Madeleines (updated)

While I love Ramsay's opium-flecked variant of this French cupcake, it's my gently almond-scented version that does it for me at the moment. It eliminates the clutter of seeds in the recipe, and without the muscular chef's influence, I'm happy to leave the strenuous egg-whisking to my new, and gorgeous, Kitchenaid stand mixer.
These make a delicious continental breakfast, and since you have to leave the batter to rest for at least 2 hours, it makes sense to grease the tin and make the mixture up the night before, then leave it covered in a batter jug in the fridge. The next morning you need only preheat the oven, pour the mixture into the shell-shaped cups and make a jug of coffee while they bake. Please know that I haven't renounced the recipe I fell back on over 18 months ago, and you'll find it in its original prose (where I harp on about the Madeleine's significance to Proust's literacy) underneath, but right now I'm drawn to where it's most simple, so see below.

2 eggs
75g caster sugar
100g unsalted butter (plus an extra tbsp for greasing)
100g plain flour (plus an extra tbsp for flouring)
1/2 tsp almond extract

Melt the unsalted butter in a diddy saucepan and allow to cool, although to be honest you could probably do this while the eggs are whipping- it can take a good 10 minutes for them to reach their volume. To grease the tin, take your madeleine tin or failing that a muffin or Yorkshire pudding tray and use the extra butter to grease it with a pastry brush. Sieve over the extra spoonful of flour then tap off the excess into the sink.
Crack the eggs into a mixing bowl and add the sugar. Whisk them together for as long as it takes for them to become voluminous and thick- it resembles, oddly, mayonnaise when it's finished. Sieve the flour into the bowl and fold it in, followed by the melted butter and almond extract.
Leave the batter to rest for at least 2 hours, but if you're making this the night before cover with clingfilm and chill in the fridge.
Pour around 1 tbsp of mixture into each madeleine cup, before baking in a 180 degree oven for 10-15 minutes. You know you've succeeded if you have a small, slightly suggestive lump in the centre that the French refer to as the nipple. Leave to cool for a brief few minutes before tapping the edge of the tin to free the little cakes. Cool on a rack, or serve warm.

The great Gordon Ramsay has taken somewhat of a hold on my cooking. It's a shame that his extremely foul-mouthed and furious reputation has clouded what he truly is- a fantastic chef. Although his explanation is a bit more curt and frank than another celebrity chef like the great Nigel Slater, his episodes are comprehensive and provide easy recipes and slightly more challenging ones. This recipe, for me, is in the intermediate category, but for anyone who isn't as useless at cake baking these are an easy.

Madeleines are beautiful, shell-shaped cakes from France, usually eaten for breakfast with some coffee, although there's a case for eating these as an equivalent to a coffee and amaretti biscuits after an Italian meal (but of course, make it a French meal here). They're perhaps most famous for the role they played in Proust's epic novel exploring how memories are accidentally triggered- madeleines are a truly evocative cake as you will see. Ramsay used lemon and poppy seed, but I'm all about the blood oranges, which I'm stocking up on in the freezer before they go out of season because their flavour is just sublime, much better than a regular orange which are all water and no zestiness. If you don't have a madeleine tin, and why should you, they're not exactly the most versatile of tins, then just use a small muffin tin. I won't go near mine though, whenever I see it in the cupboard I scowl and telepathically tell it that it has no purpose in life.

1)You could do this with an electric mixer, but when I saw Gordon doing it in just a few minutes with a balloon whisk, I felt like my masculinity would be compromised if I didn't do the same. It took a bit longer to get three eggs and 80g caster sugar to a pale and very thick consistency, like a slightly tarnished soft meringue, about 20 minutes for me? But I swear my left bicep has increased in size since.
2)Sieve in 80g plain flour and 3/4 tsp baking powder, and fold in with the zest of one blood orange and 1 tbsp poppy seeds until smooth. Folding is a gentle process, but you must be forceful with your actions, don't fold it so lightly nothing combines well.
3)Down the side of the bowl, pour in 75g cooled melted butter (unsalted) and fold that in thoroughly.
4)Set this batter aside overnight in the fridge, so you get delicious light madeleines the following morning, although make them right away if you want, but make sure the next two steps are done in advance of baking them.
5)Spread melted butter throughout a madeleine tin, then sieve in some plain flour, tap the tin so any excess flour comes out.
6)Preheat the oven to 170 degrees Celsius.
7)Decant the mixture into a jug and pour equal (well, equal-ish) blobs of batter (that has been allowed to come to room temperature) into the tin, then bake for 10 minutes or so, until golden and risen. If you've done well, then a good mound, 'nipple', should have formed on the top of the madeleine. Turn them out, and serve warm.

Cranberry Sauce

Whilst bought cranberry sauce from a jar is passable, and no one wants to add to someone's burden at Christmas, this condiment is the easiest sauce in the world to make and much better homemade.
What's fabulous about making this yourself is how you can personalise it- for me this means adding a good slug of a favourite Christmas tipple. Lots work here; namely port, cointreau, triple sec, grand marnier, ginger wine or ginger liqueur or cherry or apple brandy. Of course, however, you can leave the booze out all together (just up the sugar and water or orange juice to balance), I just happen to spend a lot of time with my hand grasped around those fabulously shaped glass bottles in the kitchen. Oh, and also, I know 90ml sounds like an awkward amount, all this volume means is a quarter cup measure filled full and then a half or 6 measuring tablespoons.
And just if this wasn't easy enough, you can make this sauce a week ahead well covered in the fridge. Just make sure you let it come back to room temperature on Christmas day. I tend to make it Christmas Eve.

450g fresh or frozen cranberries
225g caster sugar
90ml tipple of your choice (see above)
90ml water
Zest of 1 orange
Juice of 2 oranges
1/2 tsp ground mixed spice

Just throw all of these ingredients into a saucepan (and there's no need to thaw the berries first if they're frozen) and apply high heat and let the sauce simmer until the berries burst and the red liquid goes a bit syrupy.  This only takes around 7 minutes. Before decanting, give a final beating to make sure every last berry is squished.
Tip the scarlet puree into a serving jug or bowl and let it cool. The sour berries are so high in pectin the runny sauce will go very jellied, so give it another good beating before you serve it.

Roast Potatoes

Not only can you not have Christmas without these, but you can't have Christmas without them being perfect. Or maybe that's just me. Anyway, while this may be a slightly panic-striking sentiment for a dinner which is already a very stressful ordeal, unlike most things in life that require perfection, great roast potatoes are easy to achieve. That's to say, sticky, jaw-achingly crunchy and gold on the outside and sweet, soft and fluffy within. It's all do-able, there are just three simple but crucial factors at play. Firstly, the tin; unlike almost everything else that can go in the oven at Christmas, even the turkey as long as you have a baking tray underneath, you can't use a throwaway foil tray for the spuds. You need a good, heavy roasting tin that holds the heat well- cast iron is good. Secondly, the fat which you cook them in their tin must be absolutely, frighteningly, scoldingly hot before the potatoes splutter into it- and go for a fat that corresponds roughly with the meat you're cooking: for turkey or chicken choose goose, beef go for dripping and lard for pork. The final thing is the parboil. Without this, the finished spud will chew and not shatter on the tongue; the idea is to blur and soften the edges by boiling them in water then bashing them around a bit which increases the surface area to absorb fat and catch gloriously in the heat.
This is all relatively straightforward, but it can get complicated with the heavy clatter of other dishes that you need at Christmas. You need to be brutal to yourself in planning and prioritising. So, if you have only the one oven or you're using your second one to heat up serving dishes and plates (otherwise use the microwave to warm them, checking the ceramic is safe), cook two out of the three parts of the 'meat' section in the oven as you wait for the good hour or more for the turkey or other meat to come to room temperature. This means cooking your chosen stuffing in a baking dish alongside the pigs in blankets until both are fully cooked. If you can, try and take them out before they brown too much so they won't burn as you reheat them. Then stash them away to forget about them covered in foil, far away from family foragers until just before you plate up. Remove the parsnips or squash or anything other than the crisping spuds from the oven and use this space for the 10 minutes whilst you get everything ready for the table to reheat the stuffing and sausages in the scorching potato oven. Consider roast potatoes like deep-fried food, they mustn't stand around and along with the gravy, which should be ferociously bubbling until the moment it hits its jug, should be the last thing to clang on the groaning table. Basically, the turkey needs to be fully cooked and rested for at least 30 minutes wrapped in foil, the gravy must be piping hot and the potatoes crunchy, and if you've got those under wrap you can work everything else around them.
Potatoes generally don't hold well to cooking or peeling in advance, and usually I do the whole cooking and peeling malarkey on the day, but there is a way you can get ahead here. You can parboil the potatoes and rough up the edges a day or more beforehand and turn them into a bowl or other container to store. Melt a few spoonfuls of goose fat (or just vegetable oil if you want) and toss the parboiled potatoes in this along with the salt and pepper if you'd like. Cover these and leave in a cool place for 1-2 days, such as a larder or cellar. These don't take too well to being in the fridge; it's this chilly place that gives potatoes that funny texture and taste when reheated so just go for somewhere slightly below room temperature. Or, go well below room temperature and freeze the fat-slicked potatoes firstly on a tray until solid then bagged up to keep for up to 3 months in the freezer. At fraught times such as Christmas this super-organisation is not to be scorned. I tend not to peel and leave the potatoes in the salted water the night before as the potatoes could go brown or take up too much liquid- a biologist could bring up arguments of osmosis here, but don't look at me.
So, with all this in mind I recommend you draw up a schedule, working backwards from when you serve the Christmas pudding to when you start preparing the dinner (Christmas Eve or earlier) and the following recipe should be a crucial consideration.
I should mention that this recipe certainly goes far beyond yuletide appeal. My perfect Sunday lunch any time of year is plain roast chicken, these potatoes and some marrowfat or plain frozen cooked peas, warmed in a saucepan and lightly mushed with some butter. Because the chicken will take up far less room in the oven than a turkey, the oven will be less steamy and you will have less potatoes to roast (unless you're doing a double chicken affair for a bigger crowd and are cooking 2 big tins of potatoes), and then I don't mind cooking the potatoes in a preheated tin beneath the chicken for 20 minutes or so as long as I can up the heat to 200 degrees and bring the potatoes higher up in the oven while the chicken rests. I often get impatient, or anxious perhaps, that the potatoes won't get golden in enough time in which case I will increase the heat of the oven in increments- this does no harm. I find in a more empty oven, the smaller amount of potatoes (and for a lunch for 4 I do around 1 kilo of potatoes- or 1 large one per person plus 1 or 2 for luck) burn before the whole carapace becomes gorgeously golden in the fierce 220 degrees heat from the start I suggest for the recipe below which is why you can get away with cooking chicken and potatoes together if there's relatively fewer of them. For any big crowd with the larger amount below I would cook the potatoes separately from the meat in the higher heat as generally more dishes appear in a big lunch and a steamier oven acts as a cooler one, and as mentioned before crispness remains the priority.

