Beets

For such an unprepossessing, mild-mannered vegetable, beetroot certainly polarises opinion - or at least it does in my family. On the one hand we have my younger sister who believes it is the work of the devil; my whole family is still traumatised by the time that she demonstrated in full Technicolor why it is a bad idea to force children to eat something they have really taken against! In contrast the rest of us adore it any way you care to serve it.

R was never great with traditional pickled beets, though, as he wasn't a great fan of anything vinegary.

I can't remember exactly who introduced me to the idea of roast beets. It may have been the late, great Christopher Lloyd in his lovely book The Gardener Cook. Whoever it was, they were absolutely right. Roasting the beets gives them a sweetness and depth of flavour that just doesn't happen with the plain boiled variety.

R's favourite way to serve them was as an accompaniment to mackerel, either smoked or fresh. Mixed with sharp green apple, spring onions and a good dollop of freshly-grated horseradish, and then stirred into a mix of greek yoghurt and mayonnaise, this sharp, crunchy salad was perfect to cut through the richness of the fish.

I keep coming back to soup, however.

My freezer still holds plenty of chicken stock and the tomato or tomato/courgette sauce that I froze over the Summer. The recipe is simplicity itself: mix peeled and roast beets, chicken stock and tomato sauce in roughly equal quantities. Heat through, then whizz up with a hand blender and season to taste.
Serve with the usual crusty bread and a sprinkling of cubes of feta cheese.

This may possibly be my very favourite soup of all. Why not give it a try. You won't regret it, even if you think you don't like beets.

Tomatoes

R bought me the greenhouse for my 40th birthday.

The fact that I was actually 43 when it arrived didn't take the edge off my excitement one little bit.

Life at the top of our hill is windy. Very windy indeed. I had wavered for a couple of years between a polytunnel (bigger, but less robust) and a greenhouse (not so much growing space, but less chance of being uprooted and ending up in the next county).

After one very windswept Winter, during which the barn roof nearly blew off, we decided that the sensible option would be the greenhouse.

Never knowingly under-engineered, R dug the foundations and put in enough reinforcing bars for a small tower block before pouring the concrete. Believe me, that greenhouse is going nowhere!

From the moment it went up, it has been my place.

I love to stand out there on an early Spring afternoon, pricking out seedlings and listening to the Sunday play on the radio.
It was my bolthole in the days after R died. I would hide in there with Moose when the noise from all the people in the house became too much for me.
Its warmth makes it a safe cocoon from the world. I am happy in there.


And most of all I love to grow tomatoes.

Tomatoes have never grown well outdoors here. If the blight didn't get them, the cold or my chickens would. But in the safety of the greenhouse they grow beautifully.

When R was alive, I mostly grew the cherry varieties as they were the ones he loved. Once the plants started to produce, I would put a large bowlful of tomatoes on the kitchen table every day and he would eat them like sweets, picking up two or three whenever he went past.

I am a sad creature of habit, so was unable to prevent myself from planting the same number of cherry varieties as usual this year (the sweet-as-sugar Sungold and the much more tomatoey old favourite, Gardener's Delight). I can happily eat a small mountain of tomatoes every day myself, but even so I am still not making a dent in the daily output. So pasta sauce-making is underway already, even before this year's paste variety (San Marzano) comes onstream (apart from the one enthusiastically premature specimen at the back of the tray).


Over the years I have tried various methods for making sauce, but I find that the best-flavoured and easiest is to throw the tomatoes into a roasting tin along with a couple of chopped onions, a few cloves of garlic, a couple of chopped courgettes and assorted herbs (in this case leaf celery and thyme), add a little olive oil and then to roast the lot for 30 minutes or so.

When everything has softened nicely, it all goes into the food mill with a few sprigs of fresh basil, which gives a slightly chunkier result than the blender and has the added benefit of removing all (or at least most) of the tomato skins.


The end result is the best tasting pasta sauce in the world - even if the colour could be improved somewhat.
I make a batch of this most evenings at the moment. Most of it is destined for the freezer to cheer me up during the winter, but I can feel a pot of my favourite soup coming on


Watch this space!

Samphire

Another trip to the tip to consign some more junk to oblivion meant that I was later than usual with my shopping on Saturday morning. By the time I reached the fishmonger, the choice was limited. But what he did have was some vivid green samphire, which really cheered up my morning. I love the salty crunchiness of this strange, almost prehistoric half vegetable / half seaweed and always buy some when it is on sale.

So that decision was easy, but what to have with it?
All the interesting choices had gone by the time I arrived. There were plenty of salmon fillets and farmed rainbow trout, but they didn't appeal. In the end I opted for a piece of worthy-looking, but rather dull naturally-smoked haddock.

If R were still here, he would automatically have demanded kedgeree. Specifically the Delia Smith recipe - still my favourite version of the dish, although my own rendering looks a lot greener from the excess of parsley I always add.

As it is technically impossible to make a worthwhile kedgeree for one, and I didn't fancy eating it for the next few days, I opted for my second favourite thing to do with a piece of smoked haddock - fishcakes. There is nothing at all sophisticated about a fishcake, but I find them very comforting; it must be the nursery food nature of the beast. There was also some leftover mashed potato in the fridge that needed using up.

The haddock was gently poached in a mixture of milk and water, boosted with a little onion, a few peppercorns and a couple of bayleaves. Had there been no leftover potato in the fridge, then this poaching water would have served nicely for mashing some spuds. As I had no need for it, the dog happily obliged.

