Vegetables
Sophie Grigson

For Florrie and Sid, of course

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Author’s acknowledgements

Roots

Beetroot

Carrots

Celeriac

Chervil root

Hamburg parsley

Jerusalem artichokes

Jicama

Kumara

Oca

Parsnips

Potatoes

Radishes

Salsify and Scorzonera

Swede

Sweet potatoes

Turnips

Yams

Shoots and stems

Asparagus Beansprouts Cardoons Celery Fennel Globe artichokes Kohlrabi Samphire Wild asparagus

Beansprouts

Cardoons

Celery

Fennel

Globe artichokes

Kohlrabi

Samphire

Wild asparagus

Fruits

Aubergine

Avocado

Bell peppers

Okra

Tomatoes

Squashes

Courgettes

Cucumbers

Marrows

Summer squashes

Winter squashes

Pods and seeds

Broad beans

Edamame

Green beans and wax beans

Mangetouts and sugarsnaps

Peas and pea shoots

Runner beans

Shelling beans (borlotti, flageolet and cannellini)

Sweetcorn

Onion family

Garlic

Leeks with lentils, chorizo and eggs

Petit pot-au-feu

Onions

Shallots

Spring onions

Wild garlic

Brassicas

Broccoli, calabrese

Broccoli, sprouting

Brussels sprouts

Cabbage

Cauliflower

Red cabbage

Green and leafy

Curly kale and Cavolo nero

Pak choi

Spinach

Spring greens

Swiss chard

Salad leaves

Chicory

Chinese cabbage

Lettuces

Purslane

Radicchio

Rocket

Sorrel

Watercress and Land cress

Index

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

I have no choice but to make this introduction relatively short. I’ve used up my space allowance several times over already, and the book has grown royally in length since its original inception. The trouble with writing about vegetables is that there are just so many, so much to say about each one, so many enticing ways to prepare them. This is also the joy of writing about them and more importantly of cooking and eating them.

When I compiled my original list of vegetables that I wanted to include in this book, I decided to concentrate on those that could be bought relatively easily in this country, with just a handful of exceptional rarities (such as chervil root or wild asparagus) thrown in for good measure. The original 60 vegetables have increased to over 70, ranging from the familiarity of the carrot or potato, to the more unexpected taste of oca or jicama. And still I have not shoehorned them all into these pages. Devotees of Chinese arrowheads or waterchestnuts, Indian tindoori or drumsticks or bitter gourds will be disappointed. My daughter complained that there were no recipes for palm hearts, and remains barely mollified by my excuse that I’ve only once bought them fresh, in Spain, and canned vegetables have no place on these pages.

Vegetables have long been something of a passion of mine. This is my second book on vegetables, coming over a decade after the first. I’m still learning about them, coming across new ones, delighting in new and old ways of cooking homely vegetables. I remain fascinated by their differences, their similarities, the way they take starring role, or blend comfortably into the chorus, the way they contrast, the way they add subtlety, the wonderful colours, the rich earthy tones, the sweetness and the textures, the forms, the connection with the land we live in, or with the magic of foreign worlds. I like the notion that the onion is virtually ubiquitous, that other cooks all over the world chop them and fry them just as I do, I love the exoticness of oca, so strange and new in Europe, but as old as the hills of the Andes where they are used without a second thought. Even familiar territory harbours magic discoveries – like the white sprouting broccoli of Leicestershire, or the dramatic purple carrots of Mallorca.

To make the book easier to use (and write) I’ve grouped vegetables together with the cook in mind. This may occasionally make botanists blench, and from them I beg indulgence. To me it makes more sense to slot beansprouts alongside asparagus and cardoons in the ‘shoots and stems’ section, than to keep them with beans and peas. Globe artichokes caused endless arguments, but in the end we kept them next to cardoons to which they are so closely related, even though no-one could ever argue that they are either shoot or stem.

One repetitive refrain runs through the following pages. With almost all vegetables, freshness makes a marked difference in flavour. With some it is more apparent than others. Newly picked spring greens are sensational, for instance, as are peas eaten straight from the pod out in the vegetable garden or allotment where they are grown. These are the kind of simple pleasures we should all have access to. Unfortunately so many of the vegetables sold in our shops have been held in storage for too long, or have been flown so far, that they have lost their brand new sparkle. They will still be in notionally good condition, but no longer in their prime.

This is why I like to buy locally grown vegetables when I can. If they are organic, so much the better. I’m no puritan – I eat cherry tomatoes in the middle of winter from time to time because I can’t bear the thought of going totally without fresh tomatoes for nine months of the year. I regularly forget which day of the month my local farmers’ markets fall on, but when I do get it right, both I and the environment around me reap the benefits. The more we support our local producers, the more opportunities there will be to buy locally grown crops and the more choice we will have.

Above all, however, the message of this book is to make the most of the incredible richness of the vegetable world. This is no health manual, but we all know that vegetables are good for us and we should be eating more of them. It’s not difficult if you give them a chance. Buy widely; choose wisely; cook exuberantly.

Sophie Grigson

Author’s acknowledgements

My initial encounters with vegetables were, without exception, positive, thanks to my mother, the late Jane Grigson, who cooked them with care and love. I have her to thank for making vegetable-eating a pleasure right from the start, and for encouraging me to experiment with both familiar and new vegetables in later years. More recently, the regular weekly box of vegetables from Riverford Organics has shown me what an extraordinary difference genuine freshness makes to even the most pedestrian vegetables.

I would also like to acknowledge the debt I owe to so many of my friends, who have put up with me moaning about how long it has taken to pen this book, and above all to my editor, Denise Bates, and all of her team at HarperCollins, for their extraordinary patience and forbearance. The wonderful Susan Fleming has fitted copy-editing around the piecemeal delivery of the various sections of the book without a murmur of annoyance, at least in my hearing.

Once again I have been lucky enough to work with William Shaw, one of my favourite photographers (despite his appalling jokes), backed up by a wizard team consisting of the blessed Sam Squire on food and the long-suffering Rosie Dearden on styling – a real diamond, even though she doesn’t like cheese. Weird.

A big thank you to Zoltan and the cheery gang that run the coffee machine at Esporta in Oxford, which is where I retreat to write in relative peace. Annabel Hartog and Leslie Ball have helped me test recipes at home, while Sarah and Jennine have kept house, children and admin running smoothly. Last, but by no means least, a big thank you to the two most important people in my life, Florrie and Sid, who make me laugh, shout, get up in the morning, listen to Radio 1, and question almost every assumption I’ve ever made. They are also pretty good at eating vegetables. What more could a mother hope for?

Publisher’s acknowledgements

Thank you to North Aston Organics for their help with photography of vegetables, and The Conran Shop and Harrods for the loan of props.

Cook’s notes

There is one important element of vegetable preparation that I have omitted from the individual entries for fear of tedious repetition: unless they are to be peeled, all vegetables should be rinsed before use. Beautiful earthy potatoes and other roots will obviously need to be scrubbed as well, so a vegetable brush is an essential piece of equipment. A nail brush fits the purpose well enough, but make sure that everyone in your house knows and respects the fact that it is only to be used for vegetables, and not to scrub engine oil or paint off soiled hands.

In most instances, precise measuring of ingredients is not absolutely necessary. Take vegetable quantities as rough guidelines. Unless you are making something like the carrot cake on page 28 or the potato cakes on page 73, a little more or a little less will not ruin a dish. There is no point wasting a quarter of a potato, when following a recipe for mash, for instance.

On the whole, it makes sense to stick with either imperial or metric measurements. It makes life simpler, if nothing else. I often suggest using handfuls of this or that. Some people find this frustratingly vague, but it allows whoever is using the recipe to make their own decisions about the final strength of flavours in a dish. Ingredients, particularly herbs and vegetables, vary greatly from one batch to another, from one season to another. As cooks, we have to take this in our stride, adding a little bit more here, a little bit less there in order to compensate for fluctuations in flavour.

Unless otherwise specified, eggs are always free range and always large. Spoon measurements are rounded. I use a standard 15 ml tablespoon, 10ml dessertspoon and 5ml teaspoon. Recipes that include olive oil will taste better if made with extra virgin olive oil. Herbs are all fresh, with the exception of bay leaves (good fresh or dried) and dried oregano (use the fabulous Greek rigani, dried wild oregano, if you can get it), which is more exciting than fresh. Pepper and nutmeg should always be freshly ground to maximise spicy impact.

Finally, remember that suggested cooking times are not absolutes. Every oven has its own individual quirks, and settings vary. Similarly the width and make-up of saucepans will affect cooking times. So, check foods regularly as they cook, and if they look done, smell done, taste done, they probably are.

Roots

Beetroot

I’d like to serenade the beetroot. Thank your lucky stars then that this is a book, and you can’t hear me try. Tunefulness was never my strong point. The fact is, though, that beetroot is a miraculous vegetable. Despite extraordinary maltreatment (what else would you call boiling the poor things in vats of malt vinegar?) the beetroot has re-emerged in recent years as something of a star. It features on the menus of the most elevated of restaurants, and it appears regularly in the smartest recipe books, regaining its rightful reputation as a truly delicious, unique vegetable. What other vegetable can offer the combination of full sweet, earthy flavour together with the rich purple-red of a classic beetroot?

If the foregoing leaves you bewildered, it may just be that you have never tasted beetroot at its finest. In other words, home-roast beetroot, cooked slowly to preserve its true flavour. Sure, you can save time and buy it ready-cooked in neat little vacuum packs, but it will have already lost so much to the processing that it is hardly worth the bother. Sure, you can save time and boil your beets in a large pan of water, but again, so much flavour flows out that you end up with a dumbed-down version.

The classic dark purple, staining beetroot is not the only form of the vegetable in existence. The colourways can vary from the palest white spattered with rose, to the summery hue of golden beetroot. Although both occasionally wander on to the shelves of smart greengrocers, or even the better supermarkets, they are hardly common fare. You are more likely to come across them at a farmers’ market. Or, of course, you could grow them yourself and enjoy them pulled straight from the ground, golf-ball sized. Is the taste of these golden beets different? A little, I think, though not radical enough to make headline news. The colour is the main attraction plus the fact that the juice doesn’t stain clothing to anything like the same extent.

Practicalities
BUYING

If possible, buy beetroot by the bunch, complete with leaves. The leaves are the best indicator of freshness. When they are crisply firm, squeaky in their perfection, you know that the beetroot has come out of the ground recently. As it happens, these telltale leaves are also rather good to eat. Like some earthily rich form of spinach, they can be stir-fried or blanched and served up with a knob of butter melting over them, or Italian-style with a slick of olive oil and plentiful freshly squeezed lemon juice. Or, chop fine and use in a stuffing for ravioli. They’re good, too, treated like kale, blanched and fried up with crisp, salty bacon.

As for the beets themselves, only buy them if they are firm with taut skins. Any suggestion of softness or wrinkles tells you that they are older than they should be. It’s one thing for you to keep them hanging around in your vegetable drawer for a few days, but it’s not on for the retailer to palm off old stock on you. It is rare to have much option over size, but if you do, choose medium-sized ones over large, for a gentler, but never wimpy, taste. Snap up teensy beetroots whenever you get the chance, for these are the choicest of all, with a marvellous sweetness and silky-smooth texture when cooked.

COOKING

Although it is not the only way to cook beetroot, by far the best general method is to roast them, guarding all their juiciness and flavour. For most purposes, the process is as follows: wash the beetroots well (but don’t scrub brutally, which will rupture the skin) and trim off the leaves, leaving about 2 cm (³/₄ in) of stalk in place to minimise bleeding. Do not trim off the root. Wrap each beetroot individually in foil, place in a roasting tin or ovenproof dish and slide into a preheated oven. For the finest results the temperature should be fairly low – say around 150°C/300°F/Gas 2. You should allow 2–3 hours for the beetroots to cook. They will still turn out well at a higher temperature if you want to speed matters up a little, or have something else cooking in the oven – anything up to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6 will do nicely. To test, unwrap one of the larger beetroot and scrape gently at the skin near the root. When it comes away easily, the beetroots are done. Take them out and cool slightly, then unwrap and skin each one.

I don’t boil beetroot, although many people would cook it no other way. Boiling introduces a wateriness that diminishes the joy of good beetroot. If you want to speed up the cooking process, then I would suggest that you think of peeling and cutting up raw beetroot into smaller pieces (say 2–3 cm/1 in cubes), then roasting in a hot oven, tossed with a little olive oil, salt, pepper and some whole garlic cloves and sprigs of thyme, or a good sprinkling of fennel seeds or dill seeds. As with most roast vegetables, they’ll need some 40–60 minutes in the oven – cook uncovered, turning occasionally and adding a little water or orange juice if you think they look worryingly dry. It may be necessary to cover the dish with foil towards the end of the cooking time if the chunks of beetroot are still not quite tender. Sautéed beetroot is also surprisingly delicious – make the cubes a little smaller, say 1–1.5cm (¹/₂ in) across, and sauté them in olive oil or sunflower oil until tender.

PARTNERS

Despite, or perhaps even because of, its distinctive presence, beetroot has an affinity with a remarkable number of other ingredients. In eastern Europe, where it is used most famously to create borscht – beetroot soup in several different forms – beetroot is often combined with aniseed flavours (fennel seed, aniseed, dill and so on) and with soured cream. Try serving cubes of hot cooked beetroot tossed with fresh dill and butter, or fry it briefly with cubes of eating apple and bruised fennel seeds, then serve topped with a spoonful of soured cream (or stir crème fraîche, not soured cream, which will split, into the pan to make a light sauce). Cooked beetroot (puréed or finely diced) is also a brilliant addition to mashed potato, turning it a startling bright pink, which will wow children as much as it amuses parents.

It is, perhaps, in salads that beetroot scores most noticeably, but not the kind of horrorscape of bleeding beetroot lying supine and flabby against miserably limp lettuce leaves, stained gorily with streaks of dark red. No, a good beetroot salad needs a little care in its creation, so that the colour works for it rather than against. Dress the beetroot with vinaigrette while still hot, so that it absorbs some of the tastes, then set aside until ready to plate up with other ingredients. In salads, classic beetroot partners are orange, apple, potato, celery and walnuts in particular. Salty additions also work well – crisp bacon, black olives and anchovy, for instance. On the whole I think it best not to muddle the beetroot with too many partners. The idea should be to highlight its delights, not to mask.

Raw beetroot makes a handsome addition to salads in moderation. The most famous example of this is the French salade nantaise: frisée or blanched dandelion leaves and/or tender lamb’s lettuce (a.k.a. mâche or corn salad), tossed with coarsely grated shreds of raw beetroot and a warm dressing made with bacon frizzled in its own fat and a touch of oil, garlic and red wine vinegar. A gorgeous treat of a salad. I also use raw beetroot with sweet cos lettuce and grapefruit tossed in an animated oriental-toned dressing (see page 381), to totally different effect.

Australian market beetroot dip

The main markets in both Melbourne and Adelaide are thrilling. Bustling and vibrant, they offer superb produce, ranging from fruit and veg, through cheeses, wines, meats and breads, not forgetting dazzling deli stands where you can choose from impressive ranges of freshly made pestos and dips. The brilliant pink of one dip made us pause, then inspired a picnic built around it. The natural sweetness of beetroot balanced by a touch of sourness from the cream and lemon and a waft of spice is very good – eat it with warm pitta bread or batons of cucumber, pepper, carrot and celery.

Serves 6

3 medium fresh beetroots, roughly 300–350g (ll-12oz)

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

1 teaspoon coriander seeds

250g (9oz) soured cream or thick Greek-style yoghurt

1–2 tablespoons lemon juice

salt and pepper

Trim each beetroot, leaving about 3cm (1¹/₄ in) of stalk and the root in place. Wrap each one in foil, place in a baking dish and roast (see above) until tender. Dry-fry the cumin and coriander seeds in a heavy frying pan over a moderate heat until the scent curls temptingly round the kitchen. Tip into a bowl or a mortar and leave to cool, then grind to a powder.

As soon as they are cool enough to handle, skin the beetroots. Set half of one aside; cut up the rest roughly and toss into a food processor. Add all the other ingredients, including the ground spices, and process until smooth. Grate the reserved beetroot or chop finely (messy, I know, but if you want that rather attractive, not-quite-perfectly-smooth texture, it has to be done) and stir into the mixture. Taste and adjust the seasonings.

Serve at room temperature with warm pitta bread, and sticks of carrot, celery, pepper or cucumber.

Beetroot, clementine and pine nut salad with orange dressing

Beetroot and orange work prettily and tastefully together, in every sense of the word. Serve this as a side dish or as a first course. You can make it more substantial by adding big flakes of hot-smoked salmon or trout. Alternatively, tear up a brace of buffalo mozzarella and add them, carefully so that they don’t stain, after the salad has been dished up.

