée. Cook for two or three minutes, then stir in the flour. Pour in the dried mushrooms and their soaking water and bring to the boil. As soon as the liquid is boiling, lower the heat, season with salt and black pepper and stir in the dried chilli flakes. Leave to simmer for ten minutes, then add the cooked spelt. Cook for a further ten to fifteen minutes, until the mushrooms are soft and silky and the sauce is rich and lightly thickened. Serve in shallow bowls.
Enough for 4
FEBRUARY 10
Down to the bone
Having work done on the kitchen has given me the privilege of seeing the bones of this house. Not just the oak laths and plaster but the long joists that form the skeleton of the old girl. Peering beneath the sagging ceilings, walls and floors has given me a clue as to how the building, and particularly the kitchen, was built. There is something empowering about knowing how something was put together – a toy plane (yes, I was one of those Airfix kids), a house, a car and most of all, a recipe.
I get pleasure from cooking with the bits of an animal that clearly show their function – what they do and where they fit in. The neck, tail, shanks and shoulders all allow you to see form and function (I particularly like cutting the string on a neatly butchered ring of oxtail and sorting the strong, broad bones from the tiny cartilaginous ones at the flicking end). Getting to know what a piece of an animal did can help us cook it appropriately. It is probably a generalisation to suggest that the more work a joint of meat had to do, the longer it will need to cook, but it is true that the hard-working shanks and neck will take longer to come to tenderness than the fillet, which never did a day’s work in its life. A chop from the loin will cook quicker than a chop from the ever-bending neck.
The butcher had some neck of lamb this week. This is a joint that gets much use – I have rarely seen a sheep that wasn’t eating. Awkward and lumpy, the neck is a cut to be valued for its cheap price, sweet fat and almost indestructible nature. The fact that I can make a fragrant, even luxurious supper out of something some people boil up for the dog makes me warm to it all the more. Tucked up in a heavy pan with earthy spices and sweet onions, the untidy lumps of meat can cook on a low heat for anything up to a couple of hours, its tough flesh and gristle breaking down to soft, spoonable meat and wobbly fat. Did I ever tell you my name is an anagram of lean gristle? Well, it is. I was slightly saddened this week to find the major supermarkets shunning this richly flavoured cut in favour of the neck fillet at over 12 quid a kilo. A decent butcher is always the best bet for the tougher cuts, until they become fashionable again like shanks.
As good as slow-cooked meat on the bone can be, it’s the gravy that forms in the pan that is the real prize. I invariably start with onions, but this time I am throwing the spice rack at them, with whole cumin seeds, ground coriander, a cinnamon stick and just a pinch of crushed chilli. The weather being as it is, I am keen to add some sweetness, and do so in the form of dried apricots, though it could have been figs or raisins.
Sometimes, I drop a few floury potatoes into a slow-cooked supper to bolster it up a bit and make it even more economical, but I am also tempted by other starchy fillers, such as couscous, barley and spelt. My starch of the moment is the fat, pearl-like mograbia, occasionally known as Lebanese or pearl couscous. It responds best to a spirited boil rather being steamed like the usual fine couscous. Some of the supermarkets sell it labelled as giant couscous, and it is easy to find in Middle Eastern grocer’s shops.
If mograbia remains elusive, then this rich, bargain-basement stew will feel just as comfortable with steamed fine couscous, quinoa or rice. I would add a little cinnamon to these, maybe some black pepper and some finely grated lemon zest and melted butter.
Braised neck of lamb with apricots and cinnamon
Something sharp to cut the fat is good here. Dried apricots have a pleasing tang that works well. Like cooking apples work well with pork. Neck of lamb is my first choice for this treatment, but I would also recommend small shanks. They are easier to get hold of. You may need to turn them once or twice during cooking, as they will sit proud of the sauce.
I usually reckon on at least 300g neck of lamb per person. This sounds quite a lot, but we are talking about one of the most bone-rich cuts of meat, so the quantity of meat should be just about right. The hands-on work is very straightforward.
middle neck of lamb: 1.25kg (8 pieces)
plain flour: 3 tablespoons
groundnut or olive oil: 2 tablespoons, plus a little more
onions: 2 medium to large
cumin seeds: 1 teaspoon
ground coriander: 2 teaspoons
crushed dried chilli: half a teaspoon or so
garlic: 2 cloves
fresh ginger: a 3cm lump
lemon zest: 2 strips, about 6cm long
a cinnamon stick
dried apricots: 250g
stock or water: 750ml
To serve:
chopped mint: 2 tablespoons
finely grated lemon zest: a teaspoon
Dust the lamb with the flour and season with salt and black pepper. Heat a couple of tablespoons of oil in a large, heavy-based casserole to which you have a lid. Add the lamb to the pan and let the pieces brown lightly on both sides. You will probably need to do them in two batches. Remove them from the pan, leaving behind any oil (if the oil has blackened, wipe out the pan and start again with fresh oil). Set the oven at 160°C/Gas 3.
