Mix and match

At this time of year, my first port of call when deciding what to eat is the garden. First find out what is ready for picking and then work out what to have with it. As a general principle this works well, but every now and again the vegetables ready to be eaten are not happy bedfellows at first glance.

Broad beans are one of my favourite vegetables. I like them at every stage - from the tiny underdeveloped beans in their fluffy pods that can be eaten without shelling right through to the mealy giants that somehow escaped picking, but nevertheless can play a starring role in a vivid green dip.

I rather overdid the planting this year. As the early sowing season went a little awry, I bought a couple of dozen plants from a roadside stand, rather than growing them from seed myself. When I got them home, I found that they were actually a dwarf variety called The Sutton which only grows to about 15 inches high. This sent me into a bit of a flap as I was worried that they wouldn't be very productive. As broad beans are one of the few vegetables that I freeze in any quantity, I made another sowing of a normal-sized variety just to be on the safe side. But Sutton has been incredibly productive and I have been picking, podding, eating, blanching and freezing broad beans nearly every day for the last couple of months. And now the second sowing has come onstream! The pigs are happy though, as they love tucking in to the crunchy pods.

The other star waiting to be photographed this week was the cavolo nero. Back in the days when we had an organic veg box every week I remember finding this a troublesome vegetable. I don't know whether it was the variety or the way I cooked it, but we always found it rather bitter and unappetising.

A couple of years ago my sister offered me some plants, so I decided to give it another go as it is one of the winter-hardy brassicas. Unfortunately cavolo nero proved to be the chickens' no. 1 favourite vegetable ever - they pecked the poor plants to stalks in very short order.

This year the chickens are well and truly locked up and are no longer able to take their toll of my veg beds, so I decided to give this Tuscan kale another try. And it has grown beautifully. The problem today was to find a way to pair it up with another wave of broad beans. Ribollita would be the obvious answer, but it wasn't a soup sort of day. A bit of google fu came up with cavolo nero con le fette, or bruschetta with kale. It was such an unlikely-sounding proposition that it just had to be given a try.

The cavolo nero was still quite young and probably didn't actually need de-ribbing, but all the authorities seemed to think this necessary and for once I followed their advice. I put the chopped leaves to simmer gently for about 20 minutes. This is much longer than I would normally cook kale or cabbage and it felt slightly wrong to do it, but the resulting leaves were beautifully non-bitter, which probably explains why my attempts at cooking it years ago were so unsuccessful.

While it was cooking I podded the broad beans and steamed them for a couple of minutes until the skins started to loosen. Removing the skins is indeed a faff and such a labour of love that I tend, selfishly, to only do it for someone who will appreciate the effort. Generally myself! The vivid inner beans went into the blender with some salt and pepper, chopped mint and a little olive oil. A quick pulse was enough as a purée isn't what is needed here.

The rest is simple self-assembly. Slice some crusty bread and toast it. Rub the slices with half a clove of garlic. Drain the kale, spoon generously onto half of the bread and season. Do the same with the broad bean mix. Drizzle very lightly with a little posh olive oil and sprinkle with a few slivers of air-dried ham. Both of the bruschetta toppings worked surprisingly well, particularly the kale which had a depth of flavour that belied its humble origins.

After the lettuce has bolted

One advantage of living in a place that is rarely hot and dry for any length of time is that green leafy crops stand well in the ground. I am still finishing off the first sowing of lettuces made back in early April. Conventional gardening wisdom is to sow a few seeds every couple of weeks, but I find that three (or at most four) outdoor sowings of saladings is usually sufficient for the whole season. And that applied even when there were two of us here to eat them.

But even under my cool, damp conditions they do eventually bolt. My chickens don't appear very interested in them, and I am a little reluctant to give the pigs too much lettuce. I am sure they would happily demolish the lot, but I am not sure the effect it would have on their, admittedly none-too-delicate, digestions while they are still quite young. It is certainly a waste to throw it straight onto the compost heap. So what to do?

