Following a request from reader Marianna Paulson, here is the recipe for courgette fritters found in The Resistance Man. They are equally delicious when made with aubergine.

It's an unorthodox batter recipe, as it originally comes from Greek peasants, not home chefs with aspirations to fling in eggs, beer, yeast, etc., all of which are expensive and unnecessary.

Once you have sliced as many courgettes as you want to serve, pour an amount of flour you judge to be enough to coat the number of fritters into a big mixing bowl. Take a fork and put the bowl under a slowly running tap of cold water. Begin beating to incorporate the water into the flour and beat out any lumps. As soon as the batter becomes the consistency of double cream, it's ready. 

If your double cream is less thick than that found in Britain (its butter fat content in most of the rest of the world is much lower than that of British double cream) and it doesn't stick to the slices, just sprinkle a spoonful more flour and beat in until it does stick. If it's so thick it's difficult to move the slices around in it, just add more water. 

Fry the fritters in small batches until golden on both sides, then set on paper towel to absorb the excess oil. Scatter a decent pinch of sea salt over the fritters before serving with aillou.

As a vegetable, chicory - also known as endive - is rather intriguing. The pale leaves are the result of a two-stage growth process, which sees the harvested plants discarded and the roots dug up. The roots are then kept in storage before the time comes to move them to a darkened 'forcing room', where the endives mature.

A short walk around the local markets reveals stalls bursting with endive. The bitter leaves are wonderful in a summer salad with a mix of greens, some shaved fennel, and cubes of avocado, but it's a vegetable that responds very well to braising.

For those who have been put off by chicory's bitter reputation, gently cooking the heads with sweet honey and acidic citrus transform the flavours into something altogether softer, more likely to convert.

You can serve this chicory recipe with all manner of meats, from roasted chicken to grilled pork, but it works particularly well with aiguilettes de canard au miel, a Perigord favourite. The natural bitterness of the chicory offsets the honey in both dishes, and the result is a meal you don't need a sweet tooth to enjoy. Follow this with a sharp green salad and a plate of cheese and you will be eating like a local.

Honey and orange braised chicory

• 1 chicory head per person 
  
• 1 tbsp olive oil per 4 heads of chicory
  
• 1 tbsp honey per 4 heads of chicory
  
• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves per 4 heads of chicory
  
• the juice and zest of half an orange per 4 heads of chicory
  
• salt and freshly ground black pepper 
  

1. Pre-heat oven to 180C, then prepare the chicory by trimming the root end before slicing each head in half lengthways.
2. Mix all of the remaining ingredients to make the dressing, and place the chicory face-down in an ovenproof dish. Cover with the dressing and season.
3. Roast for around an hour, turning and basting the chicory at 15-minute intervals. It is ready when the liquid has cooked down to a thick, sticky syrup and the chicory has caramelised.

It may say April on the calendar, but it doesn't feel very spring-like at the moment. Friends in England are reporting snow and Arctic winds, despite their calendars reading 'British Summer Time'.

By this point in the year I find myself craving fresh vegetables, my body crying out for food that reminds me of the summer to come. But this year I have had to find other ways of beefing up my salads - green leaves don't offer any psychological comfort when it's cold outside.

Which is why I have taken to eating my greens mixed with roasted beetroot and crumbled goats' cheese, a substantial meal that still has a feeling of freshness, not stodge.

Roasted beetroot and goats' cheese salad

• 1 small raw beetroot 
• 250g creamy goats' cheese, crumbled
  
• 4 blood oranges, peeled and finely sliced 
  
• mixed salad leaves
  
• 75g hazelnuts, halved and toasted
  
• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar 
• Dijon mustard to taste
  
• 5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil 
  
• ¼ tsp runny honey
  

1. Preheat oven to 190°C.
2. Trim the beetroot and coat it in olive oil, salt, and pepper before wrapping loosely in tinfoil. Roast for around 40 minutes, but until the beetroot is tender.
3. To speed cooling, plunge the roasted beetroot into a bowl of iced water. Once cooled, peel and quarter.
4. Whisk together the vinegar, mustard, olive oil, and honey, then season to taste. Toss the salad leaves, sliced oranges, and nuts with the dressing, before topping with the roasted beetroot and crumbled goats' cheese.
5. Serve with hunks of crusty bread.

