Blog Posts

Veal

26/8/2021

If the goal in summer is to spend as little time in the kitchen as possible, turn towards slow-cooked ingredients that release their richness after hours in the oven so you can release yourself for hours outside.

The pulses and legumes like dried beans and chickpeas so ubiquitous in the dishes of the Middle East make dependable summer fallbacks that can be set in motion the night before with a soak. But these can also be quite heavy to digest. Not that this is a drawback - in that part of the world there is great respect for the afternoon siesta if you’re serving them at lunch. For an evening meal, a slow-cooked meat might serve your digestion better.

Certain cuts are particularly handy at this time of year. American men, apron-clad, know the value of brisket, slapping it with secret sauces standing at the barbecue. The French know this with the pot-au-feu. The Italians know this with osso buco.

Osso buco is a slow-cooked Lombard speciality, usually served with risotto alla Milanese. The rice comes from the Piedmont, the area west of Lombardy, but the dish will shine if you only serve a salad and perhaps a bowl of potato puree.

The cut comes from across the shank, which gives you the chance to eat the bone marrow, an opportunity I encourage you not to avoid. Slather it over a slice of toasted tourte and sprinkle it with gremolata. This is the fine minching together of garlic, parsley and lemon zest that an osso buco is served with. It may make the main course of my last meal on earth, if I’m given any choice in the matter. I certainly won’t need my teeth for it - it’s so soft.

Veal rightly fell out of favour when we learned what inhumane tortures calves were subjected to. In order to achieve flesh as white as pork, they were confined to crates, often unable to stand.

But responsible farmers raising calves without cruelty produce a meat called ‘rosy’ veal.

It’s less likely that you’ll find this kind of veal at a supermarket. Instead, find a living, breathing butcher with whom you can discuss how theirs has been raised - not a question you can ask a cellophane package. Farmers’ markets are a reliable source.

In South-West France, farmers check on the health of the calf by looking first in their eyes, then in the intimate area exposed by raising their tails and spreading their buttock cheeks. Any red veins revealed at either end are an indication the calf has not been raised sous la mère (milk-fed), or possibly of sickness.

Ossobuco goes in the oven for 1½ hours, a bonus when you want to be out of the kitchen and with your friends.

Serves 4

Preheat the oven to 175C/350F

Flour for dredging the meat, seasoned with pepper only (salt will dry the meat out)
4 cuts of veal shin, 4.5cm thick
60ml cup olive oil
55g butter
2 medium onions, peeled and finely diced
2 stalks of celery, finely diced
2 small carrots, washed and finely diced
145ml white wine
2 tablespoons tomato paste
145ml stock
400g fresh tomatoes, blanched, skinned and chopped, or 1 400g can peeled tomatoes
1 large sprig fresh thyme
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Bunch of flat leaf parsley, stalks discarded
1 lemon, scrubbed
1 large clove garlic, peeled

Dredge the meat in the flour and shake off the excess. Brown the pieces in 3 tablespoons of oil. Set them in a pan you can put in the oven, close together to prevent the marrow from falling out.

Wipe out the frying pan. Add the remaining oil and the butter to gently saute the mirepoix of onions, celery and carrots till soft, about 15 minutes. Pour in the wine, scraping up the vegetable caramel.

Raise the heat and reduce till almost gone then stir in the tomato paste. Dilute with the stock, season, add the tomatoes and bring to the boil. Pour over the veal, add the thyme and cover tightly. Place in the oven to braise for 1 ½ hours.

Check during cooking the liquid hasn’t evaporated. Serve from the pan with the gremolata, made by finely chopping the parsley leaves, garlic and the zest of the lemon together, sprinkled over the top. Eat with risotto Milanese, polenta or pureed potatoes.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the August 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Cucumbers

25/7/2021

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Cucumbers drove my father to distraction. He was an accomplished kitchen gardener, proud of his tomatoes and beans, who made a ritual out of the picking of his sweetcorn, and created a fine and productive asparagus bed. But his cucumbers curled. It didn’t affect their taste. But to my father’s aesthetic standards, that vegetable comma signified failure.

It really wasn’t his fault. The condition is common enough to have its own name: crooking. It’s caused by any number of things, from pollination to poor growing conditions and pest interference. The situation was slightly improved when he began to plant these creeping vines not outside along the ground but in his glasshouse, in pots, to hang down heavily from stakes.

Curly or straight, their shape didn’t affect their flavour. Uniformly, his cucumbers were exceptionally cucumber-y, which was why, until recently, I loathed them.

What was the point of these watery vegetables - 95% water, indeed - that leaked all over a 1970s mixed salad. That water does contain electrolytes, however, which is useful if you’re dehydrated, and they do provide various nutrients.