Lettuce is not an obvious ingredient for hot dishes, with one or two notable exceptions. I sometimes use a few chopped leaves if I am short of green stuff for noodle soup, and braised peas and lettuce is a lovely way to make use of peas that escaped being picked while young and tender and have turned a little mealy.

Sadly there is no excess of peas, either fresh or mealy, in my garden this year. I have made several sowings - both directly into the ground and in lengths of guttering indoors - using older and freshly-bought seed. In return I have had about half a dozen pea plants. A complete disaster that I am at a loss to explain.

There were some shop-bought peas in the freezer, however, which gave me the idea of making a soupy version of the braised lettuce. I simply softened a couple of chopped shallots in a little butter (and I think it does have to be butter here, rather than oil), and threw in a couple of handfuls of frozen peas, the washed and shredded lettuce and a nice sprig of mint. I then waited for the mountain of lettuce to subside a little before pouring in some vegetable stock (in this case the liquid saved from cooking chick peas, which makes a very serviceable and savoury stock). This was simply simmered for ten minutes or so, seasoned and then attacked with the hand blender until smooth.

I was very pleased with the result. The slight bitterness from the lettuce contrasts beautifully with the sweetness of the peas, while the hint of mint gives the whole soup a satisfying depth of flavour. I did think of adding a little cream, but in the end didn't think it needed it.

All in all a happy end for something that originally looked destined for the compost heap!

Rhiwbob

Rhiwbob is the Welsh spelling of rhubarb. It is pronounced rhee-you-bob and is a word that always makes me smile when I see it.

This weekend I harvested the last few sticks I wanted from the plants. A few sticks were chopped up and frozen as is for making crumbles later on in the year, but most of it was rendered down in the oven with some sugar and crystallised ginger. This I use as a topping for my breakfast oats. It has been a good year so, with any luck, the tubs of frozen rhubarb will last me until the apples come on stream.

I have no idea what variety of rhubarb it is. All I know is that it is robust, flavoursome and prolific. Very prolific!

R was given the original roots by a work colleague. Chris and his family had a 10-acre farm near the coast, and it was a place we loved to visit whenever we could. I think it was there that R realised that smallholding was something ordinary people like us could do, and I often wonder if we would have found our way to Wales and our little place on the hill if it hadn't been for those visits.

The resulting rhubarb plants certainly love it here, helped along with a generous helping of well-rotted stable manure every winter. The received wisdom about growing rhubarb is that you shouldn't let it flower, as that will weaken the plants. I think that is nonsense. I have been letting these plants go to flower and then seed every year for seven years. The massive flower spikes are so dramatic and exotic-looking that I always look forward to them in the Spring. I have certainly not noticed any fall-off in stalk production, fortified as the plants are with their generous top-dressing of manure.

As the oven was on already for stewing most of the stalks, I decided to make a batch of my favourite rhubarb and walnut muffins. Made with wholemeal flour, freshly-laid egg, rhubarb and nuts, these delightfully moist and sticky buns feel almost healthy. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how to make muffins, but the recipe I use is similar to this one by Nigella, although I use about half the quantity of rhubarb, don't use cinnamon and do add chopped walnut pieces.

They also freeze and defrost beautifully, so I don't have to worry about eating up a dozen muffins in the next 24 hours!

This week we shall mainly be eating...

... leeks!

I couldn't wait any longer. They were still occupying the bed that I have earmarked for the beans this year, so they had to come out this weekend. The biggest ones are probably only fit for making stock, but there are still enough for several meals there. I'm not sure yet what to do with the middling leeks, but the babies need to be enjoyed quickly.

Way back when, in the days when my garden was the tiny back yard of a terraced house in Manchester, and I could only dream of a proper veg patch rather than a couple of dozen pots, a South-facing windowsill and a cold frame, I had a book entitled, "The Weekend Gardener", or something like that. It gave fortnightly lists of jobs to do in the garden, most of which didn't apply to me due to lack of garden. But the entry I liked most over the Summer months was "Eat at least one meal a week outside", and it is something R and I always tried to do whenever the sun was out.