It's been a chilly start to the year, and sometimes all I want for supper is something easy that I can eat as I read in front of the fire.

This morning was market day in one of the local villages, and as I stocked up on bits and pieces for the weekend ahead, my eye was caught by the stall selling fresh cabécous, a type of local goats' cheese. My wife is passionate about the sharp cheeses, and would eat them by the handful if she could, but I usually prefer the Tomme d'Audrix made by my neighbour.

Today, however, with some eggs and potatoes to use up, the cabécous were perfect for a latke-inspired meal.

4 cabécous (any semi-firm goats' cheese will do in a pinch)
4 large potatoes
2 egg yolks
a bunch of fresh basil
salt and freshly ground pepper
1 tbsp olive oil
a pinch of fennel seed

1. Peel, wash and grate the potatoes. Mix with the egg yolks.
2. Finely chop 8 - 10 basil leaves and add to the potatoes. Season and mix well.
3. Form the mixture into 4 ‘cakes'. Heat the oil in a frying pan, then fry the cakes for 5 minutes on each side. Place on absorbent kitchen roll.
4. Place potato cakes on the grill pan, and top each with a Cabécou du Périgord goat's cheese. Grill until the cheese is lightly golden.

Serve garnished with the remaining basil and the fennel seeds.

Recipe via www.frenchgoatscheese.com.

It's becoming autumnal, and while the days are still warm the evenings are cool enough that my thoughts turn to stews, roasts, soups, and all the comforts of winter. One of my daughter's favourite recipes is perfect for this time of year, in that it's wintery comfort food paired with the bread and green salad of summer. 

While heaping piles of cream, cheese, breadcrumbs, and garlic could hardly be called healthy, there's nothing wrong with occasionally throwing caution to the wind and using hunks of bread to mop up a creamy, garlicky, breadcumb-laden sauce. And that's where this simple to make leek and celeriac dauphinoise comes in handy. 

half a bulb of garlic
1 celeriac
4 or 5 medium leeks
600 ml single cream
2 or 3 generous handfuls of breadcrumbs
2 or 3 generous handfuls of cheese
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
crusty bread and green salad
wholegrain mustard (optional)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 220° C.
2. Using a mandolin if possible, or your sharpest knife if not, thinly slice the celeriac and the garlic. Chop the leeks into 2cm rounds.
3. In a deep baking dish, layer the celeriac. After each layer, scatter with garlic and leeks, and cover with cream. Season between each layer with salt and pepper. Repeat until you have run out of ingredients. You can dab small spoonfuls of wholegrain mustard between the layers to cut the richness.
4. Make sure the top layer of celeriac has been covered with cream, then scatter the cheese and breadcrumbs on top before seasoning with a final round of salt and pepper. Bake for around an hour, until the top is golden, a sharp knife can cut through the celeriac with ease, and the cream is bubbling away merrily.

Serve with huge chunks of crusty bread and a pile of green salad.

While it's cold and grey in England, the Perigord is still experiencing summer. The nights are now cold enough that fans are no longer a necessity, and blankets are slowly returning to beds that were draped in little more than a sheet all summer, but at meal times it's still nearly too hot to eat. Nearly. In such circumstances, there's only one thing for it - a substantial and filling salad. The local specialty features gesiers de canard, and is the perfect recipe to dust off for dinner at this time of year. The recipe below (from TraditionalFrenchFood.com) shows Salade Périgourdine at its most basic. If you're feeling flush, you can add slices of foie gras, or bits of duck confit, to make it a show-off meal.