Serves 4–6

4 beetroots, roasted, skinned and cut into wedges

4 clementines or ortaniques

a good handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves

3 small shallots, thinly sliced into rings

3 tablespoons pine nuts, toasted

Dressing

5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

grated zest of 2 clementines

2–3 tablespoons rice vinegar or cider vinegar

salt and pepper

To make the dressing put the oil and zest into a pan and infuse over a very low heat for 20 minutes. Strain and cool. Whisk the vinegar with salt and pepper, then gradually whisk in the orange oil. Taste and adjust seasonings.

As soon as the beetroot is cooked and cut up, toss with a little of the dressing, then leave to cool. Peel the clementines and slice thinly. Just before serving, toss the clementine discs with the parsley leaves, shallots, pine nuts and the remaining dressing, then arrange in a casual but artful way in a serving dish or on individual plates with the beetroot.

Blushing dauphinoise

This is a dish of heavenly decadence, laden with cream, spiked gently with a touch of horseradish. Like a standard potato dauphinoise, it is something for special occasions only, and there is no point even thinking about making it if you are trying to cut down on fat. I would actually be quite happy to gorge on this as a main course, but more conventionally, it sits well with roast feathered game, or a fine joint of beef.

Allow plenty of time for the dauphinoise to cook – this is not a dish to be rushed. Too high a heat will curdle the cream and blacken the top without ever achieving the melting texture you are aiming for.

Serves 6–8

15g (1/2 oz) butter

300–450ml (10–15floz) whipping cream

300ml (10floz) crème fraîche

3 tablespoons creamed horseradish

550g (11/4 lb) slightly waxy maincrop potatoes, such as Cara or larger Charlottes, peeled and very thinly sliced

500g (1 lb 2 oz) beetroot, peeled and thinly sliced

8 canned anchovies, roughly chopped (optional)

salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 150°C/300°F/Gas 2. Grease an ovenproof gratin dish thickly with the butter. Beat the whipping cream into the crème fraîche along with the horseradish.

Lay about one-third of the potato slices over the bottom of the buttered dish. Season with salt and pepper, then cover with half the beetroot and sprinkle over half the anchovies, if using. Season again, then pour over enough of the cream mixture to come up to the level of the beetroot. Repeat the layers and then finish with the last third of the potato. Pour over the remaining cream, topping up with more whipping cream if necessary, so that the cream fills all the gaps and rises until about level with the top of the potatoes. Season again.

Bake, uncovered, for about 2 hours, until the potatoes and beetroot are tender all the way through, and the top is richly browned with traces of purple-pink cream bubbling up at the sides. Serve hot or warm.

Carrots

I like carrots. You like carrots. Everyone likes carrots. No point analysing their success – we know that they do a brilliant job bobbing up time and again on plates the world over. Naturally, there are carrots and then there are carrots. And by that I mean that some carrots have the most exquisite sweet carroty flavour, so good you should really just gobble them up raw, and then sadly, other carrots are dull and lacklustre, providing, one hopes, vitamins and other good-health requirements, if not a great deal in realms of pleasure.

There is no telling before the first bite, which makes buying carrots the tamest form of Russian roulette going. There are people who swear blind that organic carrots taste better than non-organic, and often they do. But no one has yet managed to convince me that it is their organicness that makes the difference. No, I reckon that it’s a lot more to do with variety, conditions in the field, freshness and luck, as well as good husbandry.

You may also not be aware that the orange carrot is a comparatively modern phenomenon, and not one that occurs in the wild. The true colour of the carrot is off-white in the case of the Mediterranean native, or purple or red when growing in more exotic places like Afghanistan, though one imagines that there aren’t many left growing in the wild there. You can, however, find purple carrots closer to home in more hospitable surroundings. They are still eaten on the island of Mallorca – a trip to the excellent covered market in the heart of Palma is all it takes to track them down. The difference in taste is minimal but the colour is sheer drama.

Practicalities
BUYING

A happy carrot is firm from tip to stem, no bruising or discoloration, with a pleasing light carroty smell. The slightest hint of flabbiness spells disaster, and slimy ends or rotting soft spots are to be avoided like the plague.

Buying carrots in bunches, with a duster of fluffy green leaves, is the only way you can be sure that they are newly tugged from the earth, but since they store rather well (especially with a dusting of soil still protecting them) freshness is not the critical issue it is with so many other vegetables. Take advantage of it when bunched carrots are on offer, and for the rest of the year pick out carrots of similar size to each other so that they cook evenly. Really small mini carrots, cute though they are, often taste of very little. Costwise it makes sense to go for larger carrots, which should have developed more depth of flavour. The swelling of ginormous carrots, on the other hand, may be partially due to too much water, so they have a tendency to dullness. These are crude generalisations, so there will always be exceptions, but they are the best I can offer as guidelines.

Store carrots either in an airy, dry, cool spot, or in the vegetable drawer of the fridge.

COOKING

Peeling or scraping or just a quick scrub? All three have their supporters, but personally I go for the peeling unless my carrots are pristine organic roots of impeccable freshness. Scraping is a messy business, I find, and slower than peeling. I know that peeling is wasteful, but you could save the peelings for the stockpot, or the compost, or even get yourself a backyard pig to feed them to. There is no doubt that commercially grown carrots must be either peeled or scraped in order to eliminate pesticide residues. When it comes to organic carrots, by definition free from pesticides, you might well consider that a good wash is sufficient.

Raw carrots are under-used. I love them in salads, coarsely grated and dressed perhaps with a mustardy vinaigrette, studded with raisins or currants and toasted pine nuts or walnuts. Or to give a more exotic air, try tossing them with lemon juice, rosewater, a little sugar, salt and a touch of sunflower oil, Moroccan-style. Grated carrots make a handsome addition to a sandwich, too, especially with cheese or hummus.

There are times when ‘over’-cooked carrots are wonderful – in a stew, say, where they’ve donated some of their sweet flavour to the other ingredients in exchange for some of theirs. However, carrots that have been left to boil in plain water for too long have received nothing in compensation but water, ergo they taste of very little. Simmered or boiled or steamed carrots do not take long to cook – the thickness of the pieces dictates exactly how long, but think in terms of 4–6 minutes. That should be long enough for the heat to have developed the flavour, but not so long that it all leaches out. If you know that the carrots you are about to cook are not very sweet, try adding a teaspoonful or two of sugar to the cooking water.

Boiled perfectly, a good carrot retaining just the right degree of firmness is a pleasure to eat plain, but even nicer with a gloss of melted butter, or fragrant lemon olive oil. In the summer I add a speckling of chopped lemon balm or mint; in the winter thyme or savory enhances the flavour.

Although boiling or steaming will always remain the principal way we cook carrots, once in a while have a go at frying (see the salad recipe overleaf) or stir-frying them, cut into slender batons. Roasted carrots should become part of your regular repertoire, if they aren’t already. They taste divine, and are sooo very easy. Just peel the carrots and halve or quarter lengthways if they are huge, then toss them into a roasting tin with a little extra virgin olive oil, a handful of garlic cloves (no need to peel), a few chunky sprigs of thyme or rosemary and a scattering of coarse salt. Roast in a hot oven (200–220°C/400–425°F/Gas 6–7) for around 40–45 minutes, stirring once or twice, until patched with brown and extremely tender.

PARTNERS

Since carrots are so amiable, there are few tastes that don’t marry well with them. I don’t much like the idea of canned anchovies or chocolate with carrots, but I’m hard pressed to think of much else to avoid. Carrots love to be cooked with spices, with herbs, with garlic and chilli, in sweet dishes (such as carrot cake), in pickles, with meat or fish, with cheeses, and of course with other vegetables. This, I imagine, is one of the reasons that you bump up against carrots wherever you eat in the world. And this is also why we should value them more than we do.

Fried carrot salad with mint and lemon

I’ve been making this salad for years and years and it still seems just as fabulous as it did way back in the mists of time. It comes down to taking a bit of time over the frying, so that the carrots soften as their inner sugars caramelise and every mite of flavour in them concentrates itself. Add plenty of fresh lemon and lots of breathy mint and you have a small miracle of a salad on your hands. If you don’t believe me, have a go.

Incidentally, if you prefer, you can roast the carrots in a hot oven (around 220°C/425°F/Gas 7) with a generous dousing of good olive oil for some 30–40 minutes, until browned and tender.

Serves 4

450g (1 lb) carrots (smaller rather than larger)

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons chopped mint

salt and pepper

If using small carrots, top and tail them, then halve lengthways and cut each piece in half. Treat medium-sized carrots in much the same way, but quarter them lengthways.

Heat the oil in a wide, heavy frying pan and add the carrots. Fry slowly, shaking and turning every now and then, until the carrots are patched with brown and tender. This should take about 15 minutes. Tip into a bowl and mix with the lemon juice, mint, salt and pepper. Leave to cool and serve at room temperature.

Carrot and pickled pepper soup

For this soup I use small, round, sweet-sharp pickled red peppers with a bit of a kick to them, to throw a shot of excitement into a comforting carrot soup. If you can’t find any good red pickled peppers, then you could replace them with pickled jalapeño peppers – but go gently, as the heat can be more intense and the colour is less attractive.

Serves 4–6

1 onion, chopped

500g (1 lb 2 oz) carrots, sliced

1 bouquet garni (3 sprigs lemon thyme, 1 sprig tarragon, 2 sprigs parsley, 1 bay leaf), tied together with string

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons pudding rice

4 hot or 6 mild pickled red peppers, roughly chopped

1.5 litres (23/4 pints) light chicken or vegetable stock

lemon juice

salt and pepper

To serve

a little soured cream (optional, but good)

roughly torn coriander or parsley leaves

4–6 pickled red peppers, sliced

Sweat the onion and carrots with the bouquet garni and oil for 10 minutes in a covered saucepan over a gentle heat. Now add the pudding rice and the peppers and stir until the rice is glistening with the oily juices. Add the stock, salt and pepper and bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 10–15 minutes, until the rice and carrots are tender. Draw off the heat and cool slightly, then liquidise in several batches. Add a little more stock or water if the soup is too thick for your taste, and stir in a couple of squeezes of lemon juice. Taste and adjust seasoning. Reheat when required.

To serve, ladle into soup bowls, add a few small dollops of soured cream and then top with the coriander or parsley and sliced peppers.

Carrot falafel with tomato and carrot salad

The best falafel I’ve eaten over the decades have almost invariably been bought from street stalls and eaten on the hoof, jostling for space with tomato, cucumber and lettuce in the cavity of a warm pitta bread.

Back at home, lacking the ambience of the bustling street, I resort to making my own falafel, lightened with the natural sweetness of grated carrot, and served as a first course with a fresh and invigorating salad. They’ve not got the street–stall shimmer, but the taste is terrific, nonetheless.

In terms of culinary notes, the most important is that you should never ever even think of using tinned chickpeas for making falafel. They have to be made with dried chickpeas, soaked overnight, to get the right texture and firmness. No debate on this one. The second, a follow-on from the first, is that you mustn’t rush the cooking. If the temperature of the oil is too high, the falafel will never cook through to the centre.

Serves 4–6

125 g (41/2 oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight

6 spring onions, trimmed and roughly chopped

1 large clove garlic, chopped

2 carrots, grated (about 200g/7 oz)

30g (1oz) parsley leaves, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

sunflower and olive oil for frying

salt and pepper

To serve

leaves from a small bunch of coriander

18 mini plum tomatoes, halved

1 shallot, halved and thinly sliced

1 carrot, coarsely grated

juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

3–4 tablespoons thick Greek-style yoghurt

To make the falafel, drain the chickpeas and place in the bowl of a food processor with the spring onions, garlic, carrots, parsley, cumin, baking powder, salt and pepper. Process to a smooth paste. You should be able to roll it into balls that hold together nicely – not too soft and soggy, nor irritatingly crumbly.

Take a little of the mixture and fry in a little oil. Bite into it and consider whether the seasoning needs to be beefed up. Act upon your thoughts immediately. Now, scoop out dessertspoonfuls of the mixture and roll into balls, then flatten gently to a thickness of around 1.5 cm (⁵/₈ in). Cover and set aside until needed.

Shortly before serving, heat up a 1cm (¹/₂ in) depth of sunflower oil, or mixed sunflower and olive oils, in a saucepan. When good and hot, add a few of the falafel and fry for some 3 minutes on each side, until crustily browned and cooked through. You may have to try one to check that you’re getting the timing just right. What a pity – just don’t try too many.

While they are in the pan, mix the salad ingredients – coriander, tomatoes, shallot, carrot, lemon juice and oil – and divide among plates (or pile into one big bowl). Serve the hot falafel with the salad and a dollop of thick yoghurt on the side.

Braised pheasant (or guinea fowl) with carrots, Riesling and tarragon

This is, in essence, a smart pot-roast, with the carrots and Riesling flavouring the natural cooking juices of the birds. If you have a brace of pheasants, there should be enough to feed six comfortably, but a guinea fowl will probably not satisfy more than four. Either way, the finished result is smart enough to grace a dinner party, but easy enough to serve as a good supper dish when you need something of a boost.

Serve the birds and their sauce with steamed or boiled new potatoes and some sort of green vegetable, to counterpoint the tender sweetness of the carrots.

Serves 4–6

15g (1/2 oz) butter

1 tablespoon sunflower oil

2 pheasants or 1 plump guinea fowl

1 onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, sliced

500g (1lb 2oz) carrots, cut into batons

4 sprigs tarragon

150 ml (5 floz) dry Riesling

100 ml (3 1/2 floz) double cream

salt and pepper

Heat the butter with the oil in a flameproof casserole large enough to take the birds and all the carrots. Brown the pheasants or guinea fowl in the fat, then remove from the casserole. Reduce the heat, then stir the onion and garlic into the fat and fry gently until tender. Add the carrots and tarragon and stir around for a few minutes, then return the pheasants or guinea fowl to the pot, nestling them breast-side down in amongst the carrots. Pour over the Riesling and season with salt and pepper. Bring up to the boil, then cover with a close-fitting lid. Turn the heat down low and leave to cook gently for 1 hour, or a little longer if necessary, turning the pheasants or guinea fowl over after about half an hour.

Once the birds and carrots are tender, lift the birds out on to a serving plate and keep warm. Stir the cream into the carrots and juices and simmer for 2 minutes or so, then taste and adjust seasoning. Spoon around the birds and serve immediately.

Carrot cake

Everyone knows that carrot cake is a very good thing, indeed. What a cheery thought it is that you can have your cake and eat vegetables at the same time.

This is the recipe I return to regularly, after playing away with less successful variations. I’m not usually a big fan of baking cakes or pastry with wholemeal flour, but for once it makes absolute sense, absorbing some of the moisture that the carrot provides, and giving the substance the cake needs.

Serves 8–12

250g (9oz) light muscovado sugar

250ml (9floz) light olive oil or sunflower oil

4 large eggs

2 tablespoons milk

250g (9oz) wholemeal flour

2 rounded teaspoons baking powder

60g (2 oz) ground almonds

2 tablespoons poppy seeds

125g (41/2 oz) shelled walnuts, roughly chopped

250g (9 oz) carrots, grated

Frosting

200g (7oz) cream cheese

200g (7oz) butter, softened

250g (9oz) icing sugar, sifted

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

12 walnut halves to decorate

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Base-line two 20cm (8in) round cake tins with baking parchment and grease the sides. Whisk the sugar with the oil, eggs and milk. Mix the flour with the baking powder, ground almonds, poppy seeds, walnuts and carrots. Make a well in the centre and add the sugary liquids, scraping the last of the sugar from the bowl. Mix the ingredients thoroughly.

Scrape into the two prepared cake tins and bake for 40–45 minutes until firm to the touch – check by plunging a skewer into the centre. If it comes out clean, then the cake is cooked. While the cake is baking, beat the cream cheese with the softened butter, icing sugar and vanilla extract to make the frosting.

Let the cakes cool in their tins for 5 minutes, then turn them out on to a wire rack. Leave to cool completely, then sandwich together with about one-third of the frosting. Spread the remaining frosting over the top and down the sides, then decorate with the walnut halves.

Celeriac

Perhaps the most brutish-looking of vegetables (swede competes for the title, and it’s hard to decide which merits the crown most), celeriac is a form of celery with an absurdly swollen rootstock, known technically as a corm. Both celeriac and celery share the Latin name Apium graveolens, even though they look so very different. When the stems are left on celeriac, sticking up like a brush, the connection is more obvious. The stems are slender, but topped with the same leaves, as if someone had squeezed hard on the broad succulent stems of a head of celery, forcing all the liquid back down into the root to puff it up like a balloon. The odd thing is that celeriac doesn’t taste at all like celery. Celeriac tastes of nothing but itself. Most people love it, and many people find it infinitely preferable to celery.