But where they score, if you’re struggling to slither into your bathing attire, is they’re low in calories, fat, and cholesterol. Then, having laid too long in the sun, you can smother yourself in slices of cucumber to soothe the skin and reduce the inflammation and swelling. A taxing night on the tiles? Slices of cucumber laid over the eyes decrease morning-after puffiness.

For even more beauty applications, cucumber blended in a processor and sieved makes a natural toner, left on the skin for half an hour then rinsed, that can help clear the pores. Equal quantities of cucumber juice and yogurt makes a space back that helps dry skin.

So what of their qualities as a food?

They’ve a lovely crunch but an illusive flavour that some compare to the melon which is not such a stretch when you learn that the cucumber, being part of the same Cucurbitaceae family as the melon, is, in fact, a fruit. I prefer the melon. Left to ripen to yellow, cucumbers become unpleasantly bitter and are good for nothing, though there are some deluded people who consider them fit for soup in this state.

While cucumbers at their peak are a key component of gazpacho, left to feature on their own there’s not a lot to commend them. With, in my humble opinion, one exception: the cucumber sandwich.

Along with strawberries, in my family these signified summer. My father would very thinly slice a malted granary loaf and spread it with soft butter. He’d peel a cucumber and slice that as finely as he could, layering it over the buttered bread. Salt was sprinkled over before it was covered with another buttered slice of bread. Then he’d cut off the crusts, divide the sandwich in two and then into slender fingers.

Aside from grating a cucumber into Greek tzatziki with a generous tablespoon of finely chopped mint, those sandwiches were about the only way I could be bothered with cucumber.

Until recently, that is, when I discovered Smacked Cucumber Salad. It’s a Chinese dish, which is no surprise, given that cucumbers originate in South East Asia. But don’t let that stop you making this dish in south west France. It goes amazingly well with duck dishes, cutting the richness of the bird. It’s best made with those small courgette-length Middle Eastern cukes but a regular one is fine.

1 cucumber (about 300g)
½-1 tablespoon salt
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 tablespoons caster sugar
2 teaspoon soy sauce
4 tablespoons Chinese rice vinegar or red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon red chilli flakes or more to taste
2 tablespoons sesame oil

Slice the cucumber lengthways in half and lay the two halves cut side down on a board. Smack them hard along their length with a rolling pin or meat cleaver. Slice the halves diagonally into 1cm pieces.

Put the slices in a sieve or colander, toss with salt, and set above a bowl to exude their water for 20 minutes.

In a separate bowl, mix together the remaining ingredients. Shake the cucumber to eliminate any remaining liquid then decant into a serving bowl, pour over the sauce, mix thoroughly and serve at once.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the July 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Strawberry shortcake

23/6/2021

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We’re in the pink! It’s come around again, strawberry season. The Dordogne may lay claim to strawberries - understandably, given they’re accorded DOC status. But they were first bred in Brittany, in the 1750s. Up till then, wild strawberries were the common fruit.

It’s an ancient one. Roman literature mentions it in reference to medicinal application. What diseases they used it to cure isn’t known, but from the 1600s on, the entire plant was applied in the treatment of depression. It appears in 15th century illuminated manuscripts by European monks. It shows up in works of the same period by English minituarists and in paintings by Italian, Flemish and German artists. Charles V, who ruled France from 1364 to 1380, had 12000 strawberry plants in his royal garden. The gourmet who came up with the heavenly combination of strawberries and cream was an archbishop, Thomas Wolsey, cardinal of the Catholic Church, controller of the affairs of state of the English court of Henry VIII and eventually charged with treason, a regular habit of that monarch. Luckily for Wolsey, he died on his way back to London to answer the charges.

A common garden fruit, strawberries are, uncommonly, both masculine and feminine. The very first species was the wild woodland strawberry, Fragaria vesca. Originally, these male woodland strawberries were crossed with the male Fragaria virginiana from the state of Virginia in northeast America to cultivate a larger fruit than the wild variety.

F. virginiana is one of the two great New World ancestors without which we wouldn’t have the strawberry of today, and the many varieties found across south-west France. The other ancestor is the female Fragaria chiloensis, the beach strawberry, brought from Chile in 1714 by Amédée-François Frézier, French military engineer, mathematician, spy, and explorer, whose name is now theirs, albeit spelled differently. (This is for those of you who enjoy pop quizzes.)

The Mapuche and Huilliche Indians of Chile had been cultivating strawberries with female flowers, which is the plant the Europeans brought back to cross with their own fruit. They had little success, until the middle of the 18th century when gardeners around north west France noticed that when woodland strawberries and Virginian strawberries, both male, were planted in between rows of female Chilean strawberries, the latter would produce large and abundant fruits.

