– discarding and tidying. A sort of culinary pruning and removing of dead wood.
There is method in my madness. Even though this is the busiest time of year, I like to spend a day sorting out the food cupboards. A seasonal stock-take. A snapshot of what I have a little too much of (lentils, beans, coconut milk, maple syrup) and what I don’t have at all (light soy sauce, hoisin, honey and, crucially, dried yeast.) An inventory now means a slow picking up of necessities over the next few weeks rather than the horror and panic of a ‘big shop’ during Christmas week, when the rest of the country will be at it too.
There is only one way to tidy a kitchen cupboard and that is to take everything out. Everything. Moving things around from shelf to shelf and side to side doesn’t work. You need to see what you have, so I spend the rest of the morning with bottles, cans and storage jars spread over the floor. The shelves get cleaned, then everything goes back (or at least most of it), starting with the top shelf (dried beans and lentils), then working down.
I rather enjoy finding the oldest sell-by date, but the haul is a disappointment this time. A jar of chestnuts from two Christmases ago, a twelve-month over-the-date bag of prunes and a bottle of oyster sauce that seems magically to have escaped at least three previous stock-takes isn’t enough to satisfy me. I genuinely relish finding that box of coconut-flavoured sugar or jar of piccalilli that is old enough to have gone down on the Titanic.
A surfeit of maple syrup annoys me, though. It is one of the most expensive ingredients in the kitchen and I cannot imagine how I have ended up with three bottles. I put it down to the bottles being slim and stored sideways, thus becoming almost invisible, like a book in a bookshop with the spine facing out. This find does, however, give me the opportunity to try out an ice that may well end up on the table at Christmas.
Fig, maple syrup and Marsala ice cream
If you have an ice cream machine, churn the custard, syrup and yoghurt mixture first, then stir in the chopped fig and chocolate at the end. To prevent the custard from curdling, keep the heat low and, as it starts to thicken, remove from the heat, pour into a chilled bowl over ice or in a sink of cold water and beat firmly and continuously until most of the steam has gone and the custard is smooth. I like to serve the ice in chunks, like fudge, rather than in one large slab.
Serves 6
egg yolks – 4
caster sugar – 2 tablespoons
double cream – 450ml
vanilla extract – a few drops
maple syrup – 240ml
figs – 3
dark chocolate – 100g
thick, strained yoghurt – 200g
figs and physalis, to serve
Put the egg yolks and caster sugar into the bowl of a food mixer and whisk until light and fluffy. Warm the cream in a saucepan, switching the heat off just before it comes to the boil, then stir in the vanilla. Pour the warm cream on to the eggs and sugar and stir to mix. Rinse the saucepan, then pour in the egg and cream mixture and return to a low to moderate heat. Warm the custard, stirring regularly, until it starts to thicken slightly on the spoon, then pour into a cold bowl and stir or beat with a whisk to remove some of the heat. Leave to cool a little.
Pour in the maple syrup and combine. Chop the figs into small pieces, crushing them slightly as you go, then chop the chocolate into small, thin shards with a large knife. Stir the yoghurt, figs and chocolate pieces into the custard, then tip into a plastic freezer box and freeze for a good four hours, or overnight. Turn the ice cream out, then cut into large chunks and pile on to a chilled serving plate, perhaps with a few physalis and more slices of fig.
Dinner is a green and humble soup. The flavours are simple, the method is straightforward and the ingredients are everyday. Recipes like this, gentle, warming, unshowy and, it should be said, meatless, are the backbone of my eating. Yes, there is plenty to dazzle both plate and palate, but sometimes it is this sort of food I need, food without frills or fuss, calming, restorative and just a little bit nannying. Oh, and it has a flotilla of cheese and toast on top.
Cauliflower and leek soup with toasted cheese
I use whatever cheese is around for this sort of thing. Tonight, it is a mixture of Gorgonzola and Taleggio that needs using up, the two melting harmoniously over the pieces of toast. Use whatever you have.
Serves 4
leeks, medium – 3
butter – 30g
olive oil – 2 tablespoons
cauliflower – 1kg
vegetable stock – 1 litre
bay leaves – 2
parsley leaves – a good handful (10g)
sourdough bread – 4 slices
cheese (any good melting type) – 100g
Discard the coarse part of the green leaves from the leeks and roughly chop them. Warm the butter with the olive oil in a deep pan. Add the leeks and cover with a lid. Cook over a low to moderate heat, stirring and checking their progress regularly, until the leeks are soft but without browning them.
Trim and thickly slice the cauliflower and add to the leeks. Stir briefly, then pour in the vegetable stock and bring to the boil. Add the bay leaves and a little salt, then lower the heat and leave the leeks and cauliflower to simmer for fifteen to twenty minutes, until soft. Process half the mixture in a blender until really smooth. Add a handful of parsley to the remainder and process in the blender to a thick, rough-textured consistency. Mix the two together and check the seasoning, adding salt and ground black pepper as you think fit.
Spread the sourdough bread with a little butter or olive oil and place under a hot grill, toasting one side to a light crispness. Turn the bread over and cover the other side with thick slices of cheese, then return to the grill until melted. Divide the soup between shallow bowls and float the cheese toasts on top.
14 NOVEMBER
Candlelight and roast cabbage
I wake early, sit at my desk and write. A daily ritual which if missed sets my world briefly off its axis. For the best months of the year, it will still be dark, a prickle of cold in the air, the slightly-too-long arms of my sweater (my writing jumper, a dear old friend) slipping softly over my fingers as I type, as if I was wearing fingerless gloves.
I do most of my early morning writing by candlelight. There is a warmth to the light given by a single flame that no electric filament bulb can ever match, and shadows that flicker grey on white. Occasionally, in winter, the candles will gutter, the flame weaving a little as it burns, a flash, a hiss and a spit, as if someone has walked past, and then it steadies itself once more.
My love of candlelight has its history in the light given by a particular candle that would be burned at home, unfailingly, over Christmas, then put away again until the following year. A heavy, square, rough-sided candle, each side framing a paper stained-glass window. To this seven-year-old child, it seemed like a magic lantern, each window a door to a world in which wonderful things happened, but also a place of safety and warmth. A hollow in which to disappear, like a rabbit-hole or a wardrobe with a magical world past the fur