To serve 8-12 (approx, you could get away with more)
3 kilos floury potatoes such as maris piper or King Edwards
Approx. 600g goose fat or other fat
Salt and pepper

As soon as the turkey or other joint goes in the oven, divide the fat between two large and sturdy roasting tins and leave them under the meat on racks to get hot. If your oven only accommodates two racks, place the other tin on the base of the oven and swap them halfway through the turkey's cooking time. If you're cooking a goose, place the dry tins in and divide the goose fat the bird itself renders down after it roasts for a few hours between the two hot tins. If your oven only accommodates one tin (turkeys are huge) your final last resort is to heat the fat in the tin on the stove until it's screaming hot then transfer this tin into the oven whilst the heat's blasting up for the potatoes to roast in after the turkey comes out. If you plan on utilising a second oven, heat your separate oven with the tins in it.
Hand any passing family member a vegetable peeler and get going with the potatoes. Chop them into angular shapes by cutting triangles or diamonds. This isn't as geometrical as it sounds, imagine cutting a wonky 'Z' shape into each large potato, or if you have very small ones, cut in half at a steep diagonal. For medium-sized ones use Nigella's method of cutting into three with a triangle in the middle. As you chunk them, drop them in a huge pan of cold salted water. Bring the potatoes and water to the boil and cook for 8 minutes. This time can vary though- if you're dubious, remove one and fluff it up with a fork to check. For very small cut potatoes just go for 6 minutes. Drain them in one big colander or you may even have to use two and then tumble the potatoes back into the huge pan they parboiled in. Clamp on the lid and give the pan a really vigorous shake to roughen up and blur the potatoes edges so they take up more fat and crisp up more. Leave the potatoes in this pan with the lid off for a while so they can steam dry for as long as needed.
When the meat is cooked, take it out of the oven to rest and up the heat to 220 degrees if the oven will be very full, 200 degrees if you're cooking less potatoes and other things with them. Move the two tins up into the belly of the oven. Of course if you have a double oven you can rest the turkey for less time by cooking the roasts at 200 from the start in their own oven- you still have to preheat the tins mind.
Take the two tins of searing hot fat out of the oven and spoon the potatoes into them having a small flame under each tin as you do so to reserve heat and definitely avoid overcrowding as you carefully place each potato into the fat. Generously season the potatoes with salt and pepper (though there are schools of thought that suggest only salting- the choice is yours) and flip them over so both sides have been greased. Season the other side.
Place them back into the really hot oven for as long as it takes for them to get super crispy and golden- about 45-55 minutes. You will need to flip them halfway, and again have a flame under the tins as you do this and return the potatoes to the oven; it's at this point you can up the temperature to 220. If panic sets in and the potatoes are still blonde and wet in the tin as the clock ticks, up the heat to a dragon-breath blast of 240-250 degrees and continue the potatoes on their way.  The turkey or whatever will sit resting well covered without coming to any harm for this long, in fact, on the contrary. It makes the meat more succulent, which is the perfect foil for painful crunch of the roasties.

Christmas Creole Cake (and cupcakes)

Christmas is fraught with contradictions. It's a time that should be joyous, but the stresses and seasonal duties can make it miserable. It's a time when you want more time to spend with family, but have to set aside that time for other people's demands and pressures- perhaps for people that you care for less? And as for the Christmas cake, it's renowned for being dusty, desiccated and depressing, but you can't have Christmas without it!
This may seem a Scrooge-esque way to open my first festive post in two years, but I will defy this by saying that this recipe for dense, fruity Christmas cake will banish any hostility you have for the thing and what's more, is simply exquisite in its rich taste and rich symbolism. The problem with a real, real traditional English Christmas cake is that it has so much preparation; creaming, mixing, steeping, and standing, it sets itself up for disappointment, and can't help but gather dust when January comes. Not that this version is much less in terms of processes and does too need to be made at least a month or pushing it at three weeks like this year, ahead. Although it is gratifyingly simple to prepare, and the ingredients list alone will tell you that this darling is a big deal. Three different boozes (four if you count the bitters) may seem extravagant, but they're all bottles that will play a significant role in a Christmas cooking and cocktail repertoire so consider this cake a support. Anyway, isn't excess part of the spirit? Just avoid leaving the cake near a tealight during the feeding process. And if you're struggling somehow to find a use for these liqueurs, then just make a creole shot- simply pour port, cherry brandy and dark rum in equal measures into a shot glass, and knock back. Take it from me it will help you through the season.
The recipe itself is adapted from Delia Smith and is one of her most popular recipes around, so naturally I've offered my own suggestions here. The heritage behind it is almost as rich as the taste- it comes from the wife of a sugar plantation owner in Barbados; how Delia came across her must be a cracking story. The cake is essentially the Jamaican classic black fruit cake, and is just as dense and dark as the name suggests. In terms of Christmas symbolism it lends itself beautifully, whether you decorate with a white snowy blanket of fondant icing or bejewel it with fruit and nuts, it becomes a central beacon of light and hope in a Christmas kitchen, and all the little fruits imbued in the cake promise a fruitful and joyful year to come.
Now, before we get bogged down with too much fluffy cheer, I have to admit if you make this in one big tin, unless you have a huge family that all adore fruit cake coming over you may struggle to chow it all down before new year- true, the cake can keep for a month beyond Christmas, but it may be riddled with bad spirits by then and I would worry about it gathering dust. To rectify this, do as I do and make one small, 18-20cm diameter cake and 12 cupcakes. You can use these cupcakes as pick-me-ups through the season if you need a sweet bite to get away from it for a moment or as edible gifts, beribboned and wrapped for a hamper. If you wanted you could do 24 cupcakes, or do a very small whole cake and 18 cupcakes. There are lots of options here. I'll go over decorations later, but for now give yourself a week for the fruit's pre-soaking. Over to you:

For the pre-soaking:
450g sultanas
225g currants
125g prunes, chopped
125g whole mixed peel, chopped
100g chopped glace cherries (why not go camp and get some green ones as well as Rudolph-nose red)
50g flaked almonds(plus more for the cupcake's topping), and I like to chop blanched ones myself as they keep their crunch better
50g coarsely chopped hazelnuts
4 tbsp rum (plus extra for feeding)
4 tbsp cherry brandy
4 tbsp port
1 1/2 tsp Angostura bitters
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp freshly-grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 tbsp black treacle
Zest of 1 orange
Juice of 2 oranges

Pile all of these ingredients into a large saucepan. It helps to write all of these in a list and tick them off as you go. Just like at the table on the big day, no one wants to be left out. Give it a really good stir and bring it up to simmering point on the hob, then turn the heat down to as low as possible and allow it to simmer with the lid off for 15 minutes, stirring to make sure nothing sticks. Remove from the heat, clamp on a lid and let this mixture cool completely before transferring the dense sticky mess into a Tupperware container or jar (you can't really leave it in the saucepan if you were wondering) and leaving it for around 7 days in the fridge.