These days, though, it’s Fragaria x ananass with its scent of pineapple which is prime in cultivating species for commercial production - none of which you need to know for a pop quiz. But what might stump your competitors is the fact that the strawberry isn’t a berry at all. It’s what’s called ‘an aggregate accessory fruit’. You may have wondered, biting into one, why a strawberry’s seeds are on the exterior of the fruit, not inside. Each of those tiny seeds is not, in fact, a seed. It is one of the ovaries of the strawberry flower with a seed inside it. The fleshy part of the fruit is simpy a receptacle to hold these ovaries.

For your final pop quiz question: which, in a business where, in 2017, global production of strawberries was 9.2 million tonnes, is the world’s top producer of strawberries? Clue: it is not anywhere in Europe. It is - no surprise, really - China.

Strawberry shortcakes, generally considered an American classic, are originally British, great with a game of cricket and a jug of Pimms. Basically, they’re scones. So use your own recipe if you prefer.

Serves 4

400g strawberries, hulled and washed
30g+1 tablespoon caster sugar
85g+3 tablespoons cold butter
300g flour
¼ teaspoon fine salt
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
300ml thick cream for whipping
1 egg yolk, beaten with 1 tablespoon milk

Preheat oven to 220C.

Grease a baking sheet. Quarter the strawberries. Put a third into a bowl with 30g sugar and crush roughly with a fork. Fold the cut strawberries into the mush.

Sift flour into a mixing bowl, whisk in remaining sugar, salt and baking powder. Grate in cold butter then rub into the dry ingredients until it turns into coarse breadcrumbs. Stir in 160ml of the cream to form a soft dough, adding more if needed. Knead quickly until just smooth, tip onto a floured surface and roll to 5mm thick. With a 6cm cutter, cut out 8 rounds. Set half on the baking sheet, melt the 3 tablespoons of butter and brush the tops of the rounds with it then put other halves on top of them. Brush those with beaten egg, bake 20 minutes till risen and gold.

Pull them apart. Brush middles with any remaining butter. Set aside to cool on a rack.

Pour the cream into a large bowl and whip to soft peaks. Put a scoop of cream on four bottoms. Spoon the strawberry mush generously over each then lay the remaining scone halves on top and serve.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the June 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Asparagus

26/5/2021

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It’s interesting how much time we invest in growing grass to eat, when we spend a good deal of our weekends uprooting grass from borders where we prefer to see flowers. The grass in this case is asparagus, also known as sparrow grass.

It takes dedication to create an asparagus bed. They can be established from seed if you’re prepared to wait even longer than you have to when planting bare-root asparagus crowns. Any spears that appear from these must be zealously ignored for the first two years after planting. To pick them before will stunt future production. But once established, if properly tended, a single plant should produce 25 spears a year for the same number of years. My father devoted enough care and attention to his sparrow grass bed, as he called it, that our family of four feasted off it for most of June.

Asparagus is unusual in that it is its own genus, although it used to be classified as a member of the lily family. Found across Europe and western Asia, it’s an ancient flowering plant, featured as an offering in an Egyptian frieze dating back to 3000BC.

Emperor Augustus (63BC to AD14) even created the Asparagus Fleet to transport the delicacy. He came up with “Faster than cooking asparagus”, as an expression for speed. What the ancient Greeks and Romans didn’t eat fresh in spring, they used to dry for winter. Those who lived in the high Alps even froze the spears, for serving in January at the Feast of Epicurus. A recipe for asparagus can be found in the third edition of one of the oldest cookbooks, Apicius’s De re Coquinaria, published in 3BC.

It isn’t just valued as a vegetable. Eaters of asparagus will be familiar with its diuretic powers. But it’s respected for other medicinal properties. It’s described as a prebiotic for its ability to boost good bacteria in the digestive system. It’s also thought that its fibre and flavonoid compounds may ease hangovers and reduce liver damage caused by alcohol. Cooked, its regulatory characteristics are thought to help with ulcerative colitis. Not only that, it’s cited in 15th century Arab sex manual ‘The Perfumed Garden’ as an aphrodisiac. No other than Madame de Pompadour (1721-1764) relished being fed what were called points d'amour.

I agree with her. It’s such a treat, a serving turns me into putty.

It used to be that it was only steamed, boiled or blanched for serving warm with melted butter or cold with vinaigrette. Contemporary recipes offer it baked under sauces, grilled and roasted, raw and pickled. But I still think the original French versions that leave it barely messed with are the best.

However, if your asparagus bed has produced only a handful of spears, here’s a recipe for Asparagus Risotto that makes the most of them.

200g asparagus (about 200g)
800ml vegetable stock
1 tbsp olive oil
60g butter
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
175g Carnaroli or Arborio risotto rice
100ml white wine or vermouth (optional)
30g parmesan, finely grated

Bend the asparagus stalks till the tough ends snap off. Put them into a saucepan with the stock to flavour it. Simmer gently over low heat. Slice the tips off the asparagus and blanch in the stock for 1 minute only. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside. Finely slice the remaining stalks diagonally into rounds.