The window of opportunity for doing that here is very short, so it is even more important to make the most of the sunshine.
R's parents gave us the table when we moved here. During the Summer it lives under the big sycamore tree in the rather grandly-titled "orchard". This was where we would shell peas and beans together, share a glass of wine when he arrived back after a week away and, after a weekend of work outside, would just sit with our tired bodies and watch the sun go down over the hill, kept company by the ever-busy swallows and house martens, while we waited for the bats to make their entrance, signalling a change in temperature and time to go indoors.

I firmly believe in the principle that the better the food, the less you need to do with it.
A handful of peas picked, shelled and eaten in the vegetable garden tastes better than just about any dish that can be cooked with them. A perfectly-ripe strawberry picked with the early morning sun on it just cannot be imitated by any supermarket's Finest range. And a new-laid egg still warm from the nest box makes a poached egg that most top chefs would be hard-placed to beat.

So, for a Summer lunch take a bunch of asparagus from the farm shop, the final few broad beans from the freezer (after removing their dull grey coats to reveal the vivid green kernels) and some just-picked baby leeks. Steam until just tender. Perhaps add a little freshly-ground salt and pepper, and just enough butter to make everything pleasingly glossy. Poach the eggs discovered in the nest box this morning and attempt to place them attractively on top. Carry outside and eat in the warm sunshine.
The shop-bought apple and tomatoes add a sour note of commercial realism to the picture, but perhaps the home-made elderflower cordial mitigates this a little.

Eating those weeds

Here on my hilltop I am blessed with rich, free-draining soil and, being Wales, there is always plenty of moisture to go around as well. It means that I can grow pretty well anything - provided, of course, that it doesn't mind constant winds, snow, late frosts and a shortage of sun throughout the summer months.

One thing that grows very well is the nettle.

Some weeds like buttercups and dandelions are attractive enough that it is difficult not to admire their beauty when flowering en masse in my pasture. On the other hand, there is not a lot to be said for nettles from the aesthetic viewpoint. Oh, I suppose they have a certain stature and presence, and the colourwash effect from bright acid to dark sagey green works as an effective counterfoil to more showy plantings, but I dislike them intensely.

There, I said it.
I know that as a yoghurt-weaving self-sufficiency type I am supposed to love them. But I don't. They are nasty, invasive, stingy weeds and the world would be a better place without them.

When R was here to do the mowing, it left me with enough time to keep the nettles and docks under control. Now I have to do both, the nettles have won most of the recent skirmishes, and if I am not careful will win the war as well. I am very reluctant to do it, but napalm death may be required (or at least a bit of glyphosate).

In the meantime, however, I have been doing my bit to stem the advancing tide by eating them. Nettle soup is always a favourite, provided there is some good chicken stock available. I have a friend who makes a fantastic nettle champagne, and last year I discovered that saag made with nettles is truly delicious.

I was recently sent a recipe for nettle pesto, and wanted to try it out.
As usual, I didn't follow it exactly, but pesto is a forgiving dish so it didn't seem to matter.
So, with a trug full of freshly-plucked nettle tops (which barely made a dent in the forest out there), I put a pan of water on to boil. Blanching is, of course, an essential step if you don't want your pesto to have a unique, tongue-swelling piquancy that isn't a usual feature of the dish.

A minute in boiling water is enough to kill the stings. Then you simply put the now bright green nettle tops in the blender with some garlic. The recipe also called for pine nuts which I did not have, but a goodly handful of walnuts took their place. Press the button to whizz it all up together, add some salt and start pouring in a mixture of sunflower and olive oil. Parmesan is traditional here, but I like to make pesto in large batches and freeze it for later use, and I prefer my cheese added at the point of consumption.