For the cake:
250g self-raising flour
250g soft unsalted butter
250g demarara sugar
5 large eggs

Take the fruits out of the fridge to come to room temperature for a while. Preheat the oven to 140 degrees Celsius.
Preparing the tin is the hardest part of this whole exercise, so get ready with a pair of sharp scissors and a focused head. Brush oil all over the inside of an 18-20cm deep cake tin, preferably with a loose base but this is perfectly easy without. Cut two strips of greaseproof or parchment paper cut a little bit taller than the height of the tin. Fold a little rim about an inch tall up on these strips and take your scissors and cut into this fold, as if making a frill. Using the sticky oil, line the tin with the two strips having the frills line the bottom. Draw around the base of the tin and cut around to make a circle. Place the circle over the frilly hem on the bottom of the tin. Fold another bit of greaseproof that fits on top of the pieces of parchment that come above the side of the tin. Or, if you make fruitcakes and use the 18cm deep tin a lot, you can cut reusable baking parchment to size, one strip to go around the cake and come up higher than the sides, and one 18cm circle to go in the base. These can just live in the tin so you needn't do any oiling, cutting or whatever before you start- this erodes a big, daunting step.
Line a 12 muffin tin with foil cupcake cases (the paper ones don't insulate the cakes enough, unfortunately). If you have a double oven, it's best to bake the cupcakes in one and the cake in the other so you don't disturb the large cake as it cooks, but it's not the end of the world. My second oven doesn't accommodate the cupcakes, so I can say first-hand that it isn't an issue to cook both at once.
Crack the eggs into a large bowl and follow with the flour, sugar and butter and beat them all together with an electric mixer or a wooden spoon if you're feeling particularly athletic until completely smooth and light. Gradually fold in the fruits- when the mixture gets very tough, I use my hands to help incorporate the fruit.
Use two spoons to fill the cupcake cases, aim for about 1 heaped tablespoon of mixture per cupcake case and then use the rest of the mixture to fill the lined tin. Press 5 flaked almonds in a star like pattern on the surface of each cupcake. Cover the cupcake tin loosely with foil to insulate them.
Baking these cakes can be complicated. They take a long time for sure but they can vary greatly- I find the cupcakes take around 1 1/4 hours and the large cake around 2 1/2 hours but ovens can be so different. Either way the cakes should spring back with a light finger touch in the centre when cooked. After the cake's first hour, be sure to pop the folded bit of parchment on top.
When the big cake is done immediately whip off its parchment lid and wrap foil all around it, not worrying about crushing the bits of overgrowing paper, to trap steam and keep the top from drying as it cools. If you're using reusable parchment you don't want to crush and crease it so press foil right onto the surface of the cake within the silicon parchment crown.
When the cakes have completely cooled, take the cupcakes out of the tin and pop them, of course still in their case, into a storage tin. Unwrap the large cake and wrap it in parchment paper and then a layer of foil tightly. I just scrunch a piece of paper around the cake- I think we've done enough folding and snipping in one recipe, don't you? To feed the cake and cupcakes, make a few holes in the surface with a fine skewer or stick of uncooked spaghetti and spoon rum into them. I use about a teaspoon per cupcake. You can do this before you pack the cakes in their storage container and once every week or whenever you want until you decorate it for Christmas.

To decorate:
A jar of apricot jam
200g marzipan
250g fondant icing
Icing sugar to dust
or
Apricot jam
Assorted nuts, dried fruit, and glace fruit

My lot of cakes for this year are actually under a bed waiting for the icing, but these are the instructions I'll come to later.
To do the traditional icing, which I use for the big cake, use icing sugar like flour when you're making pastry and roll the marzipan then use the cake tin like a large cutter to make a circle the shape of the rum-soaked surface of the cake. Warm the apricot jam in a small saucepan and brush it all over the top of the cake. Place the marzipan over the top. Roll out the icing in the same way, using the cake tin as a cutter again, and then top this over the marzipan, brushing off any excess icing sugar. Use the excess to cut a Christmassy shape, such as a star or angel, and use a little water to stick this to the icing. If you wanted to cover the whole cake with icing, which is useful if you want to keep this cake iced for a long period before cutting and eating, roll the icing out fully, slip your arms underneath the sheet and drop it on top of the marzipan-topped cake and smooth it down with your hands. Cut off the excess before topping with shapes cut with the excess icing. If you wanted to ice the whole thing far before you would plan on cutting it, you need to leave the marzipan on top of the cake without the icing to dry for about a week or the brown oils of the fruit will seep into the icing and stain it. There's no need to do this if you ice the cake the night before you plan on bringing it festively to the family table, though. When decorating with just a round lid of icing you can wrap the sides of the cake with some Christmassy ribbon, as I have below. And I'd never want to forget my little trinkets that I stick to the top of the cake with a dab of water. And it's easiest to stick with water by dabbing a drop with your finger tip and gently rubbing which sort of melts a small area of icing and makes it sticky enough to work as glue.
For the alternative, brush the cake with apricot jam again and simply stick with fruits and nuts, either randomly like a jigsaw or in concentric circles and brush these with apricot jam to look shiny.
For the cupcakes, if I've pressed nuts onto the surface all I do is brush with apricot jam to make them look glossy, but you can play more if you like. Cut individual circles of marzipan and icing and top each one with one star, or play with some paste food dye and make holly berries and leaves. You could also do baby versions of the fruit and nut glaze.

Stink to High Heaven Pt.#2 (Natto with rice and spring onion)

You may think that taking taking over three months to make a second part to this generously two-parted series means I've pretty well abandoned the idea, but you'd be wrong. Well not entirely wrong; the century eggs I could do without, but I still love the gluey rice porridge to accompany them and I like to think I've dedicated my recipe of mottled eggs, a cross between Asian soy dyed eggs and the Jewish hamine eggs, to the fabulously bizarre appearance of the century eggs. The truth is in fact I've left it so long is because of being truly busy and the exhaustion of starting college. Most importantly too I should add, I wanted to be certain I really liked natto, the famously polarising dish of fermented soy beans, and after wolfing down three boxes of the enticingly named natto before writing, I can be certain that fermented slimy beans can make a convert of a sceptic.
Over here in the western world texture isn't as widely celebrated as in the East, and by widely I mean that if food doesn't have a jaw wrenching crunch it's not to be contemplated- there's very little appreciation for the other sides of the scale. In Japan, where these beans hale, there is a huge love for slimey foods, foods that slick over your tongue and leave trails of gooiness over your chin, and it's this quality of natto that draws me to it. The slime coating developed from when the soy beans ferment, form long, sticky strings that you have to tug and pull at with your chopsticks to get them in your mouth- I'm not exaggerating here, if you ate these beans near a fan you'd be clearing the trails of it for months. All I can say is that this wildly strange mouthfeel has to be experienced to be valued; you may find it repulsive, or you may find it addictive (like I do). A trick to help handle that sometimes troubling stickiness is to take a pile of beans, shovel them in and quickly roll your serving implement to tie off the strings so they don't entangle themselves all over your face, joyous though that can be.
However, texture is only half the bargain. I'm sure you all want to know how these taste. The beans are fermented and thus taste fermented, but it's in a lovely way like strong cheddar or powerful beer. They have muskiness and fungal qualities, along with a cheesey tang. The solid beans also give a starchiness that helps round off the slime's pungency. One thing I should mention however is don't expect to like these on their own; the packets of it you buy in individual serving containers almost always come with a sachet of hot mustard and soy sauce- use them! If you don't wish to do what the packet tells you, and I sympothise with all you punky extroverts, dab the beans with however much hot English mustard and tamari you want.
I have no recipe for these, I just have loose instructions of how to eat them. Firstly, buying- they almost always come frozen in Asian groceries, so keep them that way. Stash them in your freezer and make sure to take them out a good day before you wish to eat them They make an excellent lunch, but they are traditionally served for breakfast, due to their protein rich healthiness that helps the day begin in an invigorating way. I have to say, their potent taste wakes you up better than many cups of coffee.
Ensure the beans have thoroughly thawed and came to room temperature, then stick a pot of rice on. Rinse 1/2 a mug of long grain rice under cold water, then cover with 1 mug cold water. I always use my beloved rice cooker kindly given to me by a beloved Gabrielle for this as you need only switch the machine on and it keeps your rice perfect and hot for when you need. Otherwise, bring the rice and water to a boil in a saucepan, clamp on a lid, lower the heat and cook for 10-12 minutes. Leave to stand for at least 5 minutes before fluffing up with a fork and serving. If you wanted, you could make the rice when you take the natto out of the freezer at night, then reheat it to serve with the thawed beans in the morning. I love the rice hot, but NEVER heat the natto up or you'll be stuck with a fermented fug over your kitchen for days. To prep the beans, use a chopstick to vigorously stir the beans until they seem lighter and slimier, then stir in the seasoning. Tip the beans in a pile over a bowl of rice and top with some snipped spring onions. Some like to top with an egg yolk to mix the golden goo into the rice.
Don't sneer at the idea of eating stuff renowned for being a challenge to eat- not only does this taste great, but the vast health benefits light up your cells and your soul (that's if you have one).

Alexander Pavlova

Classics exist in all forms of art. In literature you have Pride and Prejudice or Of Mice and Men; in cinema you have the Godfather or Pulp Fiction and in art you have various splodges of majestic paints that I won't go into, mainly because my art teacher saw absolutely no flare in me whatsoever (not that flare existed with my literature or film studying). Nevertheless, they exist in home cooking too, and this billowing, iconic Aussie dessert is surely one of them (or at least in my book, or rather blog, it is, which is fitting given that this is my blog). It's because of the pavlova's timelessness that I don't feel apologetic for writing the recipe again. You should be grateful in any case, given that I'm posting a plethora of variations to adorn my (and yours, and hopefully everyone's) go-to original recipe and secondly because my first post was a mess. It's okay to criticise your own writing people, provided you pay back, and this is me paying back.
However it wasn't all my writing; the basic recipe I go to every time certainly deserves no criticism- I have to bow down to only the Australian food writer Stephanie Alexander without whom this post would be named simply 'Pavlova' and wouldn't be nearly as good.
Back in the old days where I lacked the skills of proofreading, I attributed the name Alexander to my pavlova withal because of a bulky friend of mine called Alex, who's tanned skin and rugged form reminded me of the meringue's. He's only got bulkier since.