Heat the oil and half the butter in a heavy saute pan over low heat. Soften the shallot 5 mins, stirring often. Raise the heat to medium. Add the chopped asparagus stalks and toss 2 minutes more. Add the rice and stir continuously for a few minutes until it turns semi-transparent.

Pour in the wine and let it almost evaporate. Reduce the heat to low. Add the stock, a ladleful at a time, stirring between each addition until it is absorbed, about 15 mins, till the rice is only just cooked and retaining a slight bite. If you need more liquid, add boiling water. Stir in the asparagus tips and stock to loosen if needed. The risotto should be soupy, not dry. Remove from the heat and fold in the remaining butter and the parmesan. Season to taste. Serve straight away with more parmesan in a separate bowl.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the May 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Truffles

18/4/2021

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I have a confession to make which I probably shouldn’t. I don’t get the point of truffles. It seems to me their texture and flavour is not unlike eating pencil shavings imbued with the scent of unwashed socks.

I’ve been lucky enough to have been generously fed the Dordogne’s black Tuber melanosporum known as the ‘black diamond’ more than once, shaved generously over an omelette of eggs warm from the chicken coop. But with the exception of the renowned Creme Brulee aux Truffes of the Michelin-starred Vieux Logis in Tremolat, the truffle experience doesn’t seem to have rubbed off.

Until I was put in front of a dish of Italian white truffle pasta.

North Italian Tuber magnatum pico from Alba are the world’s rarest and the most expensive of the more than 100 varieties of the tuber. They sell for between €1800 and €4000 for 500g. But with global demand outstripping a supply now reduced to only a few tens of tonnes, they can go at auction for as much as €60,000 per kilo.

In 2017, a set of white Alba truffles weighing just shy of 1kg sold for more than €85,000. That’s only €4000 less than the basic price of a 2018 Mercedes Benz S-Class sedan.

The sad reason for the rocketing prices is that truffles are dying out.

Gnarled fungi believed by Plutarch to result from a combination of lightning, warmth and water in the soil, they are as old in origin as they look. Acknowledgement of their existence goes back as far as 20BC, when they were mentioned in neo-Sumerian inscriptions critiquing the eating habits of their enemy, the Amorites.

In the Dordogne only a century ago, hundreds of tonnes of black truffles were collected each season. These days, the region only manages fewer than ten tonnes, which explains their exorbitant price, despite being a lesser variety than white Italian truffles.

Part of the reason for their savage reduction in number is the changing climate. French truffle growers depend on storms and humidity during August to develop the truffles. But the month has become a series of long dry weeks. As a result, a kilo of fusty-smelling subterranean lumps will fetch, at the cheaper end, around €4,000.

When the mature truffles come up for sale at the Dordogne’s January markets, good tubers weighing roughly 100g apiece can cost as much as €10,000 a kilo.

This is why your Petit Soufflé aux Truffes Noires, or whatever other exotic tuber-scented dish is on offer at your local Michelin-starred restaurant, is so very expensive.

Truffle production in Italy has also been in radical decline, forced by an alteration in land use and the resulting loss of wild habitat and the oak, hornbeam, poplar and willow trees growing on it among whose roots the tubers nestle, waiting for trained dogs and pigs to snout them out.

But in February came news which should delight truffle enthusiasts or aspirants.

France's National Research Institute for Agriculture, Food and Environment (INRAE) has spent the past nine years with a truffle grower, Robin Pépinières, trying to cultivate white truffles in orchards across France in regions with differing climates. At last it reported successful results.

The scheme goes back to the 1970s, when French truffle growers developed techniques that delivered nutrients to encourage fungi to produce vegetative filaments which become truffles. These techniques now account for 90% of French black truffle cultivation.

Applying these to Italian white truffle cultivation, they have just managed for the very first time to harvest white truffles in the Rhône-Alpes, Bourgogne Franche Comté, and Nouvelle Aquitaine.
Black diamonds better watch out. And the rest of us may soon be able to eat white truffles affordably.

Until then, buy a less expensive black truffle from the Dordogne, or a jar of their shavings. Even a small amount of them will go a long way, across several celebratory, transforming, meals. Shave them over an Easter omelette of the best eggs you can buy. Or make this luxurious pasta dish.

Serves 4

150g butter
100ml stock
400g/ fresh tagliatelle
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
30g truffle, shaved

In a pan over low heat, melt the butter in the stock then whisk to amalgamate into a sauce. Set aside.

Bring a pan of salted water to a boil, add the taglietelle and cook for 3-4 minutes till al dente - more chewy than you think right. Drain and toss with the butter and stock and season to taste.