So, discount the exterior and concentrate on the firm, cream-hued interior. Solid and dense and generously proportioned, it is a remarkably delicious vegetable. I’ve never really understood why we don’t use it more: over in France it is the substance of one of their favourite mainstream salads, sold in every charcuterie and supermarket, as popular as and infinitely better than, most of the coleslaw consumed here. Yet here it is still considered something of an outsider, idly hovering on the fringes of popularity. How much longer before it breaks through to become a household name?

Oddly enough, celeriac sales were boosted by the vogue for the Atkins diet. Celeriac is, apparently, very low in carbohydrate. What a godsend for those who missed potatoes. Here was a great substitute, particularly when mashed with shedloads of cream and butter. Now that the Atkins diet is no longer as fashionable as it once was, I hope that the celeriac habit endures – it is far too engaging a vegetable to drop the minute the diet is over.

Practicalities
BUYING

Celeriac is always big, but don’t buy the most colossal ones, as these may have swelled up so far that the centre has become spongy or hollow. Be satisfied with plain big. Choose celeriac that is firm and heavy with no soft, bruised spots. Store it in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, where it will keep happily for a week or more.

COOKING

Celeriac can be cooked in a number of ways, but before that you have to take off the outer layer and the gnarled tangle of roots at the base. I usually slice the celeriac thickly then discard the roots and cut away the skin around the edge of each disc. If I’m boiling the celeriac, I then hack it into big chunks, ready to drop into the pan. If not used immediately, celeriac discolours, so once cut drop it into a bowl of water acidulated with the juice of ¹/₂ lemon or a dash of wine vinegar.

The most cherished way to serve celeriac is mashed, either à la Atkins, in other words pure celeriac and lots of rich cream and butter, or – rather nicer, both in texture and flavour – mashed with equal quantities of potato, a large knob or two of butter and some milk. Either way it begs for plenty of salt and a good scraping of nutmeg. Another fine variation that I make occasionally, especially as Christmas approaches, is a mash of celeriac and chestnuts – true, the colour is muddy, but the taste is divine. Unless you are saintly, use vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, and mash with double the quantity of celeriac, butter and cream. Nutmeg is essential. Distract from the colour with a sprinkling of chopped chives and a knob of melting butter in the centre of the hot mash.

As with most vegetables, celeriac can be sautéed (cut into small cubes) over a lively heat, or roasted in the oven, tossed in olive oil. To make celeriac chips, parboil thick batons of celeriac (just 2–3 minutes will do the trick), drain well and then deep-fry, or shallow-fry, or toss with oil and roast in a hot oven for 10–15 minutes.

I adore a celeriac and potato dauphinoise, rich and creamy. For this one, I usually blanch the slices of celeriac and potato in boiling salted water for a couple of minutes, before layering and baking slowly in the oven until heavenly soft and tender.

Raw celeriac is rather good too. I don’t like it grated – a bit slushy – but I do like it cut into juliennes (thin batons), which increases the prep time, but is worth the bother. Remember to toss it with lemon or lime juice as you cut it, to prevent excessive browning. Although there is no reason why it shouldn’t be added to any number of salads, the classic is always going to be céleri rémoulade, for which I give a recipe overleaf. Frankly, you just can’t beat it.

SEE ALSO CELERY (PAGE 124).

Roast chicken with apple, celeriac and hazelnut stuffing

Celeriac makes a good basis for a stuffing, a strong enough flavour to come through without fighting the taste of the chicken. The celeriac ‘chips’ around the outside semi-simmer and semi-roast as the bird cooks, absorbing some of the juices from the chicken for extra flavour.

Serves 4

1 plump and happy free-range chicken a little olive oil

1/2 celeriac, peeled and cut into ‘chips’ salt and pepper

Stuffing

1/2 celeriac, peeled and finely diced

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

30g (1oz) butter

8 sage leaves, chopped

1 eating apple, cored and diced small

40g (11/2 oz) shelled, skinned hazelnuts, roasted and chopped

80g (scant 3oz) soft white breadcrumbs

1 egg, lightly beaten

Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6.

To make the stuffing, begin by sautéing the celeriac, onion and garlic together in the butter until tender – take plenty of time over this, say 10 minutes or more, so that their flavours really get a chance to develop. Stir in the sage leaves and cook for a further 30 seconds or so. Now mix the vegetables and buttery juices with the apple, hazelnuts, breadcrumbs, seasoning (be generous with it) and enough beaten egg to bind.

Fill the cavity of the chicken with the stuffing. You’ll probably have more than you need, so pack the remainder into a shallow ovenproof dish and bake alongside the bird until browned and hot – it won’t taste as good as the stuffing inside the bird, but it gets the crisp crust as a bonus.

Place the stuffed bird in a roasting tin or shallow ovenproof dish and smear a little olive oil over its skin. Season generously with salt and pepper. Pour a small glass of water around the bird and surround with the celeriac chips. Roast for about 1¹/₄ hours, basting the bird occasionally with its own juices (add a little more water if it needs it) and turning the celeriac chips occasionally – they should soften and catch a little brown here and there.

Test to make sure that the chicken is cooked by plunging a skewer into the thickest part of the thigh – if the juices run clear then it is done. If they run pink and bloody, then get the whole lot back into the oven for another 15 minutes and then try again.

Let the chicken rest in a warm place for 20 minutes before serving.

Céleri rémoulade

Whenever we’re in France we head straight for the charcuterie to buy garlic sausage and a tub of céleri rémoulade. In this instance ‘céleri’ is short for ‘céleri-rave’, in other words, celeriac. ‘Rémoulade’ indicates that it is tossed in a mustardy mayonnaise, to transform it into one of France’s favourite salad dishes. Few French domestic cooks ever make their own – why bother when the shop-bought céleri rémoulade is so good? Outside France it is another matter – especially if you make your own mayonnaise, which takes no time at all in a processor or liquidiser. The celeriac itself is best cut by hand, rather than grated, which inevitably produces an over-fine mushy salad. Soften it to agreeable floppiness by soaking in lemon juice and salt for a while.

Either serve your céleri rémoulade as one amongst a bevy of salads, or make it a first course, perhaps accompanied by some lightly cooked large prawns, or thin slices of salty Parma ham.

Serves 6

1 small celeriac

juice of 1 lemon

2 tablespoons single cream

3 tablespoons home-made mayonnaise

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

salt and cayenne pepper

Peel the celeriac, removing all those knobbly twisty bits at the base. Now cut the celeriac in half, then cut each half into thin slices – you’re aiming roughly at about 3–5mm (¹/₈–¹/₄ in) thick, no more. Cut each slice into long, thin strips. Toss the celeriac with the lemon juice as you cut, to prevent browning, then once all done, season with salt and cover with clingfilm. Set aside for half an hour or so to soften.

Drain off any liquid, then toss the celeriac strips with the cream, mayo, mustard, salt and cayenne. Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve.

Speedy mayonnaise

I’ve given up on making mayonnaise the proper, old-fashioned way. Nowadays, I opt for the quick liquidiser method, which yields up a mayonnaise that is every bit as good and so much less stressful.

Two brief notes. Avoid the temptation to increase the amount of olive oil. In quantity it gives an unpleasant bitterness. The second is the old familiar: as home-made mayonnaise inevitably contains raw egg, do not offer it to the very young, the old, pregnant women, invalids.

Makes roughly 250ml (9floz)

1 egg

1 tablespoon very hot (but not boiling) water

1 tablespoon lemon juice

250ml (9floz) sunflower or grapeseed oil

50 ml (2floz) extra virgin olive oil

salt

Break the egg into the goblet of the liquidiser and add the hot water. Whirr the blades to blend, then add the lemon juice and salt. Measure the oils into a jug together. With the motor running, pour the oil into the egg, in a constant stream, until it is all incorporated. By this time, the mayonnaise will be divinely thick and glossy. Taste and adjust the seasoning.

Roast celeriac with Marsala

This is a repeat recipe, originally printed in my book Taste of the Times, which is now out of print. It is so good, however, that I have no qualms about including it again here. As the celeriac roasts, it absorbs some of the raisiny flavour of the Marsala (but not the alcohol, which just burns off), whilst caramelising to a golden, sticky brownness. Excellent with game, in particular.

Serves 4

1 medium-large celeriac

a little sunflower oil

a knob of butter

5 tablespoons sweet Marsala

salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Cut the celeriac into 8 wedges, then trim off the skin as neatly and economically as you can. Toss the wedges in just enough oil to coat. Smear the butter thickly around an ovenproof dish, just large enough to take the celeriac wedges lying down flat (well, flattish, anyway). Lay the celeriac in the dish, season with salt and pepper and pour over the Marsala.

Roast for about 1 hour, turning the wedges and basting every now and then, until richly browned all over and very tender. You may find that you have to add a tablespoon or two of water towards the end to prevent burning.

Chervil root

The rarity of chervil root is a small tragedy. I have come across them a mere three or four times in my adult life and I regret profoundly that they are not more common, for they are nothing short of delicious. I first discovered them in a market near Orléans in France. This is their home region. However, even in France they remain bemusingly rare. This may partly be due to their appearance. They don’t look at all promising. Small, brown, dirty cones, looking for all the world like a pile of rough-hewn, old-fashioned children’s spinning tops, they don’t exactly shout ‘buy me’. It may well be that you or I have strode past them without even noticing their presence. Oh that it weren’t so. These insignificant morsels are blessed with a remarkable flavour, something like a cross between a chestnut and a parsnip, and if only you could lay your hands on them, I have no doubt that they would soon become all the rage.

Practicalities
BUYING

There’s no point angsting about freshness – just grab hold of them if you are lucky enough to find any. Ideally, they should be pleasingly firm, but personally I’d snap them up even if they were just a mite softer and wrinklier – the taste is still good, though they are harder to peel in this state.

COOKING

Give them a good scrub to remove any dirt (however much elbow grease you employ, the skin will remain unappealingly grubby-looking). The skin is edible, but not especially so. Peel the little darlings before cooking for the best results. They taste fab just simmered in salted water until tender (like a parsnip, this is not a vegetable that benefits from the al dente school of cooking), drained well and then finished with a knob of butter. Even more devastatingly divine, however, are roast chervil roots. Again peel before cooking, then roast in a little olive oil or oil and butter in the normal fashion, until tender as butter inside, lightly browned and a little chewy outside.

PARTNERS

Cooked this way, they go spectacularly well with roast beef, or a good steak. I dare say that chervil root has enormous potential and could be mashed, chipped, souped and so on. One day, maybe, I’ll get to find out, but that will just have to wait until the day I can source them regularly, and easily. Roll on that day.

Hamburg parsley

As entries go, this one will be very short. Not because Hamburg parsley doesn’t rate, but more because it has become increasingly hard to find. I don’t think I’ve seen it for sale for the best part of a decade, more’s the pity. Therefore my aim now is merely to prime you, just in case you stumble across a tray of Hamburg parsley unexpectedly. If you do, please buy some and encourage the seller/grower to spread the word.

Although it looks like a shocked parsnip, colour washed out to ghostly off-white, and is about the same size and shape, Hamburg parsley is actually nothing more unusual than a form of the commonest of herbs, parsley. They share the same Latin name, Petroselinum crispum, but the energy flows down to the root of the Hamburg variety, swelling it out to a satisfying girth. Not for nothing is it also known as parsley root. It is far less sweet than a parsnip and does have a distinct parsley zing, which is surprising at first.

COOKING

Although you could serve it as a straight vegetable, just boiled and buttered, the flavour is strong. In practice, it is more usual to add it in moderation to stews and soups, cut up into chunks. In this context, it blossoms, imparting something of its parsley scent to the whole, and absorbing other flavours to mollify its own in a most beguiling manner. If you have only one or two roots, you might prefer to boil and mash them with double or triple quantities of potato and plenty of butter to make excellent, parsley-perfumed mash to accompany some dark, rich, meaty stew.

Jerusalem artichokes

Once upon a time, many centuries ago, intrepid explorers crossed the Atlantic Ocean at great peril and discovered all sorts of miraculous things. There were potatoes and tomatoes and chocolate and gold. There were chillies to make up for a dismaying lack of black pepper. Less lauded and celebrated, however, was the discovery of the Helianthus tuberosus. It belongs to a later period of exploration and intrepidity, when the pioneering spirit of the first settlers in North America led them to the flaps of Native American tepees. This time, along with turkeys and cranberries, they also sampled the delights of one of the windiest vegetables known to man, the knobbly Jerusalem artichoke.

Not as celebrated as potatoes or tomatoes and never exported with quite the same passionate love/hate devotion, nonetheless the Jerusalem artichoke was a significant addition to the greater vegetable repertoire. It has since gone in and out of fashion and now hovers amongst the bevy of vegetables that are almost but not quite popular, but still beloved by many devotees.

I count myself amongst them. Jerusalem artichokes are delicious and special and still remarkably seasonal. This is a crop that belongs to the late autumn and winter, a root vegetable with the gorgeous natural sweetness that slow growth in the darkness of moist earth imparts. Knobbly they may be, but the texture of the cooked tuber is smooth and gently crisp, defying comparison with others.

There is, as the name suggests, a passing resemblance in flavour to globe artichokes but there is no way you could confuse the two. The Jerusalem artichoke is very much its own man. With one half of the name explained, you might then wonder why a native American vegetable has acquired a Levantine moniker. The answer is simple: corruption. Not fraudulent illegal corruption, but verbal. The Jerusalem artichoke is closely related to the sunflower and, like the sunflower, its open-faced flower follows the sun from morning to evening. The Italian for sunflower is ‘girasole’, translating literally as turning towards the sun. ‘Jerusalem’ is merely a mispronunciation of this, lending an added exoticism to a vegetable that has travelled far.

Not so exotic is its propensity to flatulence. Theories abound as to how to minimise the after-effects, but to be frank I’ve never been that bothered. Except once, when I was breastfeeding my first child. A generous helping of Jerusalem artichokes gave rise to a distinctly sleepless night, and a very cranky mother and baby. Lactating mothers apart, I would suggest that you just accept that Jerusalem artichokes will induce wind to some degree, and ignore it. The taste is too good to let a minor inconvenience put you off.

As if to make up for their inherent windiness, Jerusalem artichokes are often grown as windbreaks along the edge of a vegetable garden. They are easy and undemanding, ideal for the not-so-green-fingered gardener, reproducing silently and prolifically underground as the tall stems stretch upwards to protect less hardy plants.

Practicalities
BUYING

There are two key things to bear in mind when buying Jerusalem artichokes. The first is that they should be fairly firm with just the slightest give (i.e. not as hard as a potato, but firmer than a tomato). The second is that it is worth spending a few extra seconds sorting through the box to select the least knobbly tubers. Charming and funny though the more knobbly ones look, the fact is that you are going to have to peel the wretched things at some point. Smaller knobbles will just have to be sheared off and discarded; larger ones may ultimately go the same way if you can’t be bothered to peel each and every one of them. In other words, you pay for a lot of waste.

COOKING

The next issue is when to peel them. My mum always used to peel them after boiling – she thought it easier – but I veer the other way, preferring to peel them before they go into any pan. The first method is probably more economical in that it minimises waste, as the skin just pulls away, but it does mean that reheating will be necessary. Peeling them first means that they can be whisked straight from the pan to the table, which suits me better. Be aware, however, that peeled raw Jerusalem artichokes discolour very quickly. Within minutes they take on a rusty colour as they oxidise. To prevent this (especially if there is to be a time lapse between peeling and cooking) drop the prepared Jerusalem artichokes into a bowl of acidulated water (i.e. water with the juice of ¹/₂ lemon, or a tablespoon or two of vinegar, swished in).

Jerusalem artichokes can be cooked in most ways. Plainly boiled or steamed, tossed with a squeeze or two of lemon and a knob of butter, and served hot is the most obvious. But equally as good (if not better) are roast artichokes, bundled into the oven still swaddled in their skins (no choice here), with a small slick of olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. Once cooked it is up to each consumer to decide whether to eat the skins or not. I’ve often included Jerusalem artichokes in stir-fries (they make a rather good substitute for water chestnuts), where if you get the timings right they retain a slight crunch, alongside the characteristic sweet nuttiness. They go fantastically well with chicken in a creamy stew, even better encased in puff pastry to transform the stew into a pie.

PARTNERS

Some people like them raw in salads. I don’t. I do, on the other hand, like them lightly cooked and cooled in a tarragon or chervil-flecked dressing, to stand as a salad on their own, or to add to other ingredients. Nut oils – hazelnut or walnut – bring out the natural nutty taste of the vegetable. Prawns (or lobster if you fancy something really smart) and Jerusalem artichokes on a bed of watercress or rocket make a most appetising starter or main course in the middle of the cooler months. Grill or bake a rasher or two of pancetta or dry-cured bacon until crisp, perch it on top and you’re heading towards perfection.

SEE ALSO GLOBE ARTICHOKES (PAGE 139).