2 crisp and crunchy lettuces
walnut oil
cooked or preserved duck giblets (gesiers de canard) sliced
50g or 2oz of bread cut into small cubes
125g or 4oz of shelled, chopped walnuts
a splash of wine vinegar

1. Wash and break up the lettuce, put into a salad bowl in readiness.
2. Put some of the walnut oil into a frying pan and fry the giblets for 2-3 mins.
3. Add the bread cubes and fry till crunchy and golden.
4. Add the walnuts and turn up the heat for a few seconds.
5 Add a splash of wine vinegar and stir the mixture together.
6. Pour the hot mixture over the lettuce and serve.

Serves 4-6 people.

When I got home last night, it was so hot I could feel the heat of the earth through the soles of my shoes. We're in the middle of a canecule, which is what the French call a heatwave on steroids. 

But despite the weather making most food unappealing, you've still got to eat. I made it home too late to be able to buy anything at the locals shops or supermarkets, and so had to look at the garden and chicken coop for inspiration. 

Fortunately, we had both leeks and eggs, which inspired me to cook one of my daughter's favourite lazy-day recipes. This recipe comes from Orangette, one of the best - and best-known - food blogs on the internet. My daughter swears by it, and has been trying to convince me to read the archives.

2-3 tbsps white wine vinegar 
1-2 tsps Dijon mustard 
¼ tsp salt, or more to taste 
6 tbsp olive oil 
1 small to medium shallot, minced 
2 lb. small leeks - about 7 or 8 

Optional garnishes
Finely chopped bacon 
Finely chopped hard-boiled egg 

1. In a small bowl, whisk together 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar, 1 teaspoon mustard, and salt. Gradually whisk in the olive oil, mixing until emulsified. Taste. This dressing should be fairly bright, and the mustard flavor should come through, but not too powerfully. Adjust as needed with vinegar, mustard, and/or salt. When you’re happy with it, add the shallots, whisking to blend. Set aside. Be sure to taste it again later, just before tossing it with the leeks, so that if necessary, you can adjust it according to their flavor. 
2. Lay a clean kitchen towel on the counter near the stove. 
3. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and salt it well. It should taste like sea water. 
While the water comes to a boil, prepare the leeks. Trim away the hair-like roots, but take care not too cut in too far; you want the leek to stay intact. Cut off and discard the dark green leafy parts, leaving just the white and pale green stalk. Starting about 1 inch from the root end, so as to keep the white part intact, cut lengthwise down the middle of the leek. (If you were to splay the cut leek open, it should look like a stubby Y.) Wash the leeks well under running water, flushing any dirt from between the layers. 
4. Boil until they are very, very tender and yield easily to a knife. Their color will become muted, and they may be falling apart a little. That’s okay. To be sure they’re done, taste one: it should taste sweet, with no trace of raw flavor. The amount of time that this will take depends on their size, but it will probably take longer than you think. Ten minutes is a good bet. 
5. Draining the leeks as well as you can, transfer them to the kitchen towel on the counter. Blot and press them dry. (Don’t burn yourself!) 
6. While they’re still hot, put them in a bowl, and toss them with a generous amount of the dressing. Allow to cool at least slightly before serving. 
7. Serve warm or at room temperature, with more dressing spooned on top and a pinch or two of salt. If you want to make it a little fancier, garnish with bacon and/or chopped egg.

Last night, at yet another neighbourhood feast, my neighbour showed me the cookbook she used at school in the 1950s. The pages are spotted with age and splashed with sauces made half a century ago, and the binding is beginning to disintegrate. But the recipes on those pages are a complete guide to the culinary traditions of the Perigord, and of France as a whole, and I am determined to preserve them for posterity.

Over the next few weeks, I shall post as many of the recipes as I can before I am asked to return the book, as it is a perfect introduction to French cuisine for anyone who wasn't taught the fundamentals as a schoolchild.