Divide into warmed bowls and shave the truffle over each.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the April 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Avocados

18/3/2021

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Every effort is made to keep this column local. But it’s March. I defy you to come up with anything cheery to eat in March that you haven’t been eating since November. Animals are more sensible than humans - they recognise there’s little to keep us satisfied until April heralds fresh spring produce, so they may as well sleep.

I’m thinking a disquisition on the avocado might do the spirit-raising trick, since, in Europe, they still come into the ‘treat’ category of food.

The avocado has had an extraordinary rise in popularity, particularly among people young enough to look good wearing yoga clothing or tracksuits. These are the same people who have been responsible in the UK for a rise in visits to A&E departments at hospitals with stab wounds in their palms, the result of being unaware of the trick to removing an avocado’s stone safely. That stone which, incidentally, qualifies the avocado as a berry.

British supermarkets Marks & Spencer and Sainsburys both claim to have been the first to sell the avocado, in the 1960s. But evidence of them being eaten goes back, in Central America, to around 10,000BC. How it has survived so many centuries before man became a farmer is a puzzle. Fruits and vegetables are generally propagated by the animals who eat them excreting their pips and seeds. Have you considered the size of that avocado stone?

At more than 34% of the market, Mexico is still the main provider of the āhuacatl, a Nahuatl word that also means testicle. But it’s also grown further south, across the Caribbean, in California, and more recently in Israel and round the Mediterranean basin.

The first person to give it the name ‘avocado’ was the 17th century physician and naturalist, Hans Sloane, who referenced it in a 1696 index of Jamaican plants. But a Spanish conquistador, Fernández de Oviedo, is said to have been the first European to have actually eaten it. ‘A paste similar to butter,’ he said, ‘and of very good taste.’

While Mexicans ate them with great regularity, California farmers who had planted groves in the 1900s found it hard to popularise an unfamiliar vegetable with an unpronounceable name and reverted to ‘avocado.’ Sales remained modest, with an annual consumption per capita in 1989 of 0.5kg until the California Avocado Commission hired a PR firm in the 1990s to promote them. With the goal of benefitting from TVs top sofa-snack guzzling sports event, the Super Bowl, it came up with the Guacamole Bowl, getting NFL players to share their favourite guacamole recipes, even if they may not have eaten any before Hill & Knowlton encouraged them to do so.

US sales rocketed by almost 70%. Now, every Super Bowl Sunday, more than 45 million kilos of avocados are sold. During the year, Americans eat more than 3kg each. It was Gwyneth Paltrow who repositioned the avocado from couch potato dip to metrosexual breakfast, with her recipe in her 2013 ‘clean eating’ cookbook, ‘It’s All Good’, for avocado on toast - one of her less bonkers developments. In the UK, avocados have had the third largest sales increase of any grocery item.

Here is an excellent recipe for guacamole for any time of year. It comes from Central Mexico and the research of the doyenne of Mexican cuisine, Diana Kennedy.

4 tablespoons finely chopped fresh coriander
1 to 2 serrano chilis, stemmed and finely chopped, depending on how much heat you like
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion
Sea salt
3 ripe avocados, halved and pitted
285g grape or cherry tomatoes, finely chopped
Tortilla chips, to serve

In a bowl, combine 2 tablespoons of the coriander, the chilies, onion, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Mash the mix with the bottom of a dry tea cup until a rough paste forms, about one minute.

Scoop the avocado flesh into the bowl and coarsely mash with a potato masher or fork. Stir in the coriander paste and half the tomatoes until combined. Taste and season with salt to taste.

Transfer to a serving bowl and sprinkle with the remaining coriander and tomatoes and serve with nachos or tortilla chips to dip.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the March 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Spelt

18/2/2021

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It’s odd that we assign the celebration of love to St Valentine’s Day given that, on two separate years in 3rd century AD, Emperor Claudius II used February 14th to execute two men. An aversion to their names, perhaps? Both were called Valentine.

Why or when the Roman Catholic Church elected to honour them isn’t clear. The day fell in the middle of the feast of Lupercalia, during which Romans sacrificed a goat and a dog. They then whipped off their clothes and subsequently went about whipping women - with strips of the animals’ skins. Apparently the women lined up for this honour, believing it would make them fertile.

There was also a matchmaking lottery, with their names dropped into a receptacle for the men to draw one out. The lucky women would be paired up with them for a romp to last at least the duration of the three-day festival and for life if they had found a suitable match.

I don’t feel any of this is anything to be celebrated with chocolate.

I am going for the other and entirely opposite February event. The word February comes from ‘februum’, meaning purification, and ‘februa’, the descriptive for the various cleansing rites and instruments put into play to prepare for the coming of Spring.