Jerusalem artichoke broth

I have fond memories of my mother making Palestine soup way, way back, in the cubbyhole of a kitchen in our holiday home in France. As a name for Jerusalem artichoke soup it now strikes one as a distinctly tasteless joke, but to be fair it pre-dates the creation of Israel in 1948. When I came to look up the soup in her Vegetable Book (Michael Joseph, 1978) it turns out to be a puréed cream of a soup, and not at all the clear broth studded with knobbles of sweet, semi-crisp artichoke that I thought I recalled. Memory plays strange tricks…

This is how I now prefer to make the soup, the intensity of slow-cooked vegetable sweetness shot through with a balancing measure of white wine vinegar. All in all, it is a deceptively simple creation, obviously at its best when simmered in a home-made stock, but still more than palatable when a decent instant vegetable bouillon is substituted.

Serves 6

1 large onion, halved and sliced

675 g (11/2 lb) Jerusalem artichokes, peeled, halved and sliced

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

4 good sprigs thyme

1 bay leaf

1 litre (13/4 pints) chicken or vegetable stock

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons roughly chopped parsley salt and pepper

To serve (optional)

6 thick slices baguette

150g (5oz) single Gloucester, mature Cheddar or Gruyèe cheese, coarsely grated

Put the onion, artichokes and oil into a pan and add the thyme and bay leaf, tied together with string. Cover and sweat over a low heat for some 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Now add the stock, vinegar, salt and pepper (be generous with the pepper, please) and bring up to the boil. Simmer for 10 minutes, then taste and adjust seasoning. Discard the thyme and bay leaf and serve, sprinkled with parsley.

If using the bread and cheese, toast the baguette lightly on both sides under the grill. Then, just before serving, top with grated cheese and slide back under the grill to melt. Float a slice of cheese on toast in each bowl of soup as you serve.

Chicken and Jerusalem artichoke pie

Jerusalem artichokes impart an enormous depth of flavour to any sauce or stock they are simmered in, which is what makes this otherwise fairly classic chicken pie so appetising. For a dish like this, I use a mixture of breast and leg meat, cut into large chunks. The darker flesh stays moister throughout the double cooking.

Serves 8

500g (1 lb 2 oz) puff pastry

plain flour

1 egg, lightly beaten

Filling

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

30g (1oz) butter

500g (1 lb 2 oz) Jerusalem artichokes, peeled and cut roughly into 1.5cm (5/8 in) thick chunks

finely grated zest of 1 orange

150ml (5floz) dry white wine

21/2 tablespoons plain flour

300ml (10floz) chicken stock

700g (1 lb 9oz) boned chicken, cut into 3–4cm (11/2 in) chunks

150ml (5floz) double cream

salt and pepper

Begin with the filling. Fry the onion and garlic gently in the butter until tender without browning. Now add the Jerusalem artichokes, orange zest and white wine and boil down until the wine has virtually disappeared. Sprinkle over the flour and stir for a few seconds so that it is evenly distributed. Gradually stir in the stock to make a sauce. Season with salt and pepper, then stir in the chicken. Now cover and leave to simmer away quietly for some 10 minutes or so, stirring occasionally. Then uncover and simmer for 5 minutes, until the sauce has thickened. Stir in the cream and cook for a final 3 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Spoon into a 1–1.5 litre (1³/₄-2¹/₂ pint) pie dish and leave to cool.

Roll out the pastry thinly on a floured board. Cut out a couple of long strips about 1cm (¹/₂ in) wide. Brush the edge of the pie dish with the beaten egg. Lay the strips of pastry on the edge, curving to fit and cutting so that they go all the way around but don’t overlap. Brush them with egg, then lay the remaining pastry over the top. Trim off excess, and press the pastry down all around the edge to seal. Use the pastry trimmings to make leaves or flowers or whatever takes your fancy, and glue them in place with the egg wash. Make a hole in the centre so that steam can escape. Chill the pie in the fridge for half an hour.

Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7. Brush with egg wash and place in the oven. After 10–15 minutes, when the pastry is golden brown, reduce the heat to 190°C/375°F/Gas 5. Continue baking for a further 20–25 minutes. Serve hot.

Jicama

Sometimes the best place to hide something is in a place so obvious that no-one but those in the know think to look there. Jicama is just such a cleverly hidden secret, for sale openly in our towns and cities, if only you know where to look. No point asking for it in supermarkets, in farm shops, in greengrocers, in farmers’ markets. No point in asking for it by this name, either, even if you have the finest South American accent – ‘hee-kah-ma’. You must, instead, replace it with a far duller name: yam bean. This is odd because it is neither yam, nor bean, and bears no resemblance to either.

It looks something like a chunky turnip, with a matt mid-brown skin. In other words, it has a thoroughly undistinguished appearance, which makes hiding it all the easier. The place to look, in this innocent game of vegetable hide and seek, is in the vegetable racks of a Chinese supermarket, where you are virtually guaranteed to discover a plentiful supply of jicama/yam bean.

Apart from the fun of the game, there is a point to tracking down a jicama or two. The point is that they are so good to eat, and so different to most other vegetables. Under the worthy brown skin, the flesh is a clean pure white. It tastes, when raw, something like green peas, and has the consistency of a large radish, juicy and crunchy and refreshing.

Practicalities
BUYING

If a choice is to be had, opt for medium-sized jicama – larger ones will have begun to develop a mealier texture, which though not unpleasant is less enticing. They should be firm all over, with a matt brown skin. The skin should be unbroken – cuts or bruises suggest that rot may have set in.

In the vegetable drawer of the fridge, a jicama will last for up to a week, even when cut (cover the cut edge with clingfilm to prevent drying out). To use, you need do no more than cut out a chunk, pare off the fibrous skin, and slice or cube the white flesh.

COOKING

Raw jicama is a brilliant addition to a summer salad, but my favourite

way to eat it is Mexican style. In other words, dry-fry equal quantities of coriander and cumin seeds, grind to a powder and add cayenne to taste. Arrange the sliced jicama on a plate, squeeze over lime juice and sprinkle with the spice mixture and a little salt, before finishing with a few coriander leaves. That’s it. When they are at their ripest, I add slices of orange-fleshed melon to the jicama, which makes it even more luscious. Batons of raw jicama are an excellent addition to a selection of crudités served with hummus or other creamy dips.

Jicama responds well to stir-frying, too, again on its own with just garlic and ginger to spice it up, or with other vegetables. It needs 3–4 minutes in the wok to soften it partially, without losing the sweet crunchiness entirely.

Kumara

It isn’t too clever to sell two different vegetables by the same name, even when they look virtually identical. However, for many years that is just what has been happening. When I was a child, the sweet potatoes that my mother brought home as an occasional treat were always white fleshed and we just adored them: roasted in their jackets until tender, then eaten slathered with salted butter.

More recently sweet potatoes have turned orange and soggy. In truth it is not a miraculous transformation, just that one (in my opinion slightly inferior) variety has replaced t’other. For a few transitionary years, you had no idea which you were buying, unless you scratched away the skin to inspect the underlying colour. Anyone with the slightest bit of sense would have seen that these vegetables should be called by different names, and at last that seems to have happened, with the happy reintroduction of the white-fleshed sweet potato, a.k.a. the kumara, to this country.

The word ‘kumara’ comes from the Maori name for the white-fleshed Ipomoea batatas. They are, as you might well infer from this, extremely popular in New Zealand, and indeed in many places around the Pacific. Their country of origin is thought to be Mexico, where roast kumara are sold by street vendors, to be anointed with condensed milk and eaten as a pudding rather than a vegetable. Try it some time and see how good it is.

Kumara is also the sweet potato used widely in the Caribbean for making pies and dumplings. The orange-fleshed sweet potato is not a good substitute here, as the flesh is too watery and lacks the necessary starch to bind ingredients together.

So the point that I’m trying to make is this: kumara are downright gorgeous and you really should try them if you haven’t already. They are still not exactly commonplace but at least one of the larger supermarket chains is importing them regularly, and you may well find them in Caribbean food stores. Go search and you will be well rewarded.

Practicalities
BUYING

If you have the choice, pick out kumara that are on the larger side, with firm, smooth, dark pink-brown skin. Bruises and soft patches, as always, warn you to steer clear. Cut ends will be a dirty greyish colour, but don’t let this bother you – it’s just a spot of oxidisation, not a sign of something disturbing.

Kumara like to be kept in a cool, airy, dark spot, which is not the fridge. Over-chilled kumara develop a tougher centre, at least that’s what producers say. In practice, I’ve found that a day or two in the fridge doesn’t make any noticeable difference to the texture once cooked, which is handy if you don’t happen to have a cool, airy, dark spot to hand. Better the fridge, I find, than a warm kitchen where they are likely to start sprouting.

Longer term storage (they should keep nicely for up to a fortnight) and you really ought to treat them as they prefer – try wrapping them individually in a couple of sheets of newspaper to exclude light and absorb any humidity in the air.

COOKING

In terms of preparation, remarkably little is required. Give them a rinse, trim off discoloured ends and voilà, one kumara ready for the pot.

Or the oven. Which is exactly where you should start if you have never eaten kumara before. Just don’t stall there, as many people do. Yes, baked kumara are delicious, but that’s first base. You bake them just as if they were ordinary potatoes, in other words, prick the skin and then put them straight into the oven at somewhere around 180–200°C/350–400°F/Gas 4–6. Size will dictate how long they take to cook, but think in the region of 45–60 minutes. Split them open and serve with salted butter, or flaked Parmesan or Cheddar, or a great big dollop of Greek-style yoghurt. Remember that if you are eating them with the main course, you will need to partner them with something salty – I find that they are rather good with bacon, or even with tapenade. Excellent, too, with sausages.

Americans and New Zealanders like to surmount their baked kumara with other sweet things like pineapple, grated apple or dates (hmmm), or drizzle orange juice over them, which makes far more sense to me.

So, once you’ve done the oven experience, it’s time to move on. Kumara can be cooked in most of the ways that suit potatoes, i.e. sautéed, chipped, roast, mashed or boiled (a bit dull, frankly). Additionally, kumara can even be eaten raw, or transformed into pudding. I’ve tried it raw, grated into a salad. It’s okay, but not something to write home about. Pudding, on the other hand, is a natural end for the chestnutty kumara. Think that’s odd? Just try making a kumara fool (see recipes) and then tell me that it’s not pretty impressive.

PARTNERS

In recent days, I’ve sautéed cubes of kumara with diced spicy chorizo, which was very successful, and then taken more sautéed kumara and tossed it with rocket and feta and a vigorous lime juice, chilli and sunflower oil dressing to serve as a first course. Mashed kumara are good on their own, seasoned fully to balance the sweetness, or speckled with finely chopped spring onion or coriander. I rather fancy a smoked haddock fish cake held together with cooked kumara (slightly more smoked haddock than kumara, I think), though I haven’t tried it yet.

Also good, and I say this from experience, is a kumara cake – just substitute grated kumara for the carrot in the recipe on page 28. Fantastic.

SEE ALSO SWEET POTATOES (PAGE 91).

Smoky Parmesan roasted kumara cubes

Just damn gorgeous, these are. They’re wolfed down by one and all whenever I make them. There is something utterly irresistible about the combination of sweet kumara with a salty, crisp cheesy crust and a hint of hot smoke from the Spanish pimentón. They probably should go with something (a real burger, perhaps, or roast pheasant) but you might just make them as a snack when the right moment comes.

Serves 6

600g (1 lb 5oz) kumara

30g (1 oz) Parmesan, freshly grated

1 heaped teaspoon Spanish smoked paprika (pimentón)

3 tablespoons olive oil

salt

Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6. Cut the kumara into 2 cm (scant 1 in) cubes. Blanch in boiling salted water for 4 minutes, then drain thoroughly. Toss with the Parmesan, paprika, salt and oil.

Put a roasting tin or baking tray in the oven for 5 minutes to heat through really well. Take out of the oven and quickly tip the kumara on to the hot tray. Spread out in a single layer, then dash it back into the oven before the tray loses any more heat. Roast for 20 minutes, turning once, until golden brown and tender. Eat while still hot, but not so hot that they burn your mouth.

Kumara crème brûlée

The Brits tend to like their kumara and sweet potato served along with the main course, salted and savoury, but they are in fact sweet and suave enough to work nicely in puddings. And if you don’t believe me, just give this one a try.

Mashed with cream and eggs, kumara become as smooth as butter. Add a little heat and they bake to form a tender custardy mixture that is perfect topped with a crisp crust of sugar. Although many traditional recipes partner them with cinnamon and other warm spices, I prefer to add vanilla to highlight their chestnut-like taste.

Serves 6–8

1 kg (21/4 lb) kumara, give or take

30g (1 oz) unsalted butter

30g (1 oz) caster sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

200 ml (7 floz) whipping cream

4 egg yolks

To finish

caster sugar

Bake the kumara in their skins just as if they were potatoes, or peel and boil until tender and drain thoroughly.

Preheat the oven (or reduce the temperature if you’ve baked the kumara) to 140°C/275°F/Gas 1. Weigh out 350g (12oz) of the hot kumara flesh, then mash with the butter and sugar until smooth. Now stir in the vanilla, cream and egg yolks. Divide among 6–8 ramekins. Stand them in a roasting tin and pour enough water into the tin to come about 2 cm (scant 1 in) up the sides of the ramekins. Place in the oven and leave to cook for about 40 minutes until just firm. Take out of the oven and lift the ramekins out of the hot water, then cool, cover and chill in the fridge.

Up to 2 hours before eating, preheat the grill thoroughly. Sprinkle the surface of each baked kumara custard with a thick layer of caster sugar, then place under the grill. Don’t get them too close to the heat – as with any crème brûlée, they need to be close enough for the heat to melt the sugar, but not so close that it burns before it liquefies and caramelises. As the sugar begins to melt, turn the custards every few minutes so that they caramelise fairly evenly. Take out and leave to cool and set. Eat with a little whipped cream.

Kumara fool

Make as for the crème brûlées above, but leave out the egg yolks and beat in a little more cream. Don’t cook the mixture – just spoon into bowls and serve as it is.

Oca

Will the oca ever make it big in Europe? It ought to. It could…and I for one will be cheering when it does. This small tuber grows well enough here, but its real home is far, far away, up in the chilly heights of the Andes. And in Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru it is rated almost as highly as its compatriot, the potato. I first came across oca in a market north of Quito, the capital of Ecuador. It was the last stop of our holiday, so back came my haul of oca in the suitcase (smuggled in, if you must). We ate some, we grew some. We loved them. Almost end of story.

In fact that would have been the end, if I hadn’t spotted oca for sale here at home a couple of times in the past decade. If you are blessed enough to stumble across a rare basket of oca up for grabs, take them at once. The flavour of the fresh tuber lies somewhere between that of a new potato and a tart green apple, with a mealy, soft texture. Very good and just unusual enough to be interesting, without being weird.

The tart, appley tang comes courtesy of a splash of oxalic acid. If this sounds dismaying, reflect that this same acid gives rhubarb its distinctive sourness, far more astringent than the humble oca. Mind you, there are literally hundreds of varieties of oca grown down the backbone of the Andes and they vary from highly acidic to incredibly mild. The sharper varieties are not eaten fresh, but given a ‘soleado’, or a sunning. Left out in the sunshine for up to two weeks, the acidity dampens right down and starches turn to sugars. The result is an even smaller tuber, but with a startling sweetness closer to a sweet potato than any mouth-puckering stem of pink rhubarb. Dehydrated and frozen oca, known as ‘chaya’, are stashed away for leaner times.

The oca has travelled less than many vegetables, but it has at least dashed across the oceans to New Zealand where it is grown commercially in a small way. Here it is known simply as the New Zealand yam, despite not being a yam at all, or Maori potato, or more interestingly, as ‘uwhikaho’, or ‘uwhi’ for short.

Practicalities
BUYING

The commonest of oca, the ones that I’ve come across, are relatively small – say about 10cm (4in) long – have a waxy reddish skin and a crinkled form. In fact, they look a little like pink fir apple potatoes. Unlike most vegetables, freshness is not critical. Smooth skinned, plump oca will be gifted with a more distinct note of acidity than those that are beginning to shrivel a little having had time to develop more sweetness. In other words, this is a two-in-one vegetable, which is a rare and delightful gift from Mother Nature. So, as long as they have been stored well, wrinkles are not to be derided. Soft damp patches or worse still, a hint of mould, are not good things on the other hand. However, since you are not likely to come across oca frequently, you can’t really afford to be too choosy. Just throw out any that are beyond saving.

Oca, as you may well have inferred, keep well in the right conditions. The vegetable drawer in the fridge is just fine, but if the sun is shining, you might prefer to spread them out on trays outside (cover with muslin if you have some to hand, to protect from flies) to sweeten up a little. You can even freeze them – not a bad idea if you’ve found a rare clutch of oca for sale. As with any other vegetable, damp is destructive, so keep them dry.