This is the classic Pavlova recipe I always turn to, and it's what I consider my Summer variety and I would top it with tropical fruits accordingly. For more info on toppings and whatnot, see variations below.

4 egg whites *almost always these come from when I use egg yolks in a recipe and I've then emptied out the whites into plastic tubs and froze them. I should note that this can get excessive and obsessive if you're a neurotic waste-averse person like me. When my freezer got too stuffed with them at one point I had to start emptying egg whites straight into the sink but these days I need to restock, so have continued the practice of freezing of them. Remember to label the tubs too, or you'll have no idea how many whites you have in a bag. Generally, I go for two per bag*
250g caster sugar
Pinch salt
2 tsp cornflour
1 tsp white wine vinegar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

For the topping:
500ml double cream
Fruit of your choice (again see below)

Preheat your oven to 180○C. Line a baking sheet with enough parchment to cover it snugly.
If you have the cut side of a lemon lingering about in your fridge, wipe around the inside of your mixing bowl (which ideally should be metal) to kill any grease. If you're lemonless then use a tiny dab of white wine vinegar on some kitchen paper. Using an electric whisk whip the egg whites to soft peaks, then gradually add your sugar about 1 tbsp at a time until the sugar reaches a small enough mound to pour it in gently, until the meringue reaches firm peaks (or as firm as you're gonna get, it depends on the egg whites, how long they've been kept frozen and how clean your hands were when you separated them). Sprinkle the cornflour and vinegar on top of the meringue then fold it in, no need to be hyperbolically gentle or fold it within and inch of the mixture's life.
Use the messy whisk to dab corners on the baking sheet to stick the parchment down, then tumble the meringue on top. Use a spatula, which is also the best tool for folding the meringue together, to smooth the top. Since you're going to (yes you are) be inverting this pavlova it's best to have the top as flat as possible and the sides fairly angular.
Place in the oven then immediately reduce the temperature to 150 for 30 minutes, then reduce further to 120 for the final 45 minutes, but do check slightly shy of there. If the meringue is undercooked it will be far too crumbly and if it's overcooked it will be too dark and secretes syrupy gel from its belly. Turn the oven off and leave the meringue to cool completely in there, though if the meringue is overcooked you will of course need to remove it from the oven immediately. The base from this point, can be done ahead and even left to cool in the oven itself overnight.
Invert the pavlova onto a cake stand or large plate. However if you find the pavlova much too crumbly for this transfer, pile the cream directly on the top of the pavlova on the tin (it's not the end of the world.) Whip the cream to very, very soft peaks and let it ooze creamily over the top of the pavlova. If you've kept it soft enough you should scarcely need to spread it, it will swathe itself. Top exuberantly with your chosen fruit and it's ready to serve. You can top the pavlova in advance easily but the fruit begins to wheep a little as it stands; plus if you're serving this at a party it can be nice to escape the buzz for a moment for a little quiet assembly.

Variations:
My usual fruit I go for to top the pavlova is passion fruit. Use about 4 fruits that are nice and wrinkly and ripe, cut in half then disembowell them all over the cream. Fruits with decent tang are best for pavlova to cut through the sweetness of the marshmallowy base, such as pomegranate, pineapple chunks, good sour clementines or red and black currants. Whilst I generally eschew a fruit salad atop a pavlova, I love my peach and lychee pavlova which involves draining a tin of peach slices, arranging them on the cream then tearing up the flesh of about 10-15 peeled fresh or canned lychees over them. These two fruits can be a little too sweet, especially out of a can, so consider squeezing the juice of 1/2 a lime over them.
Those variations I all consider my summery ones, though my peach and lychee version has a surprising Christmassiness and its canned fruits overcome any seasonal issues, but for later on I have a more wintry berry pavlova. That involves replacing 100g of the caster sugar with light muscovado sugar, using red wine vinegar in place of white and sprinkling 2 tsp cinnamon along with the cornflour in the base. For the fruit topping use 500g frozen summer fruits, combine with 3 tbsp granulated sugar in a pan, bring to a boil then simmer until the sugar dissolves and the red juices leave a line when one is drawn with your finger on the back of the wooden spoon. Leave to cool then stir in 150g raspberries or strawberries and 2-3 tbsp creme de cassis, sloe gin, chambord or any other suitable liqueur. When entirely cold, tumble the berry compote over the cream-duveted pavlova.
Pavlova can be a gratifying way of using any number of leftover egg whites, in which case use 60g sugar per egg white and use mild logic with the cornflour, vinegar and vanilla. For example If you have 5 egg whites, 2 tsp cornflour will be fine, but if you have 8 egg whites double the quantities of everything else, and if you have just 2, don't bother to make a pavlova.
This ratio works too with regular meringues, again just use 60g caster sugar per egg white, omit the cornflour and vinegar but keep the vanilla and pipe rounds of whatever size onto a lined baking sheet. Bake for 45 minutes to an hour at an oven that is just 140○C but don't leave them to cool in the oven, remove them once they're cooked to keep their shape as well as possible- for meringues this is more important than chewiness in the centre. These make a fabulously simple dessert with some whipped cream and berries- you could go in for the compote that goes over the wintry pavlova.

Stink to High Heaven Pt.#1 (Congee with Century Egg)

It's always been true with food that the ones that exude the most repugnant stench yield the best flavour. This is why I have named this two part series, unsubtly, 'Stink to High Heaven' . The case holds true for an array of foods namely strong nutty or blue cheese, garlic (as vampires well know), or onions; here however, I may have crossed the line between brave and insane.
I could have done this series about the simpler foods named above but I'm afraid I am and always have been attracted to the bizarre spectrum of life, and thus I've made this series about two Asian delicacies renowned for their pungent odour and polarising flavour.- 'natto' and today the 'century egg'
Whether you call this food preserved egg, millennium egg or simply a bad idea, the long story short is that it is a preserved egg. It's certainly not preserved for the length of time advertised, more like a few weeks or a month; but it's certainly long enough to put the egg through a striking metamorphosis. A duck, chicken or occasionally a quail's egg is packed in a mixture of soil and lye until the egg undergoes a chemical reaction- the culprit is the alkaline salts in the lye which work like gremlins to turn the clear egg white into a cola-coloured jelly and the yolk into a grey/green custard, almost interstellar in appearance. The look is vibrant and slightly unsettling but it does possess a strange beauty- the egg's surface crackles with a pale snowflake pattern that arises from the preservation process, and I see a bit of the ugly duckling complex with the egg, naturally.
But looks aren't everything. In terms of taste, the foremost flavour is definitely egg. It's surprisingly mild; much like the dragon fruit its vivid appearance doesn't translate into strong flavour. It has an ammonia, strong cheese vibe to it which I happen to relish (though I'm sure many would disagree). One thing I should say is that the century egg lets you know what some people find so repulsive about regular hard boiled eggs.
Many eat the egg as a challenge by simply biting into it whole, but that's definitely not the idea. Alone, the egg has few merits but when it's softened and complimented by other flavours, it shows that the egg can be delicious and not just some culinary quirk. The only way I've come across it being eaten is in a rice porridge; very light, very soothing and perfect for the slightly harsh notes of the egg. It's incredibly simple to make- you simply overcook rice until it melts into a thick, silky porridge.

100g pudding rice or other short grain white rice
750ml hot chicken/vegetable stock
Soy sauce, to taste
White pepper, to taste
Dash of sesame oil
Chopped spring onion and 1 century egg

In a sieve under running cold water wash the rice until the water more or less runs clear. Place it in a saucepan and cover with the stock then give a good stir and clamp on the lid to help the mixture boil faster. Once it comes to a boil turn the heat down very low and simmer for 1+1/2-2 hours, until the rice has broken down into a thick porridge. Frequent stirring is necessary to prevent catching and achieve a velvety texture. Season with light soy sauce (or just regular salt if preferred) to taste.
Crack the egg gently on a worktop and peel it. The inner papery membrane is spotted with dark freckles. Chop the egg into small pieces and use it to top each bowl of porridge (this serves 2). Scrunch over some pepper, sprinkle with spring onions and drizzle over some sesame oil. If you can get over the bizarre appearance of the egg, every mouthful will be delicious. Will I make this again? Most definitely, not least because I have 5 more eggs to eat up!

Rye Sourdough

Making homemade sourdough is macho enough, but I don't think you can get moreso than with rye sourdough. And I'm not the sort of bloke who can feel macho very often.