Throughout the month, spelt and salt were used to clean houses. On the festival of the Lupercalia, February 15th, priests donned leaves and strips of goat skin. Thus dressed, they would streak around the sacred boundary of Rome, in this ‘februum’ version to purify the city. They too, in a playful fashion, would whip young maidens with goat hide strips along the way.

Decide for yourselves how playful an event this must have been while I deal with spelt.

Greek mythology has it that spelt was a gift from Demeter, the goddess of agriculture and at one and the same time the sister and the consort of the god of gods, Zeus. (It is amazing what behaviour the ancients considered normal.)

I have a soft spot for spelt because it’s also called dinkel wheat, which is rather charming. It’s one of the most ancient cereals, with evidence of its cultivation north east of the Black Sea going back as far as 5000BC. By 500BC, it was a common crop in southern Britain.

Recently, it has been enjoying a revival, being a cheap staple food filled with nutrients and often used in posh breads and pasta as a substitute for wheat. It’s thrumming with vitamins, nutrients and minerals.

But despite its dubious background, February is the month of romance, so probably none of this information is uplifting you. Therefore I capitulate and offer you a bundt cake for Valentine’s - or any other - Day, based on spelt but containing chocolate, though only in cocoa powder form. So you might consider drizzling some melted 70% chocolate over all instead of the icing sugar.

3 large eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
¾ tsp hazelnut extract
250g/8ozs caster sugar
250 ml sunflower oil
250g/8ozs white spelt flour
125g/4ozs spelt wholemeal
1 ½ tsp baking powder
2 tbls good quality cocoa powder
2 tbls plain yoghurt

Preheat oven to 180C

Butter and flour a 23cm diameter, 2 litre Bundt pan.

Beat eggs, vanilla and hazelnut extract and sugar in electric mixer until tripled in volume – 4-5 minutes. Add oil slowly in a steady stream with a few pauses until it is all incorporated. The batter will be fairly thick.

Sift flours, baking powder into a large bowl. Mix thoroughly with a hand whisk. Fold into batter with a large whisk or wooden spoon.

Divide the mixture in half into another bowl. To this bowl, add the cocoa powder and the yoghurt, and fold together.

Using a tablespoon, spoon 3 tablespoons of the cocoa batter to form a triangle in the Bundt tin. Between these spoon in the plain batter. Using a knife of dessertspoon, swirl the two batters together. Repeat the process on top of this using all of both batters, and swirl again. Put in pre-heated oven on middle shelf and cook for 35 – 40 minutes. Check with a wooden skewer and if still moist, bake an extra 5 minutes maximum, but no longer to avoid drying out.

Wait 10 minutes before turning cake out onto cooling rack. Let it cool thoroughly.

When cold, dust with icing sugar.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the February 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Onion soup

18/1/2021

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If there’s any single ingredient it would be a challenge to produce a well-flavoured dish without, it’s the onion. I can vouch for this first hand. In the years I lived in Moscow, the onion would disappear in October, to reappear as a new crop only in May. Almost six months without them! Until November, sometimes random piles of onions would show in the markets. But pick any of them up and it would subside into an evil-smelling slump between the fingers, only restrained by their skins from oozing into your palm.

Not for nothing are they the third vital element in the holy trinity of carrot and celery in a mirepoix or sofrito. They are key to the flavour foundation of every dish to which they are assigned. To test, look through your cookbooks and see if you can find any recipes (aside from those for puddings and pastries) in any cuisine that doesn’t call for an onion, or one or more of the most common of its close relations, the shallot, leek, garlic bulb, spring onion or chive.

Each of them is part of the Allium family, one of the oldest species of vegetable. Iran, Central Asian nations and India all claim to have been the first to cultivate it, over 7000 years ago, and traces have been found in Bronze Age settlements in China. It turned out the Plymouth Brethren needn’t shipped it to America - Native Americans were already growing it.

Every year, at Village Fetes across Britain, smallholders vie to win the red rosette for the largest onion. So far, the record goes to Tony Glover, whose entry to the Harrogate Autumn Flower Show in 2014 weighed 8.5kg. Perfect for a witches’ cauldron of onion soup.

And onion soup is the ideal soup for this chilly, damp and dour time of year. Its cooking infuses the entire house with an, at first, unwashed stink but one that quickly mellows into a warm, caramel-ly smell, full of comforting promise. Slow, low-heated cooking in butter encourages the onion to collapse and its sugars to develop. It’s only an olfactory challenge up to the point it reaches this stage, from that painful exposure that makes your eyes sting (which can be slightly mitigated by holding them under water as you peel their skins), to chopping them - with your head held as far back as you can to evade their fumes. Nigel Slater has a recipe that avoids this agony by roasting the onions until collapsed, then chopping them and boiling them, first in wine then in stock, to create the soup.

I prefer the Paris bistro method, made a day or two ahead and reheated so that the flavours become even more mellow.