I made this with no great expectations of culinary excellence. In fact I expected it to simply taste "green". That isn't a bad thing in itself, but hardly a basis for an enthusiastic recommendation. But I am not ashamed to admit that I was very pleasantly surprised. The nettles have a sharp freshness and slight bite that I wasn't expecting, and the vivid green makes it particularly attractive.
Pesto alla genovese it is not, but a tasty use for an ever-present resource it certainly is. I fully intended to freeze half of this batch, but I found that it also went rather well on crackers!
(I have a sneaking suspicion that it would be nice mixed half and half with coriander too).

Jammin'

It has taken two and a half years, but last week I finally used up the last of the jam that we made the Autumn before R died. It is probably a good thing that home-produced food doesn't come with a Use by label!

The fact that it has taken so long to use it up is a sign of the way I have almost entirely stopped eating bread. These days I make a few loaves when I have people to stay, and there is normally a bag of rolls in the freezer for defrosting individually to have with soup. But that's it. No toast for breakfast, jam butties or anything like that. A spoonful in my daily yoghurt is a very slow way to use up a shelf full of jam.

A quick examination of the freezer contents found several bags of fruit. I didn't fancy gooseberry or rhubarb, but there were quite a lot of blackcurrants and raspberries, and a single bag of damsons. So mixed-fruit jam it was then!

The raspberries were R's favourite.
The canes were the first thing we put in the new vegetable garden way back in our first winter here. I always intended to set up a system of posts and wires, and to train the canes along them neatly, but like so many things it never quite happened. Yet the raspberries keep coming in abundance, even with competition from the local blackbird population. It pleases my sense of order to line up serried ranks of berries on trays for freezing, but the greater delight is taking out a couple of handfuls in the middle of winter for a smoothie or pavlova, giving a little flash of summer on a dull day.

Then there are the blackcurrant bushes. When we built the fruit bed, I bought a couple of bushes from the garden centre at great expense. Shortly afterwards I was offered some cuttings from a friend's garden - at the time I didn't realise how easily they root. And naturally the nameless freebies are consistently bigger, sweeter and more flavoursome than the bought variety. The blackcurrant harvest is one of my biggest garden pleasures. Rather than picking berries from the bushes, I always combine harvesting with pruning and simply lop off the currant-laden branches, take them to the table beneath the sycamore tree and strip the branches there, usually accompanied by a glass of wine.

And the damson tree deserves a mention too.
When we moved here, it was in such a sorry state. The previous owner's sheep had practically ring-barked the poor thing, and there was a huge foot-long scar in the trunk. It was spindly and top-heavy, and I was all for chopping it down there and then. R persuaded me to give it one year and then decide on its fate. So I gave it a good feed of manure, kept the grass down around it - and it rewarded us with a harvest of damsons that far exceeded all expectations. They aren't very large or particularly attractive, but they are sweet and delicious. The season is all too short as the wasps eat them if they are left on the tree too long, but for a glorious fortnight it is good to gorge on the little purple plums, and to freeze a couple of bags for moments like this.

I can't give a recipe because I didn't really use one. But all three fruits are fairly high in pectin, so setting isn't a problem. You just have to remember to boil them for twenty minutes or so before adding the sugar, otherwise the skins of the blackcurrants and damsons can be a bit tough. It is also a good idea to remove the stones from the damsons unless you like playing Russian roulette with your teeth and breakfast confiture!

My preference in jam is for as little sugar as I can get away with. 1 pound of sugar to 1 pound of fruit is nicest, but often isn't enough to keep the mould at bay, so I normally plump for a ratio of 1.25 : 1 which is still low enough that the flavour of the fruit isn't overpowered by the sugar. Then just dissolve the sugar in the fruit and boil furiously until a blob of jam on your cold plate passes the wrinkle test. It won't take too long because of the high-pectin fruit, remember.

