stirring it a bit, until it’s brown at the edges but still floppy, 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer to kitchen paper to drain, and reserve the fat in a bowl.
Scoop out the squash with a spoon and spread a good bit of it on each bruschetta.
Pour some of the pancetta fat (a generous tablespoon per egg) back into the pan (fry the eggs in two batches if you must) and set it over medium-high heat. When the fat is barely smoking, crack the eggs into the pan. You should hear spitting and sizzling when you add them. That means the whites will get crispy on the edges. When the whites begin to set, sprinkle the eggs with a little salt and as much crushed chilli as you’d like. Cook the eggs as you prefer – I like mine over easy for this recipe, with runny yolks.
Top each bruschetta with an egg and then 2 slices of the pancetta. Serve straight away.
BAKED EGGS WITH ANCHOVIES AND CREAM
On those rare relaxed mornings when I have the time to flip through the paper, I make myself these baked eggs. Cream and anchovies make a lovely couple – the result isn’t fishy. Rather, the anchovy fades into the background, sneaking its salty umami quality into every bite. I like to dip my spoon in and spread the eggs on olive-oil–lashed charred slices of crusty bread.
serves 4
1 large garlic clove, crushed and peeled
1 teaspoon rosemary leaves
About 25g unsalted butter
3 whole salt-packed anchovies, rinsed, soaked, and filleted
(see Filleting Salt-Packed Anchovies, here)
6 tablespoons double cream
¼ teaspoon finely grated lemon zest
4 large eggs
A few dried pequin chillies or pinches of red pepper flakes
Maldon or another flaky sea salt
4 teaspoons crème fraîche
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/gas 6.
Finely chop the garlic with the rosemary until the mixture looks a bit like blue cheese.
Put half the butter in a medium pan set over medium-high heat and bring it to a froth. Add the garlic and rosemary mixture and give the pan a little shake. When the garlic starts to go brown and nutty, about a minute, add the anchovy fillets, give the pan another little shake, and turn off the heat. Stir the anchovies until they break up. Have a smell – to me, anchovies smell crispy as they cook. Pour in the cream, add the lemon zest, and stir some more. Turn the heat back to medium-high, bring to the boil, then remove from the heat.
Rub four 225g ramekins with the remaining butter. Put the ramekins in a medium baking dish, split the cream mixture evenly among them, and crack an egg into each one. Roughly crumble on the chillies and sprinkle a pinch of salt over each yolk. Add a dollop of crème fraîche to each ramekin. Pour just enough water into the baking dish so the water level reaches a little past the level of the cream in the ramekins.
Carefully transfer the baking dish to the middle rack in the oven and cook just until the whites have set completely and the yolks are still creamy, about 20 minutes. Remove the baking dish from the oven and let the ramekins sit in the water for 2 minutes. Use sturdy tongs to carefully remove them from the water. Serve straight away.
PORRIDGE
My granddad used to make the best porridge. Whenever he did, I’d think about Goldilocks: Granddad’s porridge was never too runny or too thick – it was always just right. He’d simmer rolled oats in milk, and it always smelled so sweet and inviting. Even today, the thought of it makes me go all warm inside. Next, he’d spoon the porridge into a bowl and let it sit until it formed a little skin and began to pull away from the sides. Then my favourite part: he’d pour milk into the space around the edges, the cool milk hitting the hot porridge and making it set like custard. Finally, he’d sprinkle sugar over the middle. The hot porridge, the crunchy sugar, the moat of milk – it was so comforting. Just the thing for cold mornings when there was frost on the ground, and you knew that pretty soon you’d have to leave the house all wrapped up in your scarf, bobble hat, and mitts and pop off to school. These days, I’ll sometimes add a bit of crumbled dried chilli to my porridge. It goes especially nicely with maple syrup.
serves 4
325ml whole milk, plus a few generous splashes
1½ teaspoons Maldon or another flaky sea salt
35g pinhead oats
35g rolled oats (not ‘quick-cooking’ or ‘instant’)
About 2 tablespoons sugar (maple, brown, or white) or maple syrup
Combine the 325ml milk, 325ml water, and the salt in a medium pot (a 2-litre pot should do it) and set over high heat. As soon as the liquid comes to a gentle simmer, add both kinds of oats and lower the heat to medium. Cook the oats at a steady simmer, stirring frequently and tweaking the heat as necessary to maintain the simmer. After about 20 minutes at the simmer, the rolled oats will have turned a bit mushy, while the pinhead oats will be just tender and pop when you bite them. Turn off the heat.
Have a taste. It’s good and salty, isn’t it? Now you want to add sugar or syrup to your taste. I like my porridge to taste a little salty at first, then fade into sweet. Spoon the porridge into warm bowls and let it sit for a minute. Then carefully pour a little cold milk around the edges of each bowl, so it pools all the way round. Sprinkle a five-fingered pinch of sugar or drizzle the syrup in the centre of each and let it melt, then serve right away.
Note:
This recipe feeds four, but it’s great reheated–make the whole batch even if you’re just feeding one or two. Reheat leftovers over low heat along with a splash of water or milk.
When I was hired at the River Café, Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers were my bosses. By the time I left, they were my mentors and my friends. Rose was seventy-one when she passed away. Just ten months before that, she’d still been working four days a week in the kitchen.
Rose didn’t give compliments often, and I actually grew to love that about her. I think that she was just honest. If you were doing a good job, she’d say it. If not, she’d keep mom. I was always doing something embarrassing in front of her. One day, she and I planted courgettes in the restaurant’s garden. I’m a Taurus. I’m supposed to have a green thumb. But a few days later, Rose looked at the courgettes she had planted.