Serves 4 or 6

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, 2 tablespoons of it cubed and chilled
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1.5kg onions, halved lengthwise, peeled, and thinly sliced
1 teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper
½ tablespoon granulated sugar
350ml dry white wine
1.5 litres beef stock
10 sprigs fresh thyme, tied together
2 bay leaves
1 baguette
1 large garlic clove, unpeeled and cut in half crosswise
2 tablespoons Cognac
150g Gruyère, grated

In a large pot, melt 3 tablespoons butter over medium heat. Add the oil and onions. Saute the onions until soft, stirring occasionally, 15-20 minutes then add the salt, pepper and sugar and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions are caramelised to a deep golden brown. If the onions begin to catch and brown too fast, reduce the heat. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, 35 to 45 minutes more.

Add the wine and raise the heat to high. Cook until almost all liquid has evaporated, 8 to 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Add the stock and the herbs to the pot. Bring slowly to a boil, reduce to a simmer then cook, uncovered until the soup has thickened a little, 20 to 30 minutes.

Remove from the heat and whisk in the remaining cubes of butter. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.

Heat the grill. Slice the baguette into two slices per person. Toast them until gold on each side. Rub one side of each toast with the garlic clove and set aside.

Put warmed heatproof bowls into a roasting pan, add half a tablespoon of brandy to the bottom of each, and ladle soup on top. Top each serving of soup with two garlic-rubbed toasts. Divide cheese among the servings, covering the bread and soup surface. Slide the pan under the grill until the cheese is melted and bubbling, 4 to 8 minutes. Alternatively, and if you have diners who don’t like soggy toast, top each garlic-rubbed toast with some cheese and grill them separately, for passing separately from the soup.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the January 2021 edition of The Bugle.

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Quince

18/12/2020

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Given the dispiriting status of Christmas this year, it feels unseemly to provide a jolly discourse on preparing jubilant food to celebrate the coming together of loved ones, perhaps not seen for a while. It’s very possible that will not be permitted.

Nevertheless, we can’t sink entirely into a slough of despond. What is needed is some cheer that will run all the way through the coming season, something to introduce joy in the simplest of fashions without any fuss.

I offer you the quince.

These begin to appear in the shops in late October, a lime-coloured pear-shaped fruit covered in a pale grey fur. But they should be at their best now, having been given time to mature to a sunny yellow.

Unlike pears - which come from the same Cydonia family - you can’t eat them raw. And, unlike pears, you can’t bite into them. You’ll need to axe them open with a meat cleaver.

So what do they offer on the positive side? Colour and flavour and history. Cooked, their flesh turns from white to a delicate coral pink, giving off a strong flowery scent reminiscent of roses, of which the quince is a relation. Its flavour is delicate, almost illusive, reminiscent of apples (also a member of the same family).

But its most romantic attribute is that it is believed to have been that second most famous apple, the one which Paris gave to Aphrodite and which triggered the Trojan War.

Now common across Europe, quince trees originate in eastern Asia, thriving on rocky slopes in Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Georgia, and further east. Almost ornamental in shape and producing beautiful, quite prominent, pink or white spring blossoms, they make a far greater impact in landscape gardening than other more mundane fruit trees.

Cooked, unpeeled, in slices, their flavour marries well with game dishes, from a wild boar stew to a roast partridge or similar bird. Where it scores, however, is as a jelly more subtle than redcurrant jelly for Sunday roasts or spooning over plain breakfast yogurt, and far more exquisite in colour. The fruit is rich in pectin, so even if you’ve never made jam or jelly before, this recipe won’t fail to set. And, if we are free to celebrate Christmas with others, it fills a jar with a jewel-like clear coral pink jelly to lift flagging spirits and give as a present.

There are some pointers to adhere to. If you overcook the fruit, the jelly’s delicate flavour will be lost, so keep the fruit at a simmer. Under no circumstances touch or squeeze the jelly bag while the juice is being strained or you will produce a cloudy jelly. Don’t necessarily throw away the fruit pulp - you can use it to make membrillo, the Spanish fruit paste so delicious with a hard goats’ or sheep’s cheese.

1.7 kg quinces
2 litres water
granulated sugar, not preserving sugar - quinces contain enough pectin

Wash the quinces, and cut into 2.5cm chunks, only throwing away the stalk.

Add them with the water to a large saucepan and heat until simmering. Cook until the fruit turns soft, about 30 minutes. Mash into a pulp with a potato masher or a stiff whisk.

Spoon the mixture into a jelly bag suspended over a bowl. If you don’t own one, line a colander with muslin and pour the contents of the saucepan carefully into it, to drain into a bowl.

Leave overnight or 8-12 hours for all the juice to drain through.

Set jam jars in a roasting tray and place in a 140°C oven to sterilise.