One of my first posts since I revamped this blog was about sourdough; I was in a fever of excitement about it after I entered (and lost) a competition to bake one. The rush of getting a sourdough loaf right is unparalleled in the kitchen. When I wrote the entry I tried to cover as much going wrong as possible in quite a scary, though methodical, troubleshooting list, a principle of which was recommending not to start off with sourdough until you've got a feel for regular, yeast risen bread. I wouldn't say that looking back- though it is true that sourdough is marginally harder to make than regular dough and it requires a lot more planning- what I would say is that the thing that will truly ensure your bread is a failure is if you go into this concerned and apprehensive and feeling like you will go wrong. Cooking picks up on worry and as in life, willing something to go wrong means it probably will. So go ahead with this in full confidence and faith (not in something flimsy like my writing of this, but in the bread and the yeast that's always in the air that allows this to rise). The bread baking instinct is in everyone.

Before you make this you will need to have procured a regular sourdough starter and from that a rye sourdough starter. The instructions are as follows, and I don't offer measurements here, because you don't need them. To make regular starter combine strong white bread flour with water by which I always mean cold tap water, in a large-ish jar and beat well to expel lumps. The consistency should be between a crepe batter and sponge mixture, or failing that slightly thicker than unwhipped double cream. Then just leave it, with the lid partially on for a night. The following morning tip out half the mixture then add a little more flour and water to get it to the same consistency. Leave it again. The next morning it should probably have started fizzing up a bit and will smell a little tart; again, tip out half and refresh, and leave again. By the following morning the starter should have definitely got going and its fizz should increase its volume by about 1 1/2 times, and it will have created a film of grey liquid- this is alcohol, a product of the yeast respiring. You can tap this off or mix it in; some claim it adds more complexity of flavour. If it hasn't, repeat the process again.

You may as well turn this into rye starter now- scoop out a good 2 tablespoons of starter into a separate jar with a lid and add water and strong rye flour until it reaches the same consistency as your regular sourdough. Leave this overnight by which time it should be fully active as the starter that this was based on was already active, and have increased in volume a lot. See below to turn this into bread.

To keep these starters it's too labour intensive to have them at room temperature so you must keep them in the fridge. This is technically called retarding, and to aid this slowing down of the bacteria have the starters really thick, as thick as cement with more flour (regular strong white flour for regular starter, and more rye for rye starter). Once in the fridge you only need to refresh them once every few weeks, and I find I often use regular flour to refresh the rye starter to save the more expensive rye flour. If you want to bake with them however, you can't use them straight from the fridge. I take them out the night before, but a few hours would be fine as long as they do come to room temperature. I also refresh the starter and dilute it as I take it out of the fridge which helps it combine into a bread dough more easily.

To bake your rye bread, this is how to do it:

70g rye sourdough starter

250g strong white bread flour 

250g strong rye flour 

350g water (it's often easier to weigh water though it is exactly the same in ml, and you have to be flexible with the amount anyway)

2 flat tsp table salt (or 1 dessertspoon if you still have one)

1 tbsp molasses or black treacle

3 tsp caraway seed (completely optional)
100g rye flakes, plus more to sprinkle, toasted (also completely optional)

Combine the flour, salt and caraway seeds together in a large mixing bowl, then incorporate the starter and water and molasses (it's useful to dip the measuring spoon in the water to help the viscous treacle slip off the spoon). The best tool for this is your hands. I find it best to have the dough mixed together fully in the bowl to clean the bowl a little and have it coated in a little flour before you start kneading, but by all means tip the runny mass straight onto the floured worktop if you wish. Once the dough's come together and is fairly sticky (it will absorb more flour as you knead) tip it onto a floured worktop (flour it with the white flour) and begin kneading. Due to the relative heaviness of rye this will never knead elastic, so you only have to pummel and stretch the dough for about 4 minutes. Use a scraper or palette knife to help remove stuck bits of dough from the worktop. Once the dough feels a bit smoother and taughter, oil it and place it back into its mixing bowl. This will have a slow overnight prove so to help prevent the dense dough from drying, spread a film of oil over the surface. Cover with clingfilm and leave to prove overnight at room temperature.

By the morning, and you don't need to get up at dawn, the dough should have slightly less than doubled in size. If it hasn't, pummel the dough and leave it for the rest of the day, and it should rise then. This happens. If there's still no activity, discard it, and try again at a later date- the starter may have been unready for use but don't be afraid of this happening- this is just a precautionary warning.

If you don't have time in the morning to do this, put the dough in the fridge until you get back in the afternoon to stop the dough overproving.

 Tip the dough out gently onto a lightly floured surface and don't knock it back. You're aiming to keep some of the air bubbles from its prove. To give it some surface tension flatten it slightly and pull the sides into the middle to create a seam. Keep redoing this gently until the dough's got some good tension and doesn't flop all over the place. To prove it again either dump it on a greased baking sheet and cover with clingfilm, or to give it a really good roundedness line a large bowl with a tea towel and flour it well. Place the dough in the centre of the bowl and turn the corners of the tea towel to cover the dough. 

Leave to prove for a few hours until roughly doubled again. Very gently tip the risen dough onto a greased baking sheet and take off the tea towel. Using a lame or a really sharp, thin knife, score a pattern on the dough. To give it a good crust, or at least a more emphatic crust, brush with water and optionally sprinkle more caraway seeds on top.

Bake in a preheated 170 degrees Celsius oven until when you rap the base it sounds hollow. If it's a little flat don't worry, it will taste wonderful and it's homemade- these things don't matter at home! They only matter if you make the ill decision to enter it in a competition. 

Fried chicken and sufferin' succotash

I've done a recipe for fried chicken before, but I wanted something a bit closer to the original, that's to say closer to the way the glorious cooks of the Deep South fry chicken, and less ripped off Nigella Bites, to be frank. Nevertheless, the issue of cooking the chicken all the way through whilst still having an Uber crunchy coating remains, and the solution I have here is thoroughly foolproof (this is coming from a fool so you gotta believe me). I use brown meat here because it's the best, but if you wanted a mixture then get a chicken jointed by a butcher (or do it yourself if you're very brave) and do exactly the same as you would with just 6 pieces from separate chickens, as this recipe follows. Bare in mind that a jointed chicken gives you 8 pieces, so you may need a bit more milk in the marinade and a bit more flour to coat.
The succotash recipe I've kept because it makes a fabulous accompaniment to the chicken which must be eaten between fingers I'm afraid, although a fork's probably best to deal with the succotash. The name refers to my endearing love of Looney Tunes, and yelling sufferin' succotash is the character Sylvester the Cat's coping strategy for dealing with trouble; not that you need to add the sufferin' part- succotash is a gratifying word as is. The dish itself is a rib-sticking mix of broad beans (Lima beans) and sweetcorn that gave victims of the great depression a cheap source of protein, but as is often in food, the poor culture's dishes are still cooked today because they are so very very good. While I feel the succotash is a good and filling enough accompaniment (and it's not as if you're gonna be struggling to make up daily calories with this) I know plenty of people that couldn't have this without chips. It's perfectly doable, just cook the chips in oil before cooking the breaded chicken, taking them out before they get too brown (as they'll continue to cook while they keep warm in the oven) and leaving them on a tin lined with parchment paper to go in the oven that's hot for the chicken's second cooking stage. Then just use the chip oil to fry the chicken and continue as follows.
I'm not even going to broach this with the health issue- if you're looking for diet food I can't see any reason to be reading a post about fried chicken.

6 chicken pieces, on the bone and skin on (think thigh and drumstick)
250ml buttermilk
125ml ordinary milk (whatever you've got in the house)
1 tbsp coarse salt
2 tsp tabasco or other viciously hot sauce
4 cloves crushed or minced garlic
1 small onion, peeled and roughly chopped

2 eggs
300g plain flour
1 1/2 tsp table salt
2 tsp smoked paprika
2 tsp dried sage (or 1 tbsp finely chopped fresh sage)
2 tsp ground black pepper

Vegetable oil or a block of solid cooking fat, such as Crisp'n'Dry (I often use this and dilute it with the regular oil) for frying
Grains of uncooked rice for testing

For the succotash:
1 tbsp cooking oil
1 onion, diced
2 red bell peppers, diced
2 cloves crushed garlic
1 finely chopped red chilli (or 1/4 tsp dried)
2 tsp dried sage (or 1 tbsp finely chopped fresh)
250g frozen broad beans or frozen edemame beans
250g frozen sweetcorn kernels  (of course you can use tinned)
Fresh thyme flowers

In a freezer bag, mix the buttermilk, milk, hot sauce, garlic and salt together and then lower the chicken pieces in and leave to marinate overnight. I leave the bag in a dish or the box the chicken came in for support and to dispel leaking risk.
When marinated, combine the flour and its seasonings together in a separate dish or plastic bag. Take 125ml/half a cup of the buttermilk marinade and whisk this into the two eggs. It might seem a faff to make more dipping liquid, but the eggs make the coating crispier.
Remove the chicken pieces from their marinade and drip off as much excess as you can. Dip each chicken piece into the flour mixture then into the eggs, then finally into the flour again. Make sure you really pack the last breading layer onto the surface well, and if you rub your hands together to loosen the clumpy bits on your fingers you can pack these onto the coating too. Finally, transfer the chicken pieces onto a rack over top an oven tray to dry.
You really do need to leave the chicken on the rack for the coating to dry out for at least 10 minutes, so this leaves you plenty of time to get on with the succotash.
Heat the oil in a saute pan then add the onion and peppers. Cook until very soft then add the garlic, chilli and sage. Cook for a few minutes more then add your vegetables  (it's useful to run these under a hot tap just to dispel any ice). Cook until everything is hot and the beans tender, about 6 minutes. Leave with a lid on to stay warm.
Preheat the oven to 220 degrees Celsius, 200 degrees fan.
Heat up a pig skillet full of oil or a block of sold cooking fat in a big solid pan and heat until a grain of rice bubbles and browns within 10 seconds, then add your chicken pieces. The oil really must be searing to make that crust as crispy as possible. Only put in 3 at a time so the oil stays hot. Cook until they have a really dark gold crispy skin, about 3-5 minutes either side should do then return to the wire rack to let oil drip off. Because the chicken is undercooked both before and after touching the rack there's no need to worry about cross contamination. When all the other chicken pieces are fried, slide the chicken on its rack over its baking tray into the oven and continue to cook until the chicken is no longer pink, 15-20 minutes should do.