That's it. Ladle into sterilised jars and seal. You can mess around with wax discs or water baths if you like, but none of it is necessary - clean jars and hot jam are all you need, and put the lids on before the mould spores have a chance to get in there too. And once you have opened the jar, always use a clean spoon to remove the jam and not the crumb-covered knife that you have just used to spread butter on your toast. Follow this little rule and your jam will remain pristine from the day you open the jar to the day you sadly scrape out the last dregs for your breakfast.

A lunchtime treat

Flushed with my triumph over the roofing sheet mountain, I felt that I deserved a little pampering on my Saturday shopping expedition.

The first port of call, as ever, was Derek the Fishmonger, where I found a nice piece of Cornish plaice for my Sunday lunch. Then I spotted the scallops. And dive-caught scallops at that.

I don't know why I like scallops so much. There is something ever so slightly indelicately gynaecological about their appearance, but I can rarely resist buying them. Sadly these didn't come with their built-in plates, but I was sure they could form the basis of a lunchtime treat.

Back at home, I checked the greenhouse to see if there was anything edible.
Still very little unfortunately, apart from a few radish and rocket thinnings. The herb bed yielded some very healthy chives and a few leaves of lemon balm and fennel that were starting to poke their heads above the soil.

Fortunately I had visited the farm shop on my way back home, and bought some crunchy romaine lettuce and a few self-indulgent cherry tomatoes. I know they don't really taste of anything much at this time of year, but I fancied a bit of colour with my lunch. They also had in chorizo from Wenlock Edge Farm. I hadn't tried their chorizo before, but their coppa and salami is excellent, so it was worth a try.

Lunch was more an operation in assembly, rather than cooking as such.
Chop the chorizo into coins, dry fry until the fat runs. Then add the scallops and fry for a minute on each side.

That's it - simply serve with a nice salad and balsamic dressing, and arrange as attractively as a person with limited artistic abilities can manage.

Currant dilemmas

One of the oddest consequences of finding myself suddenly alone is that the food I eat has changed quite drastically.

In any quantity, simple carbohydrates like jams, or even just too much bread, send my blood sugar levels haywire. A couple of hours after eating a breakfast of toast and marmalade, I often find myself shaky and clammy and feeling altogether unwell. So I rarely eat jam these days, unless it is to stir a spoonful into a bowl of yoghurt or very occasionally to be sociable and eat with guests for breakfast.

So when I did my early summer check of the freezer contents and found about 4 kilos of blackcurrants, I was initially rather at a loss as to what to do with them. Particularly as I can see that this is going to be a bumper year for soft fruit, and the harvest is practically imminent.

If jam is out, there is always cordial. That uses a lot of blackcurrants. I used to make this Ribena substitute for R, as he would drink gallons of it during the Summer. Well I guess I won't be needing that either. I'll keep some for making Summer Fruit Pudding, but that will barely make a dent in the stockpile. So what then?

The answer came during the recent run of hot weather. I went to the freezer again, looking for ice cream, but ice cream found I none. This was an emergency. And the only solution was sorbet!


So I unearthed my little manual ice cream-maker and put the bowl in the freezer to chill for a few hours. Then I dug out a bag of blackcurrants. When I harvest these, I simply open-freeze them on trays and then decant into bags. No topping and tailing required. Into the pan they went with a little water to prevent sticking. I added about 4 oz of sugar for every pound of currants (I like the tartness this leaves, but more sugar can be used if a sweeter end result is required).

Once the sugar had dissolved and the blackcurrants were starting to give up their juice, it was time to start sieving, pressing the pulp through the mesh with a wooden spoon. I advise wearing something old or indeed an apron for this job, as the juice splatters everywhere (or at least it does when I do it) and is very hard to get out of a white T-shirt!


After ten minutes or so of sieving you have a bowl of syrup and a lot of dryish pulp. If you keep chickens, give the pulp to them. This is a good way to show how much you love them - it will disappear in seconds - otherwise the compost heap will appreciate it too.

Put the bowl of syrup in the fridge to chill for a few hours. If you have a posh ice cream-maker that does the freezing for you, this step may not be necessary, but with a little manual jobbie like mine it is essential. If you don't there just isn't enough cold stored in the bowl to freeze properly.