COOKING

Oca can be eaten raw, especially the sweeter sunned ones, say in a salad, or cut into strips to dip into a chillied tomatoey dip perhaps. I prefer them cooked, exactly as you would a potato. In other words, rinse them, trim off ends, but don’t even attempt to peel. Then boil them in salted water until tender. They can also be roasted in the oven, coated in a little olive oil to prevent drying out, or steamed, or sautéed. They make heavenly crisps, but perhaps that is something to save for a time when oca have hit the big time and are as widely available here as they are in the highlands of Ecuador.

Parsnips

The parsnip is an honest vegetable. No airs and graces, no pretensions to grandeur, no fancy frills and ribbons. It has a solid sunny nature, the kind that one can rely on time and time again. You can trust a parsnip – trust it to come out well, to cook up nicely, to sit comfortably alongside most winter dishes. Your parsnip doesn’t fade into the background – there’s no doubting its presence – just takes a comfortable stance amongst the other elements on a plate.

I like parsnips a lot, saving them for the colder months of the year, which in the past was the only time when you ever got them. Until recently, no parsnip was worth eating if it hadn’t been touched by a frost or two. Now we get them all year round. That’s modern varieties for you. So maybe I’m being a stick-in-the-mud when I ignore summer parsnips, invariably perfectly shaped and clean as a whistle. Although I know that you can, for instance, make a handsome salad with lightly cooked parsnips, I’m really not that interested when the sun is hot, or even tepid, in the way of so many summer days.

Parsnip is a comfort vegetable, one that rides to the rescue when the courgettes have long since swelled to marrows. Plain buttered parsnip is nice, mashed parsnip good, parsnip crisps excellent and roast parsnips totally irresistible. Frosts may no longer be crucial to the success of the parsnip, but nature has a habit of getting things right. Parsnips are definitely better adapted to cold weather, natural fodder for us humans when the cold weather sets in, but well out of kilter with the warmth of summer.

Practicalities
BUYING

Most of my adult life, I’ve bought parsnips from either a greengrocer, or from the supermarket, clean as a whistle and ready to cook. I’ve never been disappointed. Until recently. Until I signed up for a weekly veg box and began to receive the occasional helping of dirty parsnips amongst other vegetables. They have been something of a revelation, inducing retrospective disappointment for all those parsnips that have fallen short of these paragons over the years. Yes, I am now convinced that it is worth scrubbing the jacket of earth off those long ivory roots, just for the exquisite flavour that lies underneath. These have been the best parsnips I have ever encountered, putting all others in the shade. That mucky soil coating does indeed keep flavour locked in, just like my mum always said (actually, she was usually talking about potatoes, but the theory is the same). Look out for the muckiest roots you can find next time you visit a winter farmers’ market and leap on them with glee. As long as the dirt is not there to mask stale parsnips pulled far too long before from the ground, I have no doubt that you will notice the improved taste.

The trouble with this, of course, is that nice, neat, scrubbed parsnips will begin to disappoint. Nothing to be done about that. If you can’t buy them dirty, buy them clean and be sure to pick out roots that are firm and not too heavily blemished. They’ll keep for a few days, but not as long as carrots, I find. Flabby, aged parsnips are not only dull in taste, but also a complete pain to prepare. Put them in the compost bin and vow not to forget about good parsnips again.

COOKING

I like my parsnips peeled, but with organic ones this is not strictly necessary, especially if you have very small parsnips that can be cooked whole. What is necessary with sizeable parsnips is the disposal of the woody core. Cut the fatter parts of the parsnips in quarters lengthways and lop out the white heart – another candidate for the compost bin – before cooking.

Most recipes for parsnips begin with a spell in boiling water (just long enough to soften, but not so long that they go mushy) but after that they will almost certainly demand something more. ‘Kind words butter no parsnips’ is an old saying, distinctly out of vogue in the 21st century when kind words are considered essential to the development of children, dogs and houseplants. But way back when it was heard tripping from the tongues of the wise and wealthy, toughness was an altogether more praiseworthy quality for training the young and the wayward. The point here is the essential buttering of those parsnips. There is no debate on this issue. Parsnips, lovely vegetables that they are, are magically enhanced by lashings of butter or good oil, or dripping, or cream: butter on boiled parsnips, cream and/or butter in mashed parsnips, goose fat or oil and a touch of butter for roast parsnips.

The soft, starchy nature of parsnips makes them candidates for any sort of mashing or puréeing. Straight parsnip mash is perhaps too intensely sweet for most tastes – I find it nicer mashed with, say, half the volume of cooked potatoes, as well, of course, as butter, milk or cream, salt and a heavy dose of freshly grated nutmeg, or a few pinches of cinnamon. Parsnip and potato mash makes a fine topping for old-fashioned cottage, shepherd’s or fish pie.

Alternatively, you could purée the parsnip with plenty of thick béchamel sauce, again softening the total parsnip essence. This mixture can be turned into a gratin of sorts, by mixing in an egg or two, spreading out thickly in an ovenproof dish, scattering the top with freshly grated Parmesan mixed with equal quantities of breadcrumbs plus a few dots of butter and then sliding the whole lot into a hot oven to cook until browned and bubbling. Very good indeed.

Parsnip soups are terrific too, made along classic soup lines, pepped up with curry (see recipes) or with fresh root ginger, cut half in half with apple or pear, or aromatised with lemon thyme. Croûtons or crisp grilled bacon or pancetta are excellent with parsnip soups.

My mother occasionally treated us to Saratoga chips. ‘Saratoga chips’ was the original name for potato crisps, supposedly invented by a disgruntled chef in the town of Saratoga, but my mother’s Saratoga chips were proper British chips, made with parsnip. Great name, great treat. Parboil ‘chips’ of parsnip, being really, really attentive so that they don’t overcook to a pap. Drain well and dry, then deep-fry until golden brown and serve sprinkled with grains of salt. So good. Parsnip fritters are pretty appealing too – again parboil pieces of parsnip, then dip into either a beer batter or a tempura batter and deep-fry until crisp and golden brown. Serve with wedges of lemon, and salt flavoured with crushed toasted cumin. For a smarter starter fritter, cube par-cooked parsnip and stir into the beer batter along with roughly chopped small shelled prawns or shrimps, then fry spoonfuls in hot oil until golden brown.

I often add parsnips to stews, just 20 minutes or so before the stew finishes cooking so that they have time to absorb some of the flavours, but not so long that they collapse. They are good in a chicken stew, but even better in an earthy beef stew.

And finally, try baking a parsnip cake – replace the carrots with grated parsnips in the recipe on page 28. You’ll be amazed at how good the cake is, and you can keep your family and friends guessing the mystery ingredient for hours.

Tortilla-wrapped refried parsnips

Tortilla night at Hacienda Grigson, but madre mia, no beans to refry!!! And then we thought – wait a moment, hold on, but wouldn’t the starchy texture of parsnips work rather well as a substitute? And you know what, they were better than a mere substitute, bringing a welcome new vigour to what has become one of my family’s favourite suppers.

The parsnips, incidentally, can be cooked and mashed with their spices and onion way before they are needed, then gently reheated just before serving. The salsa positively benefits from being made an hour or so in advance, leaving time for the flavours to meld and develop.

Serves 4

750g (1lb 10oz) parsnips

2 teaspoons cumin seeds

1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 small onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, crushed

salt and pepper

Salsa

250g (9 oz) sweet tomatoes, deseeded and finely chopped

1 shallot, finely chopped

1 clove garlic, crushed

1–2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

2 tablespoons chopped coriander leaves

juice of 1 lime

To serve

8 corn tortillas

125g (41/2 oz) feta cheese, crumbled

6 crisp young lettuce leaves, shredded

pickled jalapeño chillies

1 avocado, peeled, sliced and tossed in a little extra lime juice

150ml (5floz) soured cream

For the salsa, merely mix all the ingredients together, then set aside at room temperature.

Prepare the parsnips as normal and cut into big chunks. Bring a pan of water to the boil (not too big, please) and stir in half the cumin seeds, all the turmeric and some salt. Now add the parsnip pieces and cook until tender. Drain, reserving some of the cooking water.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan and fry the onion with the garlic and remaining cumin seeds until tender. Pile in the parsnips and, as they sizzle in the oil, mash them up roughly with a large fork. After about 3–4 minutes, add 3 tablespoons of the cooking water to moisten them, and carry on frying and mashing for a few more minutes until you end up with a thick, fragrant, rough mash, golden and appetising.

Just before serving, wrap the corn tortillas in foil and heat through in a low oven, or alternatively wrap in clingfilm and heat through in the microwave (check packet for timings). Put all the other extras into separate bowls and place them on the table, along with the salsa. Spoon the parsnips into a bowl and place on the table along with the hot tortillas.

It’s all ready to go now. Each diner takes a tortilla and adds a big spoonful of parsnip mash, spreading it roughly down the diameter of the tortilla, then tops it with as much cheese, salsa, lettuce, extra chillies, avocado and soured cream as they fancy. Then that lucky person just rolls it all up and takes a great big bite.

Parsnip and ham gratin

This is a terrific supper dish. Ham and parsnip are happy bedfellows, but need a good dose of spiky mustard in the sauce to bring them to life.

Serves 4

8 wee parsnips, or 4 big chunky parsnips

15g (1/2 oz) butter

8 slices very nice cooked ham indeed

30g (1 oz) Parmesan, freshly grated

Sauce

30g (1 oz) butter

30g (1 oz) plain flour

600 ml (1 pint) milk

2 tablespoons coarse-grain or Dijon mustard

salt, pepper and freshly grated nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6.

Peel the parsnips. Boil small ones whole until just tender. With great big boys, you’ll need to quarter them lengthways and cut out the tough cores, before boiling them until just tender. As soon as the parsnips are cooked, drain, run under the cold tap and then drain again, really, really thoroughly.

To make the sauce, melt the butter and stir in the flour. Stir over a gentle heat for about 1 minute, then draw off the heat. Gradually stir in the milk, just a slurp at a time until you have a thick, smooth cream, then add more generously, stirring it in well each time. Bring back to the boil, stirring and scraping the bottom and sides of the pan. Let the sauce simmer genteely now, for a good 5–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until thickened pleasingly. Mix in the mustard, salt, pepper and a keen grating of nutmeg. Taste and adjust the seasoning.

Butter a baking dish with a little of the 15g (¹/₂ oz) butter, and spoon a little of the sauce into the dish. Wrap the small parsnips individually in slices of ham. With the larger, quartered ones, wrap two quarters together in each slice of ham. Lay the rolls of ham and parsnip side by side in the dish, then pour over the remaining sauce. Sprinkle the Parmesan evenly over the top, dot with the remaining butter and slide into the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes, until golden brown and bubbling. Serve straightaway.

Thai-curried parsnip soup

Many moons ago, sometime in the 1970s, my mother, the food writer Jane Grigson, came up with a great idea – curried parsnip soup. It’s an idea that has gone mainstream, with variations and personalisations aplenty. This is my homage to her brilliant and innovative concept. As with her original, the wonderful sweetness of parsnip is balanced and beautified by the use of spices – this time round it’s ginger and lemongrass, aided by frisky doses of lime and fish sauce.

Serves 3–4

2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil

2 fresh red chillies, deseeded and chopped

500g (1 lb 2oz) parsnips, peeled, roughly cut up and cored if necessary

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

2.5cm (1in) piece fresh root ginger or galangal, peeled and chopped

2 stems lemongrass

300–450ml (10–15floz) vegetable or chicken stock

2 tablespoons fish sauce

1 × 400ml can coconut milk

juice of 1 lime

a handful of coriander leaves

a handful of Thai or Mediterranean basil leaves

a handful of mint

Put the oil, chillies, parsnips, onion, garlic and ginger (or galangal) into a fairly large pan. Cut off and discard the top of each stem of lemongrass, leaving the lower, fatter 10cm (4in) or so. Using either a meat mallet, the end of a rolling pin or the flat of a wide-bladed knife (press down on it firmly with your fist), semi-flatten the lemongrass stems so that they stay more or less in one piece, but are sufficiently damaged to release their extraordinary flavour. Add them to the pan. Give the contents a quick stir, then cover and place over a gentle heat. Leave to sweat gently, checking once, for about 10 minutes.

Now add the lower quantity of stock and the fish sauce. Bring up to the boil, then simmer quietly, uncovered, for 10–15 minutes until the parsnip is very tender. Fish out the lemongrass and stir in the coconut milk, then liquidise the soup, adding some or all of the remaining stock if you find the soup too thick.

When nearly ready to eat, reheat the soup. Stir in the lime juice, then taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more fish sauce if it tastes under-salted. Mix the fresh herbs together, roughly tearing up larger leaves of basil or mint. As you serve the hot soup, top each bowlful with a small mound of fresh herbs.

Potatoes

Some vegetables go in and out of fashion. The potato just stays put, miraculously straddling fashion and permanence without stumbling. Rather like Shakespeare, but with a far broader fan-base. It has a fascinating but well-documented history which I shall skate over blithely: originating in the Andes, hitting Europe in the 16th century, greeted with deep suspicion but eventually taking root big time, both literally and metaphorically, unwitting cause of the Irish famine. I would go into more detail, but as a subject the potato deserves a book of its own, and many excellent tomes have already been written on the subject. Search one out, read and marvel at this most extraordinary of commonplace items.

Practicalities
BUYING

Much of what follows will be well known to anyone who cooks or eats, but read on if you have time, for hidden away amongst the general knowledge you may find a few useful hints.

More and more, in farm shops and the few remaining specialist greengrocers, sellers are having the courtesy to let us know the varietal name of the potatoes they sell. This is a good thing, and supermarkets have done their best to emulate it. Why shouldn’t we choose potatoes in the way that we choose apples? Sure, we may not be able to hold the specific attributes of ten different types of potato in our head at all times, but there’s pleasure to be had in stumbling across a favoured variety, that we know tastes good, and pleasure to be had in discovering that whilst one variety is fluffy and dry fleshed, another is smoother and waxier and has a distinct undertone of almonds.

Broadly speaking potatoes fall into two main categories, each more suited to certain styles of cooking than others. The dominant category is that of the maincrop potatoes, larger to very large, with a drier, mealy flesh, in season from late summer onwards into the cold months. Smaller but highly valued are the waxy potatoes, a group that includes junior new potatoes as well as what are known as ‘salad potatoes’ which retain their dense waxy texture right into maturity. The rightful season of the new potato is from late spring through to midsummer by which time they are tipping from adolescence into maincrop adulthood. Salad potatoes are harvested later, from maybe July on into the autumn.

Of course, these seasons for potatoes are now all but obliterated. Modern farming methods, imports and long storage mean that we can and do enjoy any sort of potato at any time of the year. And yet…there is a natural harmony (as always) in the old-fangled seasons. In winter we crave all those warm, caressing comfort dishes that can only be made with maincrop potatoes – steaming jacket potatoes, creamy mash, crisp-coated roasties or finger-burning fresh-fried chips. Then as the ground warms, food lightens and new and salad potatoes are in the ascendant, so exactly right with a piece of poached salmon, or grilled chicken breast, or thick slices of ham with a zesty salad. Nothing then supersedes the rightness of a good potato salad, critical side dish at a barbecue, on a picnic and at a summer wedding.

Choosing the right potato for the job in hand is important, although all rules are made to be broken. Just get to know them first, before you attempt flagrant breaches. In other words use chunky maincrop potatoes for: baking, mashing, boiling, roasting, deep-frying, sautéing, adding to doughs to lighten them (e.g. in potato bread, or potato scones), gratins and so on. Save new potatoes for: boiling, salads, sautéing, gratins, and roasting whole. Yes, there are overlaps, but the results will differ with the potato variety used.

I’ve had to concede, reluctantly, that my mother was right when she insisted that one should always buy dirty potatoes. A thin jacket of dried-on muck does indeed seem to preserve flavour to some extent. Not critical, but a bonus if you are prepared to spend a couple of extra minutes at the sink scrubbing them clean. Dirt or no dirt, glance over potatoes as you pick them out to ensure that they are free from bruised machinery gashes, mouldering patches (a sign of poor storage), sprouting shoots, and above all patches of green. That charming green coloration tells you that the potatoes have been exposed to light for too long, thus developing poisonous toxins. Not a good thing.

Maincrop and salad potatoes can be kept for some time in the right conditions (a dark, cool, dry place) but new potatoes have a short shelf life. Eat them within a few days of purchase to enjoy them at their best. Don’t leave either sort of potato in a closed plastic bag for any longer than is necessary – moisture will gather in its folds, and sooner or later your potatoes will start to rot.

Don’t keep potatoes in the fridge, or at least not for more than a day or two. In the icy claustrophobic atmosphere, the starches in the potato mutate into sugars, which, while not cataclysmic, is not really appropriate for most potato dishes.