Weigh the juice and pour back into the cleaned out saucepan. Add to it 75% of the juice’s weight in granulated sugar and heat gently to dissolve the sugar, stirring all the time, then turn the heat up high to rolling-boil the jelly.

To test if the jelly is ready set without a thermometer, put a saucer in a freezer and once chilled, drop a teaspoon of jelly on it and draw a finger through it. If the jelly wrinkles, it is set. Alternatively, pour a little iced water into a saucer and drop a little jelly into it. If it solidifies, it’s ready.

Remove the saucepan from the heat and ladle the jelly into a heatproof jug. Keeping the jamjars in the roasting pan in case one should shatter with the heat (unlikely, but it makes sense to take precautions to prevent a jelly lake on your counter), pour in the jelly and close the jars.

It’s not necessary to make the jelly immediately after cooking it - it can hold for a few days in the fridge, or longer in the freezer.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the December 2020 edition of The Bugle.

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Lentils

27/11/2020

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There’s something comforting about lentils. They may look like the tiny pebbles that emerge from a pilgrim’s shoe after a long slog to Santiago de Compostela. But a good lentil will soothe a troubled soul just as much as receipt of the compostela certificate from the Pilgrims Office that proves you’ve walked the last 100 kilometres to St James’s tomb. (Or 200 if completing on a bicycle).

The world’s oldest cultivated legume, lentils have sustained the morale and well-being of nations from Ireland to India and beyond for aeons. Stuffed with fibre, they’re a cheap source of protein, along with some potassium and vitamin B and minerals. Added to which, they cook quickly, most particularly the red ones, so are economical with fuel. With sources for sustainable, animal-kind food diminishing, and the quality of the nourishment from our field-grown produce diminishing too, we should turn more to legumes and pulses for our food.

There are four general kinds of lentil - red, yellow, green and brown. The two former are most common to the kitchens of the Indian subcontinent. Stewed with garlic, ginger, and various spices and flavourings, red and yellow lentils are transformed into an abundance of different dhals, scooped up with chapatis or naan and eaten with a variety of vegetable curries or as a side dish to meat.

Green and brown lentils are the more common lentils in European cuisine, although in Britain, yellow lentils made from split peas (so more correctly ‘peas’), are a quintessential part of the ham hock-and-lentil winter soup inspired by ‘snert’, the ham and dried green peas soup traditional in the Netherlands. In both these soups, it’s acceptable, though not authentic, to substitute the dried peas with lentils they resemble.

Green lentils hold their shape better than red or yellow lentils and have a more pronounced, earthy, flavour that doesn’t need spicing up, only propping up with a ‘mirepoix’ flavour foundation. This makes them more generally able to stand up to becoming a salad without turning into mush and become side dishes with a bit of bite.

Green lentils are cultivated widely across Europe, Asia and North Africa. But the very best of them, and almost blue in colour, are the smaller Lentilles de Puy, grown in France. These are so respected, they have their own Protected Designation of Origin, used to confirm that only these lentils carrying the label come from the prefecture of Le Puy in the Auvergne region. They’ve been grown there for over 2000 years. It’s the area’s volcanic soil that is said to give them their unique peppery flavour.

(Before you reach to write to the editor, yes, there also exists the black lentil, named Beluga after the caviare. But while it, too, is highly revered and equally ancient, it isn’t in fact a lentil at all. It’s an urad bean, grown in South Asia. It’s sold whole, but when it’s split, it’s known as the white lentil after its creamy interior.)

Back to the Lentilles de Puys: they marry so well with so many soothing anti-winter dishes, you should stock up with boxes of them. Sausages are twice as good with a stew of Lentilles de Puy. Pork, roasted or grilled as chops, are undressed without a dish of them alongside.

The secret is in what you cook them with, to elevate their glory. The list should include a mirepoix of onion, garlic, carrots and celery, all neatly and finely diced. It might include lardons for added smokiness, into whose fat you soften the previous ingredients. A bay leaf and a good strong stock is then added to cover the lentils, which are stewed over a gentle heat with a saucepan lid on a slant, (more liquid added if they are drying out), until they are cooked through. Then, before serving as a side dish, throw in a small glass of Cognac and stir. For a warm winter salad, omit the Cognac and make a mustardy vinaigrette, then pile the lentils onto a platter lined with leaves of lettuce or mache.

If you remove half of lentils and blitz them to a puree then pour them back into the pan with the whole lentils - adding more stock or water if it needs a little thinning - and you have made a satisfying soup you can dress with garlicky croutons.

If you add left-over lentils to a quantity of mashed potato, roll them into balls and then into a little flour or breadcrumbs and gently fry them, you’ve made a croquette that British grandmothers might have called a rissole.

Lentils - the foundation of a cuddly winter.

This column written by Julia Watson originally appeared in the November 2020 edition of The Bugle.

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