If you happen to have an egg white lying around needing a home, this is a good use for it. Whisk it up to the soft peak stage as though you are making meringue, then fold it into the syrup. Then pour the whole lot into the bowl of the ice cream-maker, put the lid on and start cranking those gears. After about 10 minutes, you should have a bowlful of sorbet that you can decant into a tub and store in the freezer. This is absolutely fabulous on a hot day just on its own. It is also good as a palate-cleanser after a rich meal, perhaps with a couple of buttery biscuits or served with a scoop of good vanilla ice cream.

(If you don't have an ice cream-maker, you can still make sorbet. Pour your syrup into a shallow Tupperware box and put in the freezer. Every couple of hours, take it out and give it a stir around to break up the ice crystals or, alternatively, wait for about 4 hours, then remove from freezer, tip into blender, blend and then return to freezer.)

Now I know a picture of the finished product is traditional here, but I forgot to take one at the time and the weather has turned cold and non-conducive to sorbet-eating. Rest assured, that as soon as the weather perks up again, I shall oblige!

First harvest

The greenhouse has been yielding lots of salad lately, but there has been very little else of interest now that I have dug out all the winter crops and replaced them with summer vegetables. Salad is great, and I can eat a lot of it, but today was wet and cold, and cried out for something a little more substantial.

So I was really pleased to see that some of the first early potatoes were looking ready. The Roseval plants looked the most likely, and a quick firkle just under the surface revealed several perfect rosy pink baby spuds.
Last year, our potato-growing efforts were almost entirely wiped out by the slug epidemic. The wet conditions grew some lovely big potatoes, but almost all of them were riddled with slug holes and fit for nothing but pig food. I am hoping that the combination of a hard winter and timely application of nematodes will mean a reasonable harvest. With any luck I won't have to buy another spud until at least the end of the year.


The first new potatoes need to be celebrated, and ideally partnered with some other baby veggies. A quick look around revealed some 'just about, but only just' ready peas and a potful of early carrots destined to be eaten in their infancy.

R's Mum introduced me to the idea of cooking early new potatoes with mint to bring out their flavour, so a sprig of apple mint went in with the other pickings. Last, but not least my trip outside revealed a couple of eggs that I had missed earlier in the day.

So, what to do with them?
With vegetables that tender and fresh, my initial reaction is always to do as little as possible; to steam them gently and add a knob of butter. But today was crying out for something rather more robust and, for no logical reason, the new potato / mint combo didn't seem right for the pink-skinned variety. Nor did I fancy an omelette, which was the obvious end for the eggs.

What then?
A cursory examination of the fridge contents revealed some cooking chorizo - its spicy, robust flavours would be ideal for a less than perfect day. There were also some baby leeks on the vegetable rack.

The potatoes were set to simmer gently. Fresh-from-the-ground spuds don't take long to cook at all, so around 12 minutes would be fine. Meanwhile I braised the leeks, carrots and peas in a little butter. The chopped chorizo was dry-fried until the fat started to run and it crisped up a bit. Then I drained the spuds (which had lost their lovely pink skins in the water), roughly chopped them and chucked the pieces in with the chorizo to cook for a little while.

The result wasn't particularly pretty, and could probably have done with a little salad, but it was exactly what was wanted given the conditions.

Rebellious rice

Originally posted 13.05.09


After R died, some online friends had a collection so that I could buy bulbs to plant at his grave. In the event, they sent so much money that I could probably have covered the entire burial field with daffodils, so I spent a lot of it buying plants to create a small memorial garden in front of our house.

As I was putting in these plants one afternoon, a neighbour stopped by for a chat, and I explained what I was doing. "That's a lovely hydrangea," she said. "Did R like them very much?" "Ummm." I replied. "Actually, he hated them with a vengeance and always pulled a face when I suggested planting one in the past. So I thought I'd take advantage of the fact that he isn't here to argue to have one at last."
At which point she gave me a rather odd look and went on her way.