Today's recipe is the simple and classic celeri remoulade, which formed part of last night's meal. My wife makes huge bowls of the stuff every summer; we eat it at lunch, sitting outside in the courtyard, where plates piled high with ham, cheese, and hunks of torn baguette always seem to have a little space left over for this crunchy, creamy, mustardy salad.

600g celeriac, washed and peeled
130g mayonnaise (homemade or store-bought)
2tbsps Dijon mustard
2tbsps lemon juice
salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Prepare the dressing. Like many vegetables, celeriac is quick to discolour once exposed to the air, and so the sauce should be made first and then put aside while the celeriac is prepared. To make the dressing, simply mix the mustard, lemon juice, and the mayonnaise together.
2. Grate the celeriac. You can buy special graters for the purpose in France, or you can use the coarse side of a standard cheese grater.
3. Stir the dressing through the grated celeriac until every strand is finely coated. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Serve as a vegetable side dish with almost anything - last night we ate it with roast chicken, but it works well on picnics, in lunch boxes, and with grilled meat and fish.

While everyone knows that dandelions make accurate clocks, these days people tend to have forgotten its versatility as a foodstuff. But young dandelions were made for eating, and can be prepared in a variety of ways.

Dandelion root can be roasted as a coffee-substitute, or boiled and stir-fried as a cooked vegetable. Dandelion flower can be made into a wine, or boiled and stir-fried as a cooked vegetable. Dandelion greens (i.e., the leaves) can be boiled, as you would spinach, and used as a cooked vegetable, in sandwiches or as a salad green with some "bite."

I last ate dandelion greens in a salad, with lardons, gesiers, and strips of duck breast. Despite the meaty ingredients, the salad didn't feel at all heavy; the greens cut through and tempered the richness. Another popular way to eat them locally is to prepare an omelette as normal, but to stir a handful or two of the unopened flour heads into the mix.

The current heat wave means we've seen the last of the dandelions locally (here they're called pis-en-lit, or wet-the-bed, due to their diuretic properties if eaten to excess), but they might still be around where you are.


1 lb dandelion greens
1/2 cup chopped onion
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup cooking oil
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Comte cheese

1. Discard dandelion green roots; wash greens well in salted water. Cut leaves into 2-inch pieces.
2. Blanch the green beans and then refresh them in water. Next, cook the greens uncovered in small amount of salted water until tender, about 10 minutes.
3. Sauté onion and garlic in oil. Drain greens; add to the frying pan. Season to taste.

Serves four  with grated Comte cheese.

When one is laid up with flu, doctors advise all sorts of things. Liquids, vitamin C, bed rest, leafy green vegetables... I advocate listening to your body and giving it what it wants.

Having spent the past few days feeling as though I were at death's door, there was nothing I wanted less than spinach, kale, or any of the iron-rich leafy greens known to be good for the body. No, what I wanted was food that was good for the soul, designed to soothe and heal in equal measure. Fortunately, the perfect recipe can be found in any Dordogne cookbook.

Traditionally served with duck, pommes sarladaise are rich, unctuous, and filled with garlic. But as an invalid, I couldn't stomach the idea of meat. All I wanted was enough garlic to kill off the germs, served on a base of potatoes as familiar as my mother's mash. Fortunately, my daughter is a dab hand in the kitchen. The recipe below is my wife's take on a Perigord classic.

680g waxy potatoes
3 tbsps rendered duck or goose fat
125g chopped flat leaf parsley
2 garlic cloves (more if you're warding off vampires or germs)
salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Peel potatoes, then cut into ¼-inch-thick slices. Rinse in two or three changes of cold water until water runs clear. Drain and pat very dry.
2. Heat fat in a 12-inch non-stick frying pan over a medium heat until melted. Cook potatoes with ¾ tsp salt, turning gently, until coated with fat. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook, turning occasionally, until golden in spots and potatoes are tender, about 20 to 25 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, finely chop parsley and garlic together. Gently stir parsley mixture into cooked potatoes.