COOKING

With their light flavour, and engaging textures, there is no end to the ways in which one can use potatoes. Potato recipes abound right around the globe, in each region gilding the basic lily with characteristic local ingredients to mould them into the local cuisine. They are just so darned versatile, a word that I loathe, but which is absolutely right in this context. For this reason I’m not going to list a chapter of ideas for how to embellish potatoes. Once you can make silky mash, bake jacket potatoes, turn out perfect crisp roast potatoes, sauté diced potatoes, and conjure up a mean potato salad, you will have mastered all the essential techniques you need to create almost any potato dish ever invented. The rest, frankly, is just a question of exercising your curiosity and imagination.

Mash

The marvellous yet confusing thing about making mashed potatoes is that there is no absolute one-and-only ideal recipe. I happen to think that perfect mashed potatoes are as smooth as silk, not quite runny, but nowhere near stiff, with plenty of nutmeg and butter to boot. You may disagree. Once you are in control of the basics, however, you can adjust method, ingredients and quantities endlessly to suit your own credo.

My mum always baked potatoes for mash and so do I – the flesh is drier and has a more distinct flavour. Microwaved potatoes are good too. Boiling comes next in line, as long as you use evenly sized potatoes and boil them in their skins. As soon as they are drained, cover with a clean tea-towel and leave to steam-dry for 5–10 minutes before peeling off the skins. Don’t peel potatoes and cut into chunks before boiling – they will just get waterlogged and lose much of their taste to the water, producing a dull, flat-tasting mash.

Good varieties for mashing are King Edward, Maris Piper, Golden Wonder, and Kerr’s Pink (my favourite), amongst others.

Mashed potatoes are a perfect receptor for all kinds of extra, zippy ingredients – try stirring in some coarse-grain mustard or a spoonful of creamed horseradish. The Irish love to add chopped spring onions softened in butter or cooked cabbage, or you could go ultra modern and mix in roughly chopped rocket leaves and the finely grated zest of a lemon.

Serves 4

1kg (21/4 lb) floury maincrop potatoes

115 g (4oz) butter, at room temperature

150–300ml (5–10floz) hot milk, or a mixture of milk and cream

salt and freshly grated nutmeg

Either bake or boil the potatoes in their skins (see above). Halve baked potatoes while still warm and scoop their flesh out into a bowl. Save skins for making crisp-roast potato skins (see page 75). Peel boiled potatoes while still warm and place in a bowl. Add the butter.

Now the mashing itself. For a really smooth mash use one of the following methods:

a) push the potato little by little through a potato ricer

b) rub the potato through a vegetable mill (mouli-légumes)

c) mash roughly with a fork, then whisk with a hand-held electric whisk until light and fluffy

d) mash roughly with a fork, then rub through a sieve.

Scrape the puréed potato into a saucepan and place over a gentle heat. Add plenty of seasoning and about a third of the hot milk (or milk and cream). Beat hard with a wooden spoon, gradually adding more milk until the mash hits the kind of consistency that sets your mouth watering. Taste and adjust seasoning, and serve.

Sage and onion mash

Chop 1 onion and fry in a little butter or oil until golden brown. Cover 10 leaves of fresh sage with boiling water (to release more flavour). Drain immediately, dry the leaves and chop roughly. Stir sage and onions into a bowl of hot mash made as above.

Roast potatoes

Perfect roast potatoes with a crackling crisp crust masking a melting, fluffy interior are rarer than they should be. The method is not hard, but it requires some forethought. The potatoes must be par-cooked in advance, then roughed up in order to develop that irresistible golden brown, crusty exterior.

If you are cooking a roast, don’t tuck the potatoes around the meat, but roast them in a separate tin, large enough to spread the potatoes out in an even single layer, not jam-packed in tightly.

The best fats to use are melted lard or dripping (without the jelly), olive oil or sunflower oil or, best of all, goose fat (available in cans and jars). I prefer to use either Cara potatoes, which have a smooth texture, or end-of-season large new potatoes, but for a fluffier interior head for the old faithfuls – King Edward, Maris Piper, Désirée, Estima and their kin.

Serves 4

1.3 kg (3 lb) large potatoes

6 tablespoons goose fat, lard, olive oil or sunflower oil

salt

Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6.

Peel the potatoes and cut into medium-sized chunks – say about 5 cm (2 in) across. Cook in boiling salted water until three-quarters cooked – around 5–6 minutes. Drain thoroughly. Use a fork to scratch criss-cross lines all over the surfaces of each chunk of potato, roughing up the exterior so that it crisps perfectly.

Put the fat in a large roasting tin and slide into the oven. Heat through for 5–8 minutes. Quickly take the tin out and add the potatoes. Turn so that they are all coated in hot fat. Return immediately to the oven. Roast for about 40–50 minutes, turning the potatoes after the first 25 minutes and then again once or twice more, until they are browned and crisp all over.

Serve straightaway.

Chips

Who doesn’t love chips? And the best chips of all are those you make at home, from scratch. Frying up a batch of real chips is not something you will want to do every day, but as an occasional treat they’re worth every moment of standing over a hot pan.

Chips are fried twice, the first time at a gentle heat to just soften them right through to the centre, the second time at a higher heat to brown the outside. You can do the first batch of frying ahead of time, but leave the second hot, hot, hot session until just before serving. If you use an electric deep-fryer the temperatures are easy to gauge. If you don’t then it is worth investing in a food thermometer.

Good varieties for chips include King Edward, Maris Piper and Désirée. Cara give a slightly waxier texture which I love but if you prefer a fluffier centre stick with one of the first three.

Serves 3–4

3 large potatoes

sunflower or vegetable oil for deep-frying

salt

Peel the potatoes and cut into slices about 1 cm (¹/₂ in) thick. Cut lengthways into batons of about the same thickness. Cover with cold water to prevent browning, until you are almost ready to cook them.

Set the oil to heat up. The right heat for the first fry is 150°C/300°F. Drain the potatoes then dry them thoroughly on kitchen paper or clean tea-towels. Deep-fry in several batches so that the temperature of the oil is not lowered too much, allowing them to cook for about 4 minutes, without browning, until tender right through. Drain on kitchen paper and leave to cool.

Just before serving, reheat the oil, this time to 180°C/350°F. Deep-fry the chips, again in batches, until golden brown.

The only thing you need to do now is drain and salt the chips. The best way to do this is in a large brown paper bag. Yes, honestly. Tip the chips into the bag, add plenty of salt, fold over the top and shake – the bag absorbs excess fat, and the salt gets evenly distributed. If you don’t have a brown paper bag to hand, drain the chips briefly on a triple layer of kitchen paper, then sprinkle with salt. Serve straightaway while still good and hot.

Baked potatoes

Baked potatoes are fabulous comfort food, and so easy. Just pop them into a hot oven when you get home from work, go and have a bath or a glass of wine, or whatever unwinds you after a hard day, then an hour later they emerge, steaming hot, crisp outside and gorgeously tender inside. Whether you dish them up as the main part of a meal with a sumptuous topping, or as a side order, baked potatoes are warming and reassuring, and of course, they taste just fine too.

For each person you need one large baking potato – any large maincrop potato will do the job nicely. Prick the skin all over with a fork to prevent it bursting during cooking. Now you have choices to make. You can a) leave the potato just as it is, or b) dampen it and rub salt into the skin – this gives a deliciously salty skin – or c) rub oil all over the skin, to make the skin crisper, or d) go for both oil and salt or e) wrap the potato in foil for a tender, soft-skinned potato.

Once you’ve reached a decision and finished preparing your potato, bake for 50–60 minutes or until tender right through. Test by pushing a skewer into the centre. Once the potato is cooked, cover with a cloth and let it sit for 5 minutes before cutting open – this makes the flesh fluffier and lighter.

One final point – if you’re rushed for time, push a skewer lengthways through the centre of the potato before putting it into the oven. The skewer conducts heat directly to the centre of the potato so that it cooks more quickly.

Roast new potatoes with thyme and lemon

Little new potatoes are delicious roasted in the oven. They cook to a wonderful, melting tenderness that is just irresistible. The sharpness of the lemon pieces is particularly good with them.

Serves 4

1 kg (21/4 lb) small new potatoes

6 sprigs thyme

1 lemon

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

salt

Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7. Put the potatoes and thyme in a roasting tin or ovenproof dish – it should be large enough to take them all in a single layer. Cut the lemon into 8 wedges, then cut each wedge into 3 pieces. Add them to the potatoes then drizzle over the olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Turn the potatoes and lemon until all are coated in oil.

Bake for 40–45 minutes, stirring twice during that time, until the potatoes are patched with brown and very tender. Serve hot.

Indian stuffed potato cakes

Wow – these Indian potato cakes are so utterly wonderful, yet they are made with the most ordinary of vegetables: potatoes, carrots, peas and onions. Clever spicing is all it takes, that and a little ingenuity. They are easy to make, look good, and taste even better. I like them just as they are, but if you want to dress them up a little more, adding another beguiling layer of taste, make the sweet sour tamarind and date sauce overleaf to serve with them.

Serves 4 as a main course, 8 as a starter

650g (1 lb 7oz) floury potatoes

40g (11/2 oz) plain flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

vegetable oil for frying

Filling

115g (4 oz) lightly cooked fresh peas or frozen peas, thawed

115g (4 oz) carrots, roughly chopped

1 onion, chopped

1 red or green chilli, deseeded and chopped

2cm (3/4 in) piece fresh root ginger, grated

1 large clove garlic, chopped

11/2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground cumin

juice of 1/2 large lime

2 tablespoons chopped coriander leaves

salt

First boil the potatoes in their skins until tender. Drain, then pull off the skins and mash the potatoes thoroughly. Work in the flour and salt to form a malleable ‘pastry’. Divide into 16 pieces. Oil your hands lightly. Take one of the pieces of potato dough, roll into a ball, then flatten it to form a circle that’s roughly 8cm (3in) in diameter. Repeat with the rest of the portions and then cover with a tea-towel until needed.

While the potatoes are cooking, make the filling. Pile all the vegetables, chilli, ginger and garlic into the processor and pulse until finely chopped, but not so fine that they form a purée. Heat the oil in a frying pan and add the chopped veg. Stir over a moderate heat for about 5 minutes, then stir in the cinnamon and cumin. Continue cooking for another 5 minutes or so, then season with salt. Take off the heat, cool slightly, then stir in the lime juice and coriander. Taste and adjust seasoning. Divide into 8.

Take one of the circles of potato dough, mound an eighth of the filling in the centre, then cover with a second disc of potato. Pinch the edges together to seal. Roll back into a ball, then flatten slightly to form a potato cake that’s roughly 2.5 cm (1 in) thick. Repeat with the remaining dough and filling.

Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a heavy frying pan over a moderate heat. Lay the potato cakes in the pan, without overcrowding. The oil should sizzle as they come into contact with it. If it is too cool, the cakes will stick to the pan. Leave them to cook – without moving around – for 3–4 minutes, then turn and brown the other side.

Serve while still hot on their own, or with the tamarind and date relish below.

Tamarind and date relish

This is a sweet sharp relish that goes well with all kinds of spicy foods. And with a slice of good cooked ham or a gammon steak. Not spicy, not Indian at all, but a happy match.

Serves 6–8

40 g (11/2 oz) tamarind pulp, or 4 tablespoons ready-made tamarind purée

85g (3oz) stoned dried dates

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1/2teaspoon salt

Put the tamarind pulp, if using, in a bowl and pour over 150ml (5 floz) boiling water. Let it sit and soften for about 20 minutes, then stir and break up. Rub through a sieve and discard pips and fibres.

Put the dates into a saucepan with 300ml (10floz) water and simmer for 10 minutes or until very soft. Sieve the dates and their water to make a thick purée.

Mix with the cumin, coriander, tamarind purée and salt and stir in enough water to make a thick sweet and sour sauce. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Oven-baked potato skins with soured cream, garlic and chive/coriander dip

I like to eat the skin of my baked potatoes, but many people just scoop out the inside. Don’t let the skins go to waste, particularly if they still have a little potato flesh clinging to them. Coated lightly in oil and baked in a hot oven they crisp up to make a treat of a snack. Restaurants charge a hefty price for the privilege of eating fried potato skins and dips, but at home you can make something just as good for next to nothing.

Serves 2

roughly 200g (7 oz) leftover potato skins

2 tablespoons sunflower oil

salt

Dip

100 ml (31/2 floz) soured cream

2 tablespoons finely chopped chives or coriander

1 clove garlic, crushed

salt

Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7.

Cut the potato skins into wide strips or long tapering triangles. Toss with the oil, making sure that they are evenly coated. Spread out on a baking sheet and bake for 10–15 minutes, turning once, until crisp. Check them regularly as they lurch from perfectly done to burnt all too swiftly.

Meanwhile mix all the dip ingredients together. Scrape into a bowl and place on the table. Serve the hot, crisp potato skins as soon as they come out of the oven, with the soured cream dip.

Cypriot potatoes with red wine and coriander

‘Patates spastes’ is a rather remarkable way of cooking potatoes – and extraordinarily delicious. First the potatoes are cracked open, then deep-fried and then, finally, finished with fragrant coriander seeds and red wine. The result is so good that they are worth cooking and eating just for a snack, though of course they are excellent with any red meat dish.

Serves 4

750g (1 lb 10oz) small new potatoes, scrubbed

sunflower or vegetable oil for deep-frying

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1 heaped tablespoon coriander seeds, coarsely crushed

130ml (41/2 floz) red wine

salt and pepper

Bash each potato with a wooden mallet or the end of a rolling pin, to crack open. Take it easy at first until you get the impact just heavy enough to do the job, without smashing each one to smithereens.

Heat a 4–5 cm (1¹/₂ in) depth of sunflower or vegetable oil in a saucepan, over a moderate heat. It’s hot enough when a cube of bread dropped into it fizzles gently and browns within 1 minute. Wipe the potatoes dry, then deep-fry in batches until golden brown, about 4 minutes. Drain on kitchen paper.

Now get a clean saucepan, and add the olive oil. Set over a low heat and when the oil is warm add the potatoes, coriander, salt and pepper, then at arms’ length, pour over the wine. Stir so that everything is nicely mixed, then cover tightly and leave to cook gently for another 17–20 minutes until the potatoes are tender and the wine has all been absorbed. Shake the pan once in a while, to prevent sticking, and turn the potatoes after about 10 minutes so that they each get a chance to sit in the wine.

Eat the wine-soaked potatoes while still hot and fragrant.

Radishes

There are two ways to look at radishes. The first is as one of life’s more pleasing incidentals, a healthy pre-meal nibble that goes on the table alongside a bowl of olives or crisps or tortilla chips or whatever it is that you present when friends come round to eat. The other is as proper vegetables. Both are valid.

Crisp, peppery little summer radishes are indeed the perfect way to kick-start a meal, bold enough to set the gastric juices flowing, yet barely denting the appetite. They look handsome too, like miniature pink torpedoes, tipped in some instances with a flash of white. These small radishes are just the tip of the iceberg, however. Winter radishes are massive in comparison, and fiery in flavour. Look out for them in markets and farm shops – usually black-skinned and dusty with soil, chunky of girth, tapering to a point, like a shadowy parsnip or carrot. They can be eaten raw, but are not for the faint-hearted. Cooking subdues the peppery power, turning them into a pleasant, juicy vegetable, with a taste reminiscent of turnip minus the brassica tang of sulphur.

Then there are the oriental radishes, typified by the incredibly lengthy, white-skinned mooli or daikon. If you have a yen for Japanese food, then this is the vegetable that is shredded into long crisp threads and piled alongside sushi and sashimi. It is believed to aid digestion, and is used widely throughout Japan. Though you are unlikely to find them in shops, other members of this group can be extraordinarily beautiful. They may not look anything special, but this is a beauty that is more than skin-deep. Cut them in half and you will reveal flashes and circles of stunning pink and purple in many different designs. Usually mild enough to use in salads, these are the radish supermodels. Like human supermodels they are rare and need to be nurtured and supported selflessly. In other words, you will probably have to grow your own, if you want a chance to discover the ultimate potential of the humble radish.

Practicalities
BUYING

Flabbiness is as big a no-no for a radish as it is for a supermodel. Career

ended just like that, new model steps in. The whole raison d’être for a radish is crispness and freshness and vitality. The peppery spice is the added bonus, and that too is spoiled by flabbiness, swiftly developing a nasty sulphurous undertow (radishes are related to cabbages and mustards). One good reason to buy small radishes in bunches is that the leaves give you an instant freshness reading. Do they look lively and bright? Or are they wilting and curling in on themselves? If the latter is the case, they are already past their zenith, heading down the road to flabby doldrums and perhaps there already. The big winter and oriental radishes are rarely sold with leaves, and have a far longer shelf life. They should still be firm, however, without signs of flab or bruising.