Fougasse

I've got a recipe for fougasse already, it was posted about a year ago but this isn't a reiteration, it's the real thing. I reread my recipe, including the strange combo of rosemary and parmesan, and not only was the bread merely white bread cut into a leaf shape, I didn't actually mention anywhere adding the titular rosemary or parmesan.
A real fougasse is a grainy and strongly flavoured concoction from sun-scorched south of France- they really are keen on bread shaped like plants down there (take Pain D'epi, a stick of white bread cut into a stalk of wheat) and this particular loaf is cut into a huge leaf. Well at least it should be; my version is cut into a clumsy bulbous tropical variety, and this could be construed as not a fougasse as I don't make holes that join at the edge, but that's okay, because it's homemade.
The key to such a flavoursome and well-keeping crust is in the sponge, or poolish as the French call it. Consider this a pre-ferment that you need to start long before the first prove; I just make it up the night before and let it bubble up in the fridge overnight. The longer you leave it, the better the flavour and longer the bread will last before staling.
Before you consider making this, I strongly recommend you invest in a scraper- they're cheap as chips and a plastic one is fine, although I have a metal one. They're invaluable in kneading the sticky dough and cutting the attractive leaf shape. This advice and inspiration for this recipe came by youtube's The Bread Kitchen, and I'm very grateful for it.

For the sponge/poolish: 150g strong white bread flour (this is a rough cup measure if you're that way inclined)
200ml water (cold tap water is fine)
1 x 7g sachet active dried yeast

500ml water
10g table salt
500g strong white bread flour
150g Rye flour (or use another 150g bread flour if preferred)
200g mixed marinated olives (you can buy them like this, but otherwise you could buy regular olives and marinate them in extra virgin olive oil and some herbs of your choice)
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Prepare the sponge the night before, or at least 2 hours before mixing the rest of the dough. Mix all the ingredients together well then cover with lightly oiled clingfilm and leave to prove in the fridge overnight, or at room temperature for the 2 hours. When it's ready it will be hugely bubbled up with intricate webs and tunnels, rather like a bread beehive. Without the bother of letting the poolish come back to room temperature, stir in the 500ml water until relatively smooth (hands are a great tool) and then add the salt and flours and mix until all flour is absorbed and you have an incredibly sticky dough. Generously flour the work surface and begin kneading this monster. Your best ally is your scraper, use it to scrape the dough from the surface and gather the dough together and keep kneading until it gets really stretchy and smooth. Bare in mind it will seem that the dough isn't smooth, but the straggly bits are an illusion created by the dough sticking to your hands. Every now and then, leave the dough on a film of flour and wipe your hands clean, that way you can feel that the dough is becoming smoother and not just a mess. A great kneading technique here is the slap and roll: slap the dough down aggressively onto the worktop then fold it over itself, and use the two ends that you hold on to to slap the dough again and repeat. After about 10 minutes, the dough should be ready.
Carefully knead and fold in your olives, they will get properly incorporated (trust me), then oil the mixing bowl and dough and leave to prove for a good 2 hours. The rye, the olives and the fact that the dough is built upon a sponge means that this takes a bit longer than normal bread to rise. Once the dough has doubled in size, punch and pummel it down and turn it out onto a well floured worktop. This makes two loaves, but you could stretch this to three easily. Divide the dough accordingly then transfer each lump to its floured baking sheet. Using a rolling pin or just your hands, flatten it really well to about an inch thickness  (no rulers please). Using your scraper again, cut a great central furrow and open it up and then on each side cut open more holes, until you end up with a big palm leaf shape. Repeat for the other loaf.
Wrap the two up in oiled clingfilm and leave to prove for another 40 minutes.
Preheat your oven to 200 degrees fan then place your two loaves in and bake for about 20 minutes, until golden and makes a hollow sound when rapped. Brush the loaves with the olive oil and then leave them to cool. If you have any hooks in your kitchen, hang them proudly up.

Pumpkin Seed Praline

If you wanted to call this pumpkin seed brittle, be my guest. To paraphrase Juliet Capulet, a praline by any other name would taste as sweet. Not that, actually, this is incredibly sweet- the point about praline is to have the caramel just on the cusp of bitterness so although it's sugary it isn't cloying and the bottle green pumpkin seeds that get strewn in add an oily savouriness of their own. What you end up with is a shard of brittle that looks like a great chunk from a medieval stained-glass window.
This will work fabulously wish many nuts: blanched and flaked almonds, extravagant macadamias, pecans etc. However the important thing is that you buy good, fresh organic ones not the bleached supermarket kind, and although it is true that toasting any nut or seed brings out the flavour, in this context it would mean too much oil would leak into the caramel and you'd get soft chew, not crunch.

All the ingredients are given in the metric system, but it's much easier to use a set of cup measures or even a small mug- it's the ratio that's important which is, 1 cup sugar, to 1/2 cup water to 1/2 cup pumpkin seeds.
200g granulated sugar
125ml water
Good pinch sea salt
125g pumpkin seeds

Place a sheet of lightly oiled foil, or if you own a sheet of non stick silicone do use that, over a baking sheet.
In a medium saucepan with a thick base, mix the sugar, water and salt together until the sugar is immersed and beginning to dissolve and then remove the fork or other stirring utensil and set it well aside before you set a medium-high heat under the pan. Stirring at heating stage is forbidden and will cause your caramel to crystallise. As the sugar melts, gently swirl the pan to help the process along. Without leaving the pan unattended, allow the sugar to boil for about 6 minutes until it thickens and turns a deep gold, but you mustn't let it go very dark or it will taste bitter. Switch off the heat and quickly scatter over the pumpkin seeds and swirl to cover them in the caramel. Pour it onto your sheet of foil and let it set calmly at room temperature before peeling away the foil and snapping into shards, ready to be dunked into strong black coffee or scrunched over vanilla ice cream.

A Nanny McPhee picnic- Strawberry Vanilla Jam and Lemonade

The age of picnics is far behind us, but that doesn't mean picnic food is to be tossed aside as well. These two recipes evoke a perfect Summer scene accompanying the Famous Five or Nanny McPhee on a spread blanket dotted with different dishes. While that ideal is outdated, these characters all lived in the grey age of Victorian austerity and where 'lashings of boiled egg' were considered an enormous treat, I implore you to conjure the same amount of joy from a picnic comprising of kale smoothie and spiralised cauliflower.
Yes these recipes are old-fashioned, yes these two foodstuffs are nothing you can't buy in any shop and yes they take a moderate degree of kitchen pottering, but that is why they are such wonderful things to make. Just a jar of luscious, jewel-red strawberry and vanilla jam to be eaten with thick slices of white bread and a thermos of fuzzy lemonade will leave everyone enamoured with glee in the park- despite the pain of plastic forks and paper plates to be disposed of later, but so ist das Leben. And unlike Miss McPhee, when you want these recipes, they will be here for as long as you desire.
This doesn't make a huge amount of jam, I filled 4 medium jars with it but it lasts a good year in well-sterilised jars and small amounts is the easiest way with making preserves; great vatfuls of conserve are difficult to finish in your alloted time and difficult to boil with the rapidity you need for jam. The lemonade here will be enough to serve an intimate group of 4-6 but the recipe is a doddle to half or double.

Strawberry Vanilla Jam
1kg small, underripe strawberries (crunchy sour ones from the supermarket are counterintuitively best here)
1 kg jam sugar (this isn't preserving sugar, you need to look for the extra pectin advertised on the packet)
Juice of 1 lemon
3 vanilla pods

Before you begin, you must ensure your chosen jars are sterilised. Any jars will do, you can buy kilners especially but I keep any jar with a nice shape and pretty lid for preserves. The easiest way to sterilise them is to put them in the hottest dishwasher cycle, and once they're done leave them in the hot machine until ready to use. The other method is more labour intensive but still easy: scrub jar and lid well in scalding hot soapy water, rinse them in more hot water then place them on a baking tray in a low oven (150 degrees) for 10 minutes to dry, then switch the oven off and leave them in there to stay warm.
Place a saucer or small plate into the freezer (this will allow you to check the jam later)
Hull the strawberries then place them in a very large, strong pan with the lemon juice and heat them gently until they begin to break down a little. Splay open the vanilla pods and scrape out as many black seeds as you can and then throw the pod and seeds into the pan. Add all the sugar and bring to the boil over medium heat and boil for 5 minutes.
Take the saucer out of the freezer and blob a small bit of jam onto it then leave for a moment. Push your finger into the jam and you should see it ripple or wrinkle. If it doesn't so much, remember the time that you spent checking this with the jam boiling should cover any uncertainty. If it doesn't wrinkle at all, leave to boil for a few more minutes then check again.
Switch the jam off the heat and leave for 20 minutes so the fruit disperses itself evenly amongst the jelly. Fish out the vanilla pods, scraping them against the side of the pan to squeeze out as many spare seeds as possible then rinse and dry them to be placed in a jar of caster sugar to make vanilla sugar. Then, take a masher to the berries so they crush a small amount more (you certainly don't want a complete mush) and give a final stir before pouring into the jars. If you want to use a jug for this, the jug must be sterile too but a ladle is fine for this task. Gingerly screw the lids on then allow to cool completely before labelling.