I have been taking a similar approach to my food lately, and have been eating things that don't bring back memories.
R was wonderfully non-picky about eating, and would happily tuck into most of my culinary efforts. But he wasn't at all keen on risotto, accusing it of being nothing more than a savoury rice pudding. And not in a good way, either. So I rarely bothered making them. I mean, who wants to spend 30 minutes stirring if there isn't going to be fulsome praise at the end of it?

I, on the other hand, love risottos. I received a posh bag of arborio rice and bottle of truffle oil for my birthday, the freezer is full of good chicken stock and the garden is starting to produce at last. So the choice for supper tonight was made for me.

I am particularly proud of my baby leeks. In early Autumn last year I found a pot of plantlets that for some reason hadn't been planted out. I put them in the greenhouse when the tomato vines came out, not really expecting them to do much. But they have done me proud this year.

So, the chopped leeks are softened with a little olive oil, then in goes the rice. Stir round until everything is nice and shiny. Add a glass of dry white wine or the first ladleful of hot chicken stock if feeling abstemious. Stir until absorbed.

Keep adding stock and stirring until the rice is just al dente. Throw in some leftover chicken and add a last ladleful of stock. When this is almost absorbed and the risotto is looking beautifully creamy, season with salt and pepper and add a good handful of freshly-grated Parmesan. Serve with the salad you made while the rice was cooking (you did remember, didn't you?), top with some chopped parsley and a generous splash of truffle oil. If you didn't receive any truffle oil for your birthday (and I do recommend that you put it on your list) a knob of butter would be nice too.

Tastes wonderful, but darned difficult to photograph satisfactorily.

New season, new soup

Originally posted 16.04.09

At last the garden is starting to yield some produce other than parsnips and Jerusalem artichokes.

The new season kale and PSB are exciting enough, but the first picking of mustard greens from the greenhouse means one thing, and one thing alone.

Noodle soup.
Noodles and R went together like, like.... Well, they just went together.

When we lived in the city, we always headed to Chinatown for noodle soup after a post-work beer or six. After we moved away from 'civilisation' it was often his first choice for a birthday treat, and was what I cooked for him when he was feeling down.

Good stock, noodles, of course, spring onions, garlic, ginger and star anise. Plus the all-important greens and topped with the protein of choice. Crispy pork belly is good, so are chicken, prawns or beef in their own way. But for preference it was always duck. However, as it took us a couple of years to start rearing our own ducks when we moved here, we had a long wait before it returned to the menu.

But so worth the wait.

I don't recall ever cooking it for anyone else, though. It was one of our guilty pleasures together. Soup, spoon, chopsticks, dish of pickled vegetable. Then silence punctuated only by happy slurping.

It is a dish that is so bound up with R that I haven't been able to eat it since he died. But the new mustard greens needed to be celebrated, so I took a deep breath and broke my duck, as it were.

It was as good as I remembered.
Quack quack!

(This is one of my girlies. She will never be soup.)

Also-ran soup

Originally posted 18.02.09

Not exactly prize-winning specimens, but 2008 was such an awful year for growing that I am grateful to be able to scrounge anything home-grown at the moment. All of the bigger onions have long since been eaten, but these tiddlers have the benefit of seeming to store better and being much less prone to neck rot. As for the parsnips, what can I say? They need sunshine to grow, and there was precious little of that last year.

Peel, chop and into the pan along with some chopped garlic, chilli and ginger. Throw in some spices - mustard seeds, cardamom, fenugreek and turmeric - and a bay leaf, sweat gently for a few minutes then add water and simmer until the veggies are soft. A little chicken stock wouldn't go amiss, but it really isn't essential as there is so much flavour from the vegetables and spices. A brief application of the hand blender, adding a little more water if it is too thick, check the seasoning and that's it. Serve sprinkled with chopped coriander and a slice or two of homemade oaty bread.

A frugal widow's lunch if ever I saw one!