COOKING

Use up small radishes within a day or two of buying. To prepare, cut off the leaf (which can be cooked and eaten like spinach) and scrape away the papery flakes of skin around the stalk end. Rinse well and pop into a bowl of cold water. Keep in the fridge until ready to eat, then drain, dry and put out on the table. In France, they are accompanied by a pat of unsalted butter, and a little pot of coarse salt. Smeared with a dab of butter and dipped in salt they are extra good. Alternatively, mix crumbled flaky sea salt with crushed cumin and coriander and dip radishes into the mix to add extra savour.

Small radishes also have a place in the salad bowl. Halve them or slice them, before scattering over fresh summer salads of all sorts. They are particularly good in a potato salad, instead of finely chopped onion, where they add a hint of fire and colour. To cook as a vegetable, either sauté or stir-fry, or braise whole in barely enough water or stock to cover, adding a knob of butter.

The black-skinned winter radish is the one to use for more determined cooking. It needs to be peeled before cooking, then sliced thickly or cut into chunks. It can simply be simmered in boiling salted water, but is best, I find, added to meaty, chunky stews and braised gently in the savoury juices. Oriental radishes may need to be peeled (nibble a little bit first to see if the skin is palatable or not), then they can be sliced or shredded thinly for salads, both western and Asian style. They are also good stir-fried, mixed with other vegetables, or added to stews.

Sea bass with rosemary and radish stuffing

Finely chopped radishes add a gentle peppery touch to a piquant stuffing for roast sea bass.

Serves 4

1 sea bass, weighing around 1–1.5 kg (21/4-31/4lb), scaled and cleaned

olive oil

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

2 tablespoons finely chopped rosemary salt and pepper

Stuffing

8 summer radishes, trimmed and chopped

1 shallot, chopped

1 slice Parma ham or other prosciutto crudo, chopped

1 generous tablespoon olive oil

3 tablespoons slightly stale breadcrumbs

2 teaspoons rinsed capers, roughly chopped

1 tablespoon parsley

To serve

lemon wedges

Preheat the oven to 170°C/325°F/Gas 3.

To make the stuffing, fry the radishes, shallot and ham gently in the olive oil until tender. Mix with all the remaining ingredients, plus some salt and pepper. Brush the insides of the fish with a little olive oil, season lightly and fill with the stuffing. Lay in an oiled ovenproof dish.

Heat 4 tablespoons olive oil over a low heat and add the garlic. Cook until the garlic is lightly coloured. Draw off the heat and strain the oil over the fish. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with the chopped rosemary. Bake in the preheated oven for about half an hour until the fish is just cooked through. Check the fish once or twice as it cooks and if it is looking dry, baste with its own juices, or drizzle with a little extra oil.

Serve piping hot with lemon wedges and citrus radish confit (see below).

Citrus radish confit

If you have never tasted cooked summer radishes before, then there is no better recipe to start with than this. It is based on a recipe that I came across years ago in a French magazine. The confit is a sweet, sharp and slightly peppery relish, with a glorious pink colour. Try it with fish, with meat (lovely with lamb) and even with bread and cheese. Make double quantities if you have plenty of radishes to hand, and reheat the remainder the next day.

Serves 4

250g (9oz) summer radishes, trimmed

finely grated zest and juice of 1/2 lemon

finely grated zest and juice of 1/2 orange

2 tablespoons granulated or caster sugar

20g(3/4 oz) butter

salt and pepper

Slice the radishes into discs about 5 mm (¹/₄ in) thick. Put into a wide shallow pan with all the remaining ingredients and enough water to almost cover. Bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer gently for about 30 minutes, stirring from time to time, until all the liquid has reduced down to a few tablespoons of rich buttery syrup, and the radishes are very tender.

Serve warm (it reheats beautifully).

Salsify and Scorzonera

Salsify and scorzonera are kissing cousins, often confused but virtually indistinguishable at heart. If you haven’t met either of them before, that’s hardly surprising. Although we have a long history of cultivating and growing them, they are no longer in vogue. I can’t remember the last time I spotted either in a greengrocery (they do still exist, you know), let alone a supermarket. To find them you will either have to grow them yourself, or head off in search of some extremely upmarket food emporium (I’m thinking Harrods, maybe) or an extremely classy greengrocer.

What you are looking for when you arrive are long, slender taproots – say around a foot long (that’s 33 cm) – almost invariably clad in a healthy dusting of earth. True salsify has off-white skin under the dirt, but most of the time what is sold as salsify is actually scorzonera, which has black skin. Since they taste much the same, I guess it doesn’t matter much whether the label is technically correct.

The taste of salsify/scorzonera is light and delicate, the texture smooth and tender. I adore them, but some people just find them bland. Each to his own. If you are a first timer with salsify, make a bit of a fuss about them and handle them with respect. Don’t expect fireworks, but do anticipate a genteel pleasure with a distinctly old-fashioned and rather soothing aura about it.

Practicalities
BUYING

The long roots of salsify (and from now on I’m using that to cover both salsify and scorzonera) should always be firm. Root droop and flabbiness means they are on their way out, fit only for the compost heap. Crying shame, really. Good, earthy, firm roots are the ones to bear home in triumph. Store them in a cool, dark, airy place (or the vegetable drawer of the fridge) for up to 4–5 days.

COOKING

To prepare them, begin by rinsing thoroughly. The skin, most likely black but possibly whitish, can be scrubbed off or peeled. Alternatively, you may prefer to blanch the salsify in their skins, then pull the skin off after cooking. My ma was a great one for the post-pan peeling session – it’s less wasteful and if you are going to reheat them later or use them in a composite dish, then it makes sense. Obviously if you are going to take them straight from the pan to the dinner table, then you will need to peel them before they are cooked. They oxidise fairly swiftly, so if you need to keep them hanging around after peeling, submerge them in cold water with the juice of ¹/₂ lemon.

In most instances, salsify are cut into convenient lengths and boiled or steamed before use. Keep an eye on them and drain as soon as they are tender and before they overcook to a soggy mush. Say 7–8 minutes in simmering water, though that will vary with thickness.

Serve them hot from the pan, with a knob of butter melting over them and perhaps a stippling of finely chopped parsley. Or, if you prefer, reheat them by frying in butter until lightly patched with brown.

PARTNERS

One of my childhood favourites was the chicken and salsify pie my mother made once in a while (substitute lightly cooked salsify for the Jerusalem artichokes in the pie on page 43), and indeed salsify works very well with chicken. And with cream. And with butter. And with anything gentle and soothing. It is not a vegetable that takes gleefully to big flavourings such as chilli, or garlic, or tomato, or anchovies and so on. They drown out the taste of the salsify itself.

Salsify can be excellent in salads, dressed while still warm with a classic vinaigrette, then married with milder green salad leaves (little gem, cos, mâche, spinach and the yellow heart of a frisée lettuce), beans (green or cannellini type), leeks, prawns or chicken or eggs.

If you have only a smallish amount of salsify, then one of the best ways of showing it off is to transform it into fritters to serve as a first course. Dip lengths of lightly cooked salsify into a light fritter batter or tempura batter, and deep–fry until crisp and golden brown. Serve instantly, with wedges of lemon.

Phil Vickery’s oil-braised salsify

This is how the chef Phil Vickery likes to cook salsify, braised gently to a tender richness in olive oil, then fried until the exterior is browned just before serving. It’s a distinctly restaurant technique (most of the cooking achieved in advance, requiring only a couple of minutes to finish), but one that adapts well to a home kitchen, especially when you are cooking for a dinner party and want to minimise last-minute kitchen shenanigans.

When Phil and I were talking vegetables, he also mentioned that this method works brilliantly with swede.

salsify

olive oil to cover

salt

Preheat the oven to 140°C/275°F/Gas 1. Scrub and peel the salsify. Cut into 10cm (4in) lengths. Place in an ovenproof dish that will take them in a close-fitting single layer – don’t use a dish that is way too big, or you’ll have to use way more oil.

Pour over enough oil to just cover the salsify. Slide into the oven and leave to braise gently for around 1 hour until tender. Leave to cool in the oil.

Just before serving, heat up a frying pan. Take the salsify out of the oil, drain well and fry briskly until browned here and there. Season with salt and serve immediately.

Salsify and flageolet salad

Salsify makes a fine salad all on its own, but I prefer it matched with other ingredients. Nothing too bold and intense, you understand. Pale green flageolets (if you use dried ones, soak 200g/7oz overnight, then simmer in unsalted water until tender; drain and dress while still hot), a few extra slender strips of grilled pepper, the sweet, tender leaves of a little gem lettuce. That’s much more like it. Try adding the thinnest slivers of Moroccan preserved lemon – delicatessens and some supermarkets sell them, but avoid the lemons preserved with chilli, which are too feisty for this. You will need just half of a normal-sized lemon, or an entire one if they are miniature lemons.

Serves 6

450–500g (1 lb-1 lb 2oz) salsify

2 tinned piquillo peppers, or 1 grilled and skinned red pepper, deseeded

1/2-1 preserved lemon (optional – see intro)

1 × 400g can cooked flageolet beans, drained and rinsed

1 tablespoon chopped parsley

leaves of 1 little gem lettuce

Dressing

1 tablespoon white wine vinegar

1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard

a pinch of caster sugar

3–4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

salt and pepper

Scrub and peel the salsify, then cut into 5 cm (2 in) lengths and simmer in salted water until tender, but not mushy. Drain thoroughly.

While they are cooking, make the dressing in the usual way. In other words, whisk the vinegar with the mustard, sugar, salt and pepper, then whisk in the oil a spoonful at a time. Taste and adjust the seasoning – it should be fairly sharp to balance the starchiness of the flageolets, and lift the delicate salsify.

As soon as the salsify is drained, but while it is still hot, toss in a little of the dressing and leave to cool down. Cut the pepper(s) into very thin strips. Scrape the inner flesh out of the preserved lemon, if using, and discard. Cut the peel into extremely thin strips and mix with the salsify, peppers, flageolets and parsley, adding the remaining dressing. Set aside. Just before serving toss in the little gem leaves. Serve at once.

Salsifis à l’estragon

This is a classic French way of dressing up any number of vegetables, but it seems particularly well suited to salsify. They embrace the cream with consummate ease, and the warm aniseed scent of the tarragon brings out the best in them. Very good served with a plain roast chicken.

Serves 4–6

600g (1 lb 5oz) salsify

15g (1/2 oz) unsalted butter

2 tablespoons dry vermouth

4 tablespoons crème fraîche

leaves from 1 sprig tarragon, chopped

salt

Scrub and peel the salsify, then cut into 10cm (4in) lengths and simmer in salted water until tender, but not mushy. Drain thoroughly. Melt the butter in a frying pan and when it is foaming add the salsify. Fry for 2–3 minutes until beginning to colour, then add the vermouth. Swirl around and bubble until it is virtually all evaporated. Now add the cream, tarragon and salt and let it all cook down for a few more minutes until the sauce has thickened enough to just coat the salsify lightly. Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve.

Salsifis au curry

As for salsifis à l’estragon, but replace the tarragon with a teaspoon (or two) of good curry paste – a soft korma paste is ideal. The idea is to give a mild hint of curry flavour, but not so much that it overwhelms the flavour of the salsify.

Swede

Swede is an unattractive vegetable. Lumpish, large and arrayed in dull colours, it does little to endear itself to a potential buyer. Beauty, we are told, lies beneath the skin and somewhat reluctantly I have now come to the conclusion that there is a dash of truth to this here. In the case of swede, it is not a startling beauty, but rather a quiet comforting comeliness.

It took a minor spot of focus-grouping amongst friends (thank you, Jess, Jennine et al) to draw me to this conclusion, having successfully ignored the swede for several decades. Now, I realise that, if it is cooked congenially and adequately buttered up (literally), lowly swede is actually rather good. And cheap. Not a bad thing, either. As a new convert, I even found myself defending it when a young friend of my son described it as the vegetable from hell. Which it can be when tarnished with age and presented watery and dull. Such is the stuff of criminal cooking, probably institutional.

Swede-novice that I am, the recipes I’ve chosen for this section are basic and straightforward. I’ve not yet got to the stage where I get inventive with swede, and besides I’m not entirely sure that it would be a good idea. There’s an underlying whiff of sulphur even in the freshest cannonball swede and it needs to be handled cautiously. Instead of treading roads previously unexplored, I’m playing safe, looking north to Scotland, where swedes are known as turnips or ‘neeps’, and south to Cornwall. And should you ever come across references to ‘rutabaga’ in American cookbooks, I hope you won’t be too disappointed to be told that this, too, is swede.

Practicalities
BUYING

Swede keeps very well without rotting, but I would suggest that you do not attempt to mature your swedes for any length of time. Age brings out the sulphur bitterness, which stops being pleasant the second it is clearly detectable. So, pick out healthy-looking, firm and smooth-skinned spheres and cook them within a week at most.

The ideal storage place, as for most vegetables, is a cool, dry, airy spot, but failing that, the fridge will do nicely. A half-used swede should be covered in clingfilm before returning to the fridge and then used up within a day or two, before it starts tainting milk and butter.

COOKING

Boiling and mashing tend to be the preferred methods of cooking swede. Together they work fine, but if there’s one thing to be avoided it is serving great big lumps of watery swede all on their own. The only times whole chunks of simmered swede are even remotely acceptable are when they’ve been cooked in a flavourful broth (as in Scotch broth) or beef stew. Swede is too doughty for more delicate chicken stews. Friends recommend roasting wedges of swede, or braising wedges in olive oil (as for Phil Vickery’s salsify on page 83), but these are cooking methods for the swede aficionado, not for nervous beginners like me.

Peppery mashed swede and carrot

This is the dish that my guides Jess and Jennine insisted that I should include. They were not in total agreement as to the details, but the main theme was much the same. It is good, I have to admit, as long as there is plenty of butter mashed roughly into the swede, along with terrific quantities of freshly ground black pepper.

Although it goes against my every instinct, I followed Jess’s instructions to cook swede and carrot for an extraordinary 40–60 minutes. It turns out that she is right, as it gives a rough mash that is tender but still not totally devoid of texture. The ratio of carrot to swede is another personal foible. You might like to increase the carrot to 50 per cent of the total.

Incidentally, if you replace the carrot with potato (roughly equal quantities with the swede) and add a quartered onion to the pan too, what you end up with is Orkney clapshot.

Serves 6

1 swede, weighing about 675 g (11/2 lb), peeled and cut into 2 cm cubes

about 250g (8 oz) carrots, thickly sliced

60 g (2 oz) butter

salt and ginormous amounts of freshly ground black pepper

Bring a pan of unsalted water to the boil and add the swede and carrots. Turn down the heat to give a pleasantly slow simmer, then walk away and forget about the vegetables for at least 40 minutes, and up to an hour. Actually, don’t ignore them totally – you’ll need to check every now and then that the water level hasn’t dropped down too low. If it is disarmingly low, top up with more boiling water.

When both vegetables are terrifically soft, drain them well and return to the pan along with the butter, salt and lots and lots and lots of freshly ground black pepper. Mash the whole lot together, taste and adjust seasoning, and serve swiftly

Bashed neeps

Bashed neeps is a variable dish. On an average day it is just mashed ‘neeps’ with butter and pepper, and is what posher people might once have called ‘turnip purry’. On high days and holidays, however, cream comes into play along with a generous slug of whisky for those who fancy it.

Serves 6–8

2 swedes, peeled, cubed and boiled until tender

30g (1 oz) butter

80 ml (3 floz) double cream

2 tablespoons whisky

3 tablespoons chopped chives

salt and pepper

Drain the swedes thoroughly, then return to the pan with the butter, cream and generous quantities of seasoning. Mash together roughly over a gentle heat until piping hot. Stir in the whisky and most of the chives. Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve with the remaining chives sprinkled over the top.

Cornish pasties

From the south of the country comes one of the finest of recipes embracing swede. I’m not for one moment saying that this is a definitive recipe for a Cornish pasty, but it is something close, with fine steak baked slowly on top of a thin layer of swede and potato. This vegetable layer is essential to soak up the juices from the meat, keeping the pastry crisp on the bottom.

Makes 4

Pastry

500g (1 lb 2oz) plain flour

a pinch of salt

160 g (51/2 oz) butter

60g (2oz) lard

icy water

1 egg yolk, beaten, to glaze

Filling

500g (1 lb 2oz) rump steak, cut into small cubes

1 onion, chopped

1 large potato, peeled and very thinly sliced

1 small swede, peeled and very thinly sliced

salt and pepper

To make the pastry, mix the flour with the salt. Rub in the butter and lard, then add just enough water to mix to a soft but not sticky dough. Wrap in foil or clingfilm and chill for at least half an hour. Bring back to just under room temperature before rolling out.