Lemonade

2 medium sized lemons (I don't buy unwaxed lemons and I have to say I don't mind using waxy ones here, but if you do mind scrub the wax off in hot, hot water)

1 litre chilled water (if you want it fizzy use half soda water)

75g granulated sugar (5 tbsp)

Lots of fresh ice

Chop up the lemons, discarding the head and tail ends and put them all into a jug blender with the sugar and blitz until the lemons are a pureed mulch. This may seem alarming, but it's the quickest way to make homemade lemonade- most other recipes call for steeping chopped lemons in the water and then making a simple syrup, and using the whole fruit gives a wonderful bitter intensity. With the motor running, add the water then strain the whole lot through a fine sieve. The lemon puree leftover I frankly discard, but adding this to a marmalade being made would add a divine lemony hit. Chill well before pouring into glasses or plastic cups.

If you wanted, and this is a special preference for my mother, muddle a sprig of mint in your fist then leave it to infuse the lemonade while it chills in the fridge. And also, as another variant, you can throw in a handful of frozen raspberries or strawberries and make a lovely sunny jug of pink lemonade

Roasted Pork Shanks with Beer and Crunchy Crackling

This recipe had far less humble beginnings. I came across it first from Nigella Lawson, of course, and immediately recreated it, but in a brasher fashion than the recipe ever was intended. I called it ale braised pork shoulder and seasoned it with what I described as 'European spirit' which involved heady amounts of juniper, which I'm afraid I struggle with since an event at New Year's which involved a bottle of cheap gin and no glasses... What the recipe really derives from is something eaten so often in Germany, but so tragically underrated and it starts with the humble pork knuckle, or hock.
The best way I can describe pork knuckles (or shanks, a similar cut which I've used here) is actually with the language from where the dish hails. The word for wrist in German is roughly 'Kneckle' and the wrist of the pig is essentially what a pork knuckle is, slightly prior the actual joint. Of course nowadays the main, or indeed sole, translation of wrist is 'Handgelenk', literally meaning hand joint. When the hock is cured (and you must make sure that they aren't when you make this) it sometimes is called 'Eisbein' for its' bone's use in history to make ice skates to go parading over frozen rivers. This is how gratifying the German language is: not only its reliance on guttural consonants such as Z or K (say 'ziemlich' aloud, it will make your day) but their literal method of constructing words make for simple poetry.
The dish itself is actually incredibly simple, and is what home cooking is all about- the bronze shanks glazed in ale and surrounded by angular pieces of potato, which soak up some of the beer and end up looking inexplicably like burnished mango cubes. The best part is all effort for the roast ceases once it's in the oven, so for all it takes hours, you needn't do a thing save for a little basting. To serve with go for some steamed green vegetables- something mustardy and sulphurous like leeks or cabbage or go further into the land of rye and veal and open a jar of sauerkraut.

2 pork shanks, or knuckles with the rind scored
3 tsp coarse salt
3 tsp peppercorns
3 tsp caraway seeds
3 cloves garlic, peeled
250ml dark ale but not stout
4 red potatoes, peeled and cut into roastie-sized cubes

Before you begin you must make sure you are in the best position for crunchy crackling. That means the rind must be scored well and it is free of clingfilm and had a few hours for the rind to air dry, and the oven is preheated to a blisteringly hot 220 degrees Celsius. If the rind is still moist then take a hair drier to it- no joke.
In a pestle and mortar grind the salt, pepper and seeds to a coarse powder then grind or mince in the garlic and mix to a gluey rub. Rub it all over the shanks until you can see the score marks in black- that's the easiest way to tell. Place them in a roasting tin and put them in the oven for their first blast for 20 minutes.
Once they've had their blistering first cooking time, turn the oven down to 150 and slow roast it for 2 hours. By then the rind should have begun to bubble and erupt as though it's got the bubonic plague, in the most appetising way.
After the 2 hours, add the potatoes under and around the shanks and then pour in the beer, making sure to hit the pork with the stream of ale.
Roast for another 1 1/2 hours, basting every half hour or so with beer then blast it again at 200 for another 20 minutes.
Remove from the oven and place the shanks and potatoes on a board to rest. Don't panic, if the crackling feels a bit too soft at this stage, the rest will give time to solidify any leaking fat and the crackling will be as solid as a rock. Cover the board with foil or scrunched up parchment paper and rest for a good 20 minutes- I always like to give meat a generous resting period.
To serve, break apart the crackling into amber shards and shred the butter-soft meat with a couple of forks. Instead of a gravy, I just add a dabble of water into the tin to deglaze all the sticky bits- you end up with a runny syrup rather than a gravy but that's how I like it.

Ragù Bolognese

If there's one word that you can describe Britain's culinary decrees with, it's stubborn. Don't worry, I don't mean that in such a callous, unpatriotic way- in fact, this capriciousness has plenty of merits: no new-wave, hipster, chia-seed-age foodie can alter a good old steamed syrup sponge or toad in the hole, and that's how it should be. Similarly, we have our own homespun version of what is now called Bolognese, although it really isn't, and it's lovely and makes a great foundation for cottage pie or lasagne, but I've covered them before, and until you try the proper, deep Italy confection, you will not know what ragù Bolognese is truly about.
Real Bolognese is thick, rich, tomato-concentrated and fragrant which is why, as the Italians have always said, you need only a small dollop amongst a steaming bowl of pasta, which shouldn't be spaghetti (accompanying ragu with that is believed to have been conceived in New York), instead go for something denser like penne, although no one said you need pasta at all. I love it in a bowl with some good bread dunked in. For what goes on top, parmesan is traditional but if you want something gooier and more toothsome, go for some sharp cheddar. I don't think Italians would sneer too much at it, because believe it or not English cheddar is growing popular in Italy.
If you want to go ultra authentic, you need three meats, not two. Split the beef with minced pork on top of the pancetta and add 175g chicken livers that have been coarsely chopped and soaked in milk for at least a day to draw out bitterness. All that is an expense and a faff, but by all means go for it if it takes your fancy, however an easier option I often take in meat sauces is to add some lamb liver, finely chopped in with the mince for depth and a bit of vitamin A.
Normally when I say add fresh herbs I mean in the regime of 'only if you've got them in the house' but the fresh basil here is crucial for fragrance and to give a wild coyote call to make the herbs added previously jump into flavoursome action.
What's great about meat sauce is that because it's such a basic staple standby, you can double or even triple this recipe then divide it amongst various plastic bag lined tuppawares and when cool, freeze. When they're solid unmould the bag and keep that in the freezer and save your tuppaware box. From this point you have lasagne and cannelloni galore- all it takes is an overnight fridge thaw.

150g chopped pancetta (you could use regular bacon or lardons here, but don't even think of using back bacon- the fattier streaky is what's needed)
2 small onions, peeled and chopped
2 sticks celery, finely sliced
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed
A few sprigs of thyme and rosemary, finely chopped
Pinch of chili flakes
500g minced beef (or 250g minced beef and minced pork)
60g tomato puree
2 x 400g tins chopped tomatoes
200ml water
250ml red wine, port, white wine, dry sherry, whatever's to hand
2 bay leaves
Salt and pepper
Freshly grated nutmeg
125ml single cream
Large bunch of fresh basil, chopped-

In a large, heavy bottomed saucepan heat some olive oil and cook the pancetta until rendered and slightly crispy. Add the vegetables and saute for about 10 minutes, until soft. Add the garlic and thyme and rosemary and then add the beef and cook until brown and crumbled, then add the tomato paste, the alcohol, chopped tomatoes, water (which is just the tomato tin filled halfway and while you're at it, swill the other tin too), bay leaves and chilli flakes.
Leave partially covered on a low heat for a few hours to simmer and reduce.
Season well, do it here so you don't add too much salt before the sauce has reduced and thus concentrated,  with pepper and lots of nutmeg and then ooze in the cream and add the chopped basil, leaving some to sprinkle on top.

A suggestion for Kippers

Writing this in front of this week's episode of Masterchef, displaying an unwavering parade of sugary desserts, I am reminded of how my savoury tastes are so much stronger than any sweet tooth I have.

And that's largely down to fish.

As much as I love, unoriginally, fried cod or plaice, I adore the more maligned but much more salubrious oily fishes- especially the ones that are so unfashionable you can pick them up wrapped in their smelly blanket of clingfilm for less than a pound. Today, that fish is kippers. 