Peel the onions and roughly chop them. Add them to the pan and let them soften for ten minutes or so over a moderate heat. Stir in the whole cumin seeds and ground coriander. Sprinkle in the dried chilli, adding a little extra if you want more warmth (I don’t think the dish should be hot, just warm and fruity). Peel the garlic and slice it finely, then add it to the onions. Peel the ginger, shred it finely and add it to the pan together with the lemon zest and cinnamon stick.
Add the dried apricots to the onions, then pour in the stock or water. Return the lamb to the pan, tucking it in amongst the rest of the ingredients. Season carefully. Bring to the boil, cover with a lid and place in the oven for one and a half hours, until the lamb is tender enough to come away from the bone easily.
As you serve, scatter the surface with fresh mint and lemon zest.
Enough for 4
Mograbia
Also known as giant or Lebanese couscous, the pearl-sized grains should be cooked till they are soft but retain a little bite, too.
half a cinnamon stick
mograbia: 250g
parsley: a few sprigs
a little butter, melted
a small lemon (optional)
Put a large pot of water on to boil (the mograbia likes to move around as it cooks, like pasta). Salt the water quite generously, as you would for pasta, and add the cinnamon stick.
Tip in the mograbia and leave to come back to the boil. Turn the heat down slightly, then let it simmer merrily for ten for fifteen minutes, till al dente, rather as you would like pasta to be.
Remove the parsley leaves from their stalks and chop them quite finely. Stir them into the melted butter, adding pepper and a little grated lemon zest if you wish. Drain the mograbia, discard the cinnamon stick, then toss in the melted butter and parsley. Serve with the braised lamb above.
FEBRUARY 12
The perfect marriage of smoked fish and cream
I am not especially fond of cream in main courses, but there are a few dishes in this book – rabbit with tarragon, gurnard with potatoes, pork chops with pears, to pick randomly on three – where it features with good reason. Tarragon is often overwhelming without the calming notes of dairy produce; a dose of double cream brings the fish and potatoes together; the pork dish uses the cream to deglaze the pan, giving the dish a velvety texture. The cream is not essential but it has a clear purpose.
Tonight I make the most of the masterful marriage of smoked fish and cream. Cream and smoke produce a calm and gentle partnership, working in dish after dish.
Smoked haddock with potato and bacon
unsmoked streaky bacon: 6 rashers
rapeseed oil: 3 tablespoons
medium potatoes: 400g
smoked haddock fillets: 500g
double cream: 500ml
bay leaves: 2
black peppercorns: 6
finely chopped curly parsley: 2 tablespoons
Cut the bacon into pieces roughly the size of a postage stamp. Warm the oil in a non-stick frying pan and add the bacon pieces, letting them colour lightly.
Cut the potatoes, without peeling them, in 1cm-thick slices, then cut each slice into short pieces, like tiny chips. Tip them into the pan with the bacon and fry for about fifteen minutes, until golden and cooked right through.
Meanwhile, put the smoked haddock into a pan with the cream, bay leaves and peppercorns. Bring almost to the boil, then turn down the heat and simmer for fifteen minutes. Put the lid on and leave to infuse for five minutes or so.
Divide the potatoes and bacon between two warm plates, lift the haddock out of the cream and place a fillet on each plate. Stir the chopped parsley into the cream, then spoon it over the fish and serve.
Enough for 2
FEBRUARY 13
Sharing a pudding
Sharing comes naturally to me. It is, after all, at the heart of what I do. Writing down a recipe is a way of passing something you enjoy on to someone else. A gift, yes, but also a way to make a living. And whilst I like sharing plates of dim sum, tapas and boxes of chocolates (though I generally stop short of double-dipping), I find myself divided over the merits of sharing a pudding. Nothing makes my heart sink like a restaurant order of one pudding and four spoons. I have no wish to sound greedy but I would really rather everyone ordered their own.
At home, I can never make up my mind whether I prefer a large, dig-in type of pudding or an individual one. As much pleasure as can be had in doling out generous spoonfuls of trifle or steamed treacle pudding to a gathering of friends, family and assorted appetites, there is something rather delightful in having a tiny pudding all to oneself.
Today is cold and wet. A sponge-pudding kind of day. I make a cluster of little puddings with brown sugar and soft prunes that I soak in sherry. Baked not boiled, they turn out moist, caramel sweet, and cute and plump as cherubim. So much more charming than a whole one cut into portions.
Little prune puddings with caramel sauce
The accompanying brown sugar and cream sauce seems, at first, to taste rather sweet, but once it shares a spoon with the fruit pudding its inclusion is suddenly explained. I have used soft, ready-to-eat Agen prunes here but ready-to-eat dried apricots could be good too. I would suggest you use medium eggs rather than large ones, which may result in the mixture slightly bubbling over the top.
ready-to-eat Agen prunes: 10
medium-dry sherry: 2 tablespoons
butter: 120g
light muscovado sugar: 70g
caster sugar: 70g