Mix the steak with the onion and plenty of seasoning. Line a baking sheet with non-stick baking parchment. Divide the pastry into four, and roll out each piece large enough to cut out a 20cm (8in) circle (use a side plate as a template).

Arrange one-quarter of the potato in the centre of each pastry circle in an oval shape and season. Lay one-quarter of the swede over that, then mound a quarter of the steak mixture over that, moulding it to cover the potato. Dampen the edges around one half of each pastry circle with a little of the egg glaze, then bring both sides up over the filling, crimping the edges firmly together to form the characteristic pasty shape. Rest in the fridge for half an hour.

Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7. Brush the pasties with egg glaze, then bake for 15 minutes. Reduce the heat to a lowly 170°C/325°F/Gas 3 and leave the pasties to bake for a further hour. Check regularly and cover with foil if the pastry is browning too rapidly. Serve hot, warm or cold.

Sweet potatoes

It’s the colour that does it for me, every time. It’s so damn cheery. Brighter than even a carrot; it’s that orange. Not on the outside, of course. No, the skin of a sweet potato is a muted, more sophisticated wine-dregs rose. Remarkably similar, if not identical, to the skin of a kumara (see page 46), the white-fleshed form of the sweet potato, which would be confusing if kumara were more commonly available.

The vibrant orange of the flesh of the sweet potato only develops as the tuber cooks. Raw, the colour of the flesh sends me back to a time when junior aspirins were coloured just that attractive shade of faded, pinky orange. You can, I am assured, eat sweet potatoes raw – grated perhaps into a salad – but I’ve tried it and I don’t think I’ll bother again. The moistness of the sweet cooked flesh, with its psychedelic-sweetie hue, is what appeals.

Despite the obvious allure of the sweet potato, it has taken an awfully long time to make headway on this side of the Atlantic. It came back from the Americas with the Spanish Conquistadors, and indeed the very first potato of any kind to be planted on our shores is rumoured to have been an Ipomoea batatas, not a true potato (Solanum tuberosum) at all. They are not, incidentally, even vaguely related, belonging to different botanical families. Unlike real potatoes, sweet potatoes crave warmth and without it they won’t thrive; England’s climate is hardly sub-tropical, and the crop was a miserable failure.

Now we’ve given up growing them in the great outdoors, and finally are importing them in increasing numbers. Sales are swelling, we are slowly taking them to our hearts, and they look like becoming a permanent fixture in the British diet. Hurrah. It’s only taken 500 years.

Practicalities
BUYING

Taut skin and firm bodies – that’s what you’re looking for, just like on the

beach. At the risk of sounding ageist, wrinkles are to be rejected, and there’s no point at all in handing over your cash for a sweet potato that has soft patches. The tips may be slightly discoloured but this is only to be expected – those sweet potatoes have travelled a long way. If I have a choice I pick larger tubers, merely because they are less fiddly to handle.

Stored in a cool place they will last for several weeks, but like most vegetables the sooner you cook them the better they will taste.

COOKING

I’ll bet you a tenner that most of the sweet potatoes eaten here are baked in their jackets. It’s the obvious way to cook a sweet potato. None of that sweetness leaching out, and no extra damp creeping in. It makes sense. Treat them just like ordinary potatoes – prick the skin, rub in a little salt if you wish, then bake at around 190°C/375°F/Gas 5 until tender. Time will depend on the size of the potatoes, but we’re talking in terms of 45–60 minutes, give or take. Or microwave them, again just as you would an ordinary potato.

Baked sweet potatoes are just great served instead of ordinary potatoes, split open and buttered, or topped with grated Parmesan or mature Cheddar, or soured cream and chives. I love them with bacon, with tzatziki, Greek yoghurt, and even tapenade. You might like to run up a snappy chilli and coriander butter for them (blend butter, fresh red chilli, coriander leaves and a shot or two of lime juice) or a classic French beurre maître d’hôtel (butter, parsley, garlic and lemon juice).

Sweet potatoes make a stunning mash – run the American route with this one, flavouring the mash with grated nutmeg and cinnamon, to highlight the warmth. Add a big knob of butter, plenty of salt and freshly squeezed orange juice which matches not only the colour but also the flavour. Don’t use milk in sweet potato mash – it just feels plain wrong.

Americans consider sweet potatoes (which they often call yams to confuse everyone else) an essential part of the Thanksgiving meal, served with the turkey and all the trimmings. Candied yams is a dish of sweet potatoes cooked with sugar and other flavourings (often orange juice and spices) to accompany the main course. Adding sugar to sweet potatoes? Overkill, unless we’re talking pudding. It’s certainly not an idea that appeals to me.

I’d far rather sauté cubes of sweet potato, finishing them with salt and ground cumin and coriander just before they emerge from the pan, or perhaps grate them raw to make a sweet-salt version of rösti, so good with game or white fish. You can use all sweet potato, or mix it with equal quantities of ordinary potato, or grate in raw carrot, or beetroot for something altogether more fancy. How about sweet potato and beetroot rösti, topped with a little soured cream and herring roe caviar (or the real thing when you are feeling extravagant) to serve as a chic starter to a dinner party? Put me on the guest list right now.

Using vegetables in puddings is not a natural activity. We’ve all grown used to carrot cake, but that’s cake, not dessert. Put aside any reservations you may have in the case of sweet potatoes. They mash down to such a moist smoothness that they work brilliantly in all kinds of recipes. Be bold and try the meringue-topped sweet potato pie below, and you’ll see what I mean. You could also enrich the mashed sweet potato with cream, butter and a little extra sugar to use as the filling for a two-crust pie, or to make a fool. I don’t see why you couldn’t concoct a superb sweet potato ice-cream if you fancied – then keep all your guests guessing the nature of your mystery pudding.

SEE ALSO KUMARA (PAGE 46).

Stir-fried sweet potato with lamb and green beans

Baking and boiling are all very well, but if you want to retain a degree of firmness to your sweet potato, then stir-frying is the natural choice. Stir-fry it on its own to serve as a side dish, but better still stir-fry it with lamb and salty Chinese black bean sauce for a quick feast, guaranteed to rev up the spirits, as it works the taste-buds.

For stir-frying I use either lamb leg steaks or chump chops, cut into thin slivers. The number of chillies is entirely at your discretion. I use medium-sized, medium-heat chillies here, to maximise the flashes of red in amongst the vegetables and meat, without totally blowing the roof out of my mouth. Tiny bird chillies are so ferocious that it would be wise to restrict yourself to one, foregoing the visuals in order to survive the heat. Unless, that is, you are a chilli fiend.

Serves 2–3

2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil

2 cm (3/4 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 or 2 red chillies, deseeded and cut into strips

1 sweet potato, weighing around 400g (14oz), peeled, thinly sliced and then quartered

125g (41/2 oz) green beans, topped and tailed and cut in half

225g (8oz) tender boneless lamb, cut into thin slivers

3 tablespoons black bean sauce

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

Get all the ingredients fully prepared and measured out, and set them out close to the hob. Put your wok (which should be a good roomy one) over a high heat. Once it starts to smoke, add the sunflower or vegetable oil, then add the ginger, garlic and chillies and stir-fry for 20 seconds or so.

Next add the sweet potato and stir-fry briskly for 3 minutes. Add the green beans and stir-fry for 4–5 minutes, until the sweet potato is tender and the beans are patched with brown. Tip all the vegetables out on to a plate and return the wok to the heat. When it is back up to prime heat, add the lamb and stir-fry for about 1 minute, until just barely cooked through. Return the vegetables to the wok and mix them well with the lamb. Add the black bean sauce and stir-fry for a final couple of minutes. Stir in the sesame oil. Taste and add a little more black bean sauce if you think it needs it.

Sweet potato and red lentil soup with mint

What a splendid soup this is! Perfect stuff for a spot of cold weather (I’d be tempted to bring it out on Bonfire Night), with just enough lift from the lime and mint to stop it being dull. A whole star anise, by the way, has seven or eight ‘petals’ – useful to know if yours have collapsed in their jar.

Serves 6

1 onion, chopped

550g (11/4 lb) sweet potato, peeled and cut into chunks

3 cloves garlic, chopped

4 cm (11/2 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

1 whole star anise

2 tablespoons sunflower oil

1 tablespoon tomato purée

1 heaped teaspoon ground cinnamon

150g (5 oz) red lentils

1.5 litres (23/4 pints) water or vegetable stock

juice of 1–2 limes

150ml (5 floz) soured cream

leaves from a small bunch of mint

salt and pepper

Put the onion, sweet potato, ginger, garlic, star anise and sunflower oil into a roomy pan and stir around. Place over a low heat, cover tightly and leave to sweat for 10 minutes, then add the tomato purée, cinnamon, lentils and water. Bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and leave to simmer until the lentils and sweet potato are very tender. Season with salt and pepper.

Remove the star anise, then liquidise the soup or pass through a mouli-légumes. Stir in as much lime juice as you like. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Reheat when needed, and spoon into bowls. Finish each one with a little soured cream and a small handful of mint leaves on top.

Southern sweet potato pie

This is far better than pumpkin pie. Don’t be scared to line the pastry case with clingfilm – it’s a pastry chef’s trick and it works brilliantly, lifting out perfectly every time. And no, it won’t melt either.

Serves 8

3 large sweet potatoes, about 1.5 kg (31/4lb) in total

300 g (11 oz) sweet shortcrust pastry

30g (1 oz) softened butter

100 g (31/2 oz) caster sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

a generous grating of nutmeg

4 tablespoons double cream

1 egg

3 egg yolks

Meringue topping

3 egg whites

150g (5oz) caster sugar

Preheat the oven to 190°C/375°F/Gas 5. Put the sweet potatoes in to bake.

Meanwhile, line a 23–25 cm (9–10in) tart tin with the pastry, prick the base with a fork, and chill in the fridge for half an hour. Line the pastry case with clingfilm and fill with baking beans. Bake blind for 10 minutes, then take out of the oven and remove the beans and clingfilm. Return the pastry case to the oven and bake for a final 5 minutes. Leave to cool.

Once the potatoes are done, scoop out the flesh and weigh out 950g (2lb 2 oz). Beat in the butter, sugar, vanilla extract and spices while still hot. Next beat in the cream, then the egg and yolks. Scrape the mixture into the awaiting pastry case, smooth down and return it to the oven. Once the door is closed, turn the heat down to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4 and leave to bake for around 20 minutes, until almost set.

As it cooks, whisk up the egg whites for the meringue topping until they stand in firm peaks. Sprinkle over half the sugar and whisk again until the meringue is light and glossy and billowing, then fold in the remaining sugar. Spoon the meringue on to the hot baked pie, spreading out right to the edge and completely covering the filling. Make swirls and peaks in the meringue, then return the pie to the oven (last time) and bake for 15 minutes, until the meringue is browned nicely. Serve warm or cold, with plenty of cream.

Turnips

I got off to a good start with turnips, thanks to an alcoholic chef called Monsieur Bastard. He owned the restaurant at the end of the French village my family decamped to every spring and autumn. The evening we arrived we invariably ate at The Ariana. The first spoonful of M. Bastard’s vegetable soup signalled the proper start of the holiday, and we cheered whenever jambon aux navets appeared on the menu. I still salivate at the thought of that thick slice of fine French ham and tender, glazed turnips that surrounded it.

Not everyone is so lucky. Bad turnips are enough to dismay the most ardent of vegetable eaters, let alone youngsters who are just embarking, often against their will, on the road to vegetable-appreciation. Or not. Which is a shame, because at their best turnips are downright sexy. Not the hefty, awkward lumps shrouded in tough green and grey skin fit only to be fed to cattle, not humans. No, I’m talking about the cute sorts of turnip: smaller than a tennis ball, with a handsome flush of pink or purple, waxy, tender skin and crisp white flesh.

The trouble is that the ideal turnip, sold marble-sized in fetching bunches, is horribly expensive and far too rare – good arguments for growing your own, so that you can enjoy them as fresh as can be. Failing that, you must regard turnips as a rare indulgence, especially if you have children. Never force-feed them rank monster turnip in the hopes that they will eventually grow to enjoy it. They won’t. They’ll probably never eat turnip again. Instead, restrain your turnip intake to once or twice a year, only when you can buy and cook small, sexy turnips that will tempt one and all.

Practicalities
BUYING

Turnips must, must, must be eaten young and impeccably fresh. Over-large or stale turnips are a penance we could all do without. Beauty is for once a reliable guide. Look for pert small turnips, prettily blushed with pale purple or pink, over pearly white skin. Medium-sized green and white turnips are just about acceptable, but big bruisers are to be avoided unless you are a masochist. Only buy turnips, even the most perfect little darlings, when you are sure that you will be eating them within the next 48 hours.

COOKING

Extra small turnips (think quail’s egg or walnut-sized), bunched together fetchingly, are the ne plus ultra, the apex of deliciousness. Don’t muck around with them – just trim the stems off a centimetre from the base, rinse well, nip off thready rootlets, then steam or blanch whole in lightly salted water for a few minutes until tender-crisp. Well drained and served immediately, they need no embellishment at all. If you want a dab of butter, fine, but it really isn’t necessary. There’s only one more complex dish that I’d recommend using them for, and that’s a navarin printanier, the remarkable French stew of spring lamb and baby vegetables in a creamy sauce. Otherwise, leave them alone.

As they mature, the turnip flavour matures too and the outer skin toughens. As they approach tennis-ball size, they will probably need to be peeled. Before that it isn’t necessary unless the skin is discoloured. Raw turnip is rarely used in salads, which is a shame, as it has a pleasing crisp juiciness – try it thinly sliced in the Malaysian rujak on page 121, for instance, or tossed with crisp sweet lettuce leaves, thinly sliced eating apple and walnuts in a lemony dressing.

Medium turnips are open to more adventurous approaches, as long as they do not include a crude white sauce, which does nothing for them. I often roast them with a little olive oil, or serve steamed or boiled turnip quarters sprinkled with a gremolata (a very finely chopped blend of lemon zest, parsley and garlic), or drizzled with bright green parsley and basil oil (literally a little olive, sunflower or avocado oil liquidised with a handful of tender herb leaves).

As they swell up, you: a) will have to peel off the tough skin, and b) would be well advised to blanch the turnips before finishing the cooking. In other words, cut the turnip into cubes or slices and drop into boiling water for 3 minutes or so, before draining thoroughly. This softens the less appealing aromas, without destroying the flavour or texture completely. Finish off the cooking when needed by sautéing them in butter or, better still, glazing them, for which I give a recipe overleaf.

Glazed turnips with orange and honey

There are many ways to glaze a turnip. The simplest is to finish the cooked turnips in butter and sugar, stirring them over a moderate heat until the sugar dissolves, and the turnips begin to colour. This recipe brings orange juice and honey into play as well.

Serves 4

500g (1 lb 2oz) medium turnips

finely grated zest of 1/2 orange

juice of 1 large orange

30g (1oz) butter

1 tablespoon light runny honey

salt and pepper

Peel the turnips and cut into 2cm (³/₄ in) cubes. Blanch in boiling water for 3 minutes, then drain thoroughly. Wipe out the saucepan and return the turnips to it, adding all the remaining ingredients together with a splash of water. Return to a moderate heat and stir until the butter has melted. Simmer, stirring frequently, until the liquid has all evaporated, leaving the turnips glossy with their buttery, orange glaze. Serve swiftly.

Torshi lift Turnip and beetroot pickles

I love the habit, at some North African restaurants, of bringing a plate of raw vegetables, olives and pickles to nibble on while you wait for the food. Very civilised, and naturally far better for you than stuffing in slices of bread and butter. I grab the startlingly pink crescents of pickled turnip – torshi lift – first. This pickle is crisp and juicy and very more-ish (as well as being Moorish). The colour comes from the inclusion of a few slices of beetroot, but the base flavour is the sweet, juicy, raw turnip. It doesn’t take long to make, and is a good addition to a plate of charcuterie, or served with cheese at the end of a meal.

Fills a 1 litre (1³/₄ pint) jar

1kg (21/4 lb) small/medium turnips

1 large raw beetroot

4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

a small bunch of celery leaves

4 tablespoons sea salt

350ml (12floz) white wine vinegar

Peel the turnips and cut them in halves or quarters, depending on their size. Peel the beetroot, cut it in half and slice. Pack into sterilised preserving jars (see page 215), alternating layers of turnip and beetroot and interspersing with garlic slices and celery leaves.

Mix the salt with 1 litre (1³/₄ pints) water in a saucepan and bring up to the boil, stirring until the salt has dissolved. Add the vinegar, stir and then pour over the vegetables, making sure that they are completely submerged. Seal with non-corrosive lids.

Store in a warm (not hot) place – say a shelf in the kitchen. Leave them alone for 10–12 days. Once they are slightly softened and suffused with pink, move the jars to a cool place, where they will keep happily for a month or so.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.