After I picked them up very cheaply from a supermarket shelf and stashed them into the icy depths of my freezer, I researched using solely the masterpiece of Jane Grigson's English Food what to do with them. She suggested either piling them on to toast after cooking them or making a fish paste. Both options sound divine but the former is a little too austere and the latter a little too old fashioned, so I combined the two, and should you do the same this is how it should be undertaken.

Take 75g of really, really good and soft unsalted butter and mix in some salt and pepper, a good tsp of mace and as much fire of chilli powder or cayenne that you want. These are the seasonings Grigson suggests for kipper paste. When well combined, you can either just leave the butter to spread normally onto some toast or go the retro mile and splatter it onto a large piece of cling film, wrap it up like a sausage, and roll it gently and lightly into a rough cylinder. Chill in the freezer for a few minutes after which it will have firmed up and you can shape it into a tighter roll, then place it back in the freezer so it's really solid.

Take two raw and prepared  (gutted and without a backbone) kippers; smoked and the colour of cornflakes, or unsmoked are fine, although I don't think you'll come across a kipper that hasn't been smoked nowadays. Place them in a large Pyrex jug or roasting tin and cover with recently boiled water and cover with a plate or even a lid should your chosen vessel come with one. Leave this for 10 minutes, by which time the fish will be melting and unctuous. This cooking method will also work with many oily fish, bar salmon, such as mackerel and pilchards. 

While that steeps lightly, dress a green salad with balsamic based dressing, unwrap the chilled butter and slice into rounds and warm up some plates- I tend to do this under the grill on a low heat. This is so that the icy butter will soften on the plate before you try and spread it on your toast. We all know that it is soul destroying trying to spread hard butter on soft toast. 

When the fish is done, take the skin off which is easier than you can imagine thanks to this gentle cooking, and flake into rough chunks onto a plate. Any sizable bones can be taken out, but don't lose sleep over tiny ones still left in the flesh. Spritz over some fresh lemon juice and scrunch over some salt and pepper, but only very lightly- you need to taste the fish over anything else. To serve, spread the butter over some wholemeal toast or good crusty bread, and mulch over some fish. Have the optional addition of the the green salad on the side.

Prawn Cocktail

Although I hate reiterating recipes, something needs to be done about prawn cocktail. Recently, perhaps a few months ago, I took a trip with my family to a lovely local gastro-pub called the Boathouse. Yes, this does mean their speciality is fish. However, I came across an atrocity before we even hit drinks- prawn cocktail with 'Bloody Mary' sauce. I have to say I don't want to meet the Bloody Moron who came up with that; how on earth are humble little prawns supposed to stand up against vodka and celery salt? It was this, noticing subsequent restaurants not even offering the beloved starter on their menues; and a read of Nigel Slater's 'Toast' that addresses how magical the dish was in its in heyday that prompted to tell you again how to make a quintessential, though never groundbreaking, prawn cocktail. Isn't the world in enough of a state as is without it being forgotten?
The foundations of a good prawn cocktail is where we start. I've always used iceberg, despite its reputation, and always will, and recommend you always do, too. The starter hales from pre-seventies and iceberg didn't actually appear in British grocery shops until the eighties. What they would have used are little baby gems, roughly shredded. You could do the same, but for me, their slightly rubbery texture is already covered by the prawns and they just don't stay as crisp after being swathed with Mary Rose sauce. Use about a quarter of a small head of iceberg to feed 4-6 and shred it very finely. Then, as if making a comfy nest, line the bottom of some pretty glass bowls or wide glasses with the lettuce. If you insist on going for the little gems, a fabulous touch that deviates outside of tradition, though still comfortably, is to use the leaves of the lettuce as boats and spoon in a delicate pile of prawns in the centre of each bit of lettuce. These can be popped straight in the mouth with no cutlery business.
Next we're onto sauce. I don't need to harp on anymore about how the only sauce a prawn cocktail should ever witness should be Mary Rose. This entails firstly 6 heaping tbsp of mayonnaise or salad cream. Lots of people, people probably more qualified than me, will tell you to make your own mayo. You can if you want, but for 99% of Britain, 6 tbsp mayonnaise means opening a jar of Hellman's, so that's what I do. Next you need 1 tbsp of rich, intense tomato puree. Dollop it in with great aplomb. After that, for a bit of heat, slash in some tabasco which is entirely to taste but obviously go slow-that stuff is vicious. Next you need the juice of just half a lemon for now and then give it all a gentle stir- it doesn't take much for them to amalgamate. The next crucial beyond crucial step is to taste it. Add more lemon, more tabasco, more tomato or more salt if it needs it, but also it's really important to have the confidence to say at this point that it's perfect as it is.
Now for the prawns. This is where people go the most mad. Long-haul imported, thawed, big-toe sized tiger prawns just don't play here as they would in a more new age recipe. Go for fresh water, small, delicate little commas (as I've read them described) and 200g of them; buy them ready cooked from the fridge or freezer section of the supermarket. Fold them into the sauce and then dollop the cocktail into the cluster of prepared lettuce. Finally, for a bit of zazz, sprinkle with sweet smoked prapika or even better for taste and even better to show the light 80s influence on this recipe, lightly crushed pink peppercorns.

A few thoughts, mostly about chicken

When others see things, they see only what is ostensible. A field, a field, the grass, the grass, the cow, the milk. No. I look further. For example, when others slap raw, pasty chickens, breast bulging and legs craning, into their trollies at the supermarket many will just see their economic purchase, and later their little boys and girls' beaks gaping wide for lashings of bronze meat and golden gravy. The dog would perhaps make a meal of the silver foil. Now of course I won't pretend they're oblivious to the true history of what they're buying, but when it comes down to getting the cheap whole bird when you're in a rush to leave the shop and the family are waiting hungry at home, who looks any further?
Well I do. What I see is firstly the colourless, beakless and souless bird cooped up in a rusted cage- the jagged metal woven like a hunting net. I then see the chicken struggling legs up (leg or breast?) as it breezes towards the terrifying swirling blade. The chicken swishes and thwaps and its feathers flash at the menacing contraption, but for all its efforts to escape it, it is reminded by the blood of his brothers that spurt out of their craggy neck wounds that this is the humane way to go. Many of the brethren are still squawking feebly, however- the machine may sever the jugular but seldom does it do it clean enough for a swift passing.
My mother has normally cut me off at this point- the notion that she could be plunged into boiling brine to separate her skin which is quite as flabby as an unrendered hen's from her flesh just as easily is enough to put her off the dinner which I fight the rights for in the first place. And then we would be in trouble; if the meal isn't eaten the chicken's packaging plastered with a proud, or as my father would say, smug, 'free range' sticker wouldn't remind us at what such good, morally structured people we were but how we wasted a good roast dinner last week. So I bite my tongue until it's needed to start mulching this shred of roasted poultry. Although, I scarcely needed to chew it; it was oh so tender the way mum cooks it. I was about to remind her that due to this being free range, we've saved electrictiy by the shorter cooking time because you do know, don't you, that the fat laced through a free range chicken conducts heat better than the lean sawdust of a factory bird? I resist again because mother was just biting into a roast potato, and the moment your incisors break the crunchy carapace to reveal blurringly soft potato is not a moment to be interrupted.
When the bird's scrawny carcass, as bare as a Scotchman's knee, is wheeled away to the bin I pipe up that the bones can be frozen to make excellent stock when the occasion demands but my mother dumps the thing into the green recycling and states, with a clipped upper lip, that bones are better served in developing countries to help compost develop- she finishes with the defiant and sarcastic rhetorical question of 'would you rather solve world hunger or have a good chicken soup?'. She beat me and perhaps her notion that what I was doing wasn't wholly making the slightest of differences was true, but as the mountain of 'free range' plastered plastic paraphernalia grew ever larger in the recycling bin, I knew I was doing the right thing nonetheless.

Haha- now I explain what this exercise has been about. I know I'm not much of a writer, but I felt that creating this character, an uppity little boy (or girl if you'd prefer to envision that) is a good way to present my view (or rather, not my view) about the tender subject of free range meat. Although this young character's self righteousness and vivid imagination does draw similarities with me, I'm afraid he's not me. When I can, I'll buy a free range chicken for Sunday lunch, I always prefer to buy free range eggs and if I'm lucky enough to have game, it must be free range for me, although on the whole I'll never be the person to live by free range organic matter. I'd love to be, don't get me wrong, and I have no illusions about the horrors contained in the livestock industry (although conditions have certainly been improving) but I'm afraid that the factory farmed meat is there to be bought, and if you can't afford double the price for the free range meat, then you simply can't buy it. I've had a factory farmed turkey for Christmas dinner two years in a row now and to me the taste isn't inferior and the far cheaper price tag makes it the only option for me. It's brutal but true. The factory farmed chicken may well be a martyr on top of a meal, but the meal is still there to be had and feeding must occur. I don't think any meat should be served with a side of guilt. All I feel is that you should know what you're eating, what the animal's life was like and why you're eating it. Think about it every time you buy and consume the meat, and never take it for granted, and if you're one of those who believes in not consuming meat at all then you don't need to me to tell you that vegetables alone can be just as exciting and delicious. My involtini got from my Uncle's recipe notes and Lorraine Pascale's showstopper of raised nut roast pie (coming soon) will be proof of this also.