I then mixed the flaked haddock (Moose had the skin as well) with the mashed potato, added a couple of finely chopped spring onions and a few snipped chives, plus salt and pepper. It is a good idea not to break up the flakes too much so that the cakes retain a bit of texture. Then I shaped them into little patties. I was intending to dip the patties in egg and then breadcrumbs, but my recent minimal bread intake meant that there were no crumbs in the freezer. So, the patties had to be satisfied with being coated in seasoned flour.

While they were frying in a little sunflower oil, I washed the samphire and braised it quickly in nothing more than a little butter and the water clinging to it. That's all it needs - its natural saltiness means that nothing else is required apart from a little ground pepper.

There are lots of other things I could have served this with, but for once I didn't fancy a salad. A few capers sprinkled on top added a little sharpness, and that was it.
Not even any ketchup!

Chanterelles

I have had a minor obsession about wild mushrooms for several years, but it was only when we moved to Wales that I graduated to picking and cooking them.

R was happy to indulge this interest, even though it meant that, at certain times of year, our walks were spent with me peering into the undergrowth or leaping up onto a bank with a shout of triumph at seemingly random moments. On several occasions he was required to surrender his cap or pockets to carry my prizes as I had forgotten to bring a bag with me.

Naturally cautious, however, he would only ever eat anything that had been thoroughly identified to his satisfaction - both to determine what it was and what it could NOT be.
First we would take a spore print and check the colours of the spores. Then the mushroom was cross-checked in two books, and any possible impostors were identified as well.
The final proof was furnished by the simple expedient of allowing me to eat them first, then waiting a couple of days to see if I turned up my toes as a result. If I survived and pronounced the mushrooms tasty, then he would happily tuck in as well.

This isn't great mushroom-hunting country; whether this is due to the height or the soil type or what, I really cannot say. But if you know where to look there are still a few pockets here and there for the taking. We don't get the huge patches of St. Georges or fairy ring champignons that friends at lower altitudes find in abundance, but one mushroom that I do find in relative quantity is the chanterelle. There is one mossy bank in dappled shade under some scrubby oak trees that always comes up trumps at this time of year when we have a couple of days of sunshine after a good soaking of rain.



In years of really great abundance, I have dried the surplus chanterelles for later use. While they do add flavour to a winter soup or stew, the texture remains a little chewy after they are reconstituted, so I have decided henceforth to simply eat them on every possible occasion while they are in season and then wait impatiently until the next year.

Essentially chanterelles can be used in any recipe that calls for mushrooms. Risotto is good, as are pasta dishes, particularly as a filling for home-made ravioli. But I find that with their slightly more toothsome texture, they are enjoyed to best effect simply sautéed in a little butter and olive oil along with some baby leeks or spring onions and half a clove of garlic. Add a little red pepper or a mild chilli for colour. A few cubes of pancetta or chopped bacon added at the start make it a more substantial lunchtime dish, as does a fresh, poached duck egg. Sprinkle a few chives on top for maximum viewing pleasure and serve with some crusty or seedy bread to absorb the buttery, mushroomy juices.

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.

Something fishy

Originally posted 02.05.09

For a pair of unashamed foodies, our knowledge of the world of fish was remarkably scant for a long time. We had a few standards that were trotted out every time – salmon fillet, various versions of white fish in a sauce, kippers for breakfast or perhaps kedgeree for Sunday brunch. But never anything very exciting or out of the ordinary.

Then we moved to Wales and found to our delight that our nearest town had a proper fishmonger. And a helpful and enthusiastic one at that. Over the years, he helped to extend our fishy education. Part of the Saturday morning ritual was to visit Derek the fishmonger to see what looked good. Always enthusiastic about his products, he was keen to teach us how to make the best of them. From him we learned how to fillet fish properly (both flat and round), dress crabs, shuck oysters, pot tiny brown shrimps. We learned what to do with samphire, the relative merits of brown and rainbow trout, not to ignore a fish just because we had never heard of it before and when which fish was in season and therefore at its best.

Derek’s shop was also the scene of one of my more dramatic meltdowns in the early days after R died. It was during the period of no appetite and I was following the sound advice of simply eating what I fancied, regardless of cost or whether it provided a balanced diet. That day, my fancy turned to crayfish tails.

I knew the moment I walked into the shop that he was going to ask where R was. But not even this foreknowledge could prevent the floodgates opening. The poor man sat me down and patted my hand for a while, but we were both very embarrassed afterwards.
Now we stick to safe topics like the weather or rugby, but he never fails to add a couple of extra prawns to my order or round my bill down to the nearest pound.

One discovery (or perhaps rediscovery) from Derek's shop was mackerel. Before, it mostly came in a tin and was covered with a dubious sauce. Then we found that it had a season, and that a mackerel freshly landed that morning, with plump body, shiny scales and bright eyes was both cheap and difficult to beat for flavour.

R’s favourite way to cook it was to dredge the fillets in seasoned oatmeal and then quickly pan-fry in butter until the topping was crispy. Served with new potatoes, broccoli from the garden and a generous spoonful of rhubarb or gooseberry chutney, it set me up perfectly for cleaning up the scene of devastation that I invariably found in the kitchen after he had cooked it!

For me it has to be devilled mackerel. Melt some butter and add to it some brown sugar, mustard powder, ground coriander, paprika, chilli powder, balsamic vinegar, S&P. Then slash the skin of the fish on both sides and slather on the buttery goodness. If the BBQ is fired up, cook the fish on there. If the weather is not so clement, line your grill pan with foil and grill for 3-4 minutes on each side.

That's all it takes for fishy perfection. And practically no washing up either.