It's the lights that get me in the end. The candlelight bouncing off the oh-so-carefully polished glasses on the table; the dim, amber glow from the oven that silhouettes the golden skin of the roasting bird; the shimmering string of lanterns I weave through the branches of the tree. The food's good too, of course - especially the mince pies and the pudding - but doesn't it all taste so much better when you put a taper to the candles?
Some foods look better than others in candlelight: a bowl of shining consommé, the crisp skin of a roast goose, a slick of ruby-coloured cranberry sauce, a jelly studded with citrus fruit, all look quite magnificent when there are tea lights on the table. Call me sentimental, but I light the candles when we eat Christmas lunch, even if it is the brightest day of winter.
But there is much to be done before that. There are a good three weeks of everyday eating before we roast the goose and pull the crackers. It is simply that the older I get, the more I love Christmas. Just writing the word December is enough to get me going.
Supper tonight is a tossed-together pasta affair. Flat ribbons of pappardelle, sliced globe artichokes in oil from the deli, torn flat-leaf parsley, peppery olive oil and the juice of a lemon. It's nice enough. Then I toast some thin slices of ciabatta, drizzle them with olive oil and grate over a bit of Parmesan before returning them to the grill till the little strands of cheese melt. A few capers in the pasta and the whole thing comes alive. We drink Pinot Grigio and finish with pears from the fridge. An unexpected delight.
Stirring the pudding
The day I make the Christmas puddings, stirring the fruit and sugar, sealing the china basins with paper and string, then boiling them for several hours, is the cooking day I look forward to almost more than any other. The rich, heavy scent of dried fruits and brandy on a winter's day has much to do with it, and the sharp note of citrus peel amid the flat, bland smell of boiling puddings. This is not a day to rush, but one to savour.
The new heatproof plastic pudding basins with their clip-on lids make good sense, cutting out much fiddle. Yet I still do it the old-fashioned way, wrapping old china bowls in greaseproof, white muslin and string. At least I do this year. Next time I'll invest in the modern alternative.
This pudding is lighter and a little less sweet than most. It has the seedy crunch of dried figs and a slight tartness from the apricots and orange zest. I don't go in for brandy butter, preferring the silky contrast of organic double cream.
Nigel's Christmas pudding
Enough for at least 8
sultanas - 350g
sultanas, raisins or currants - 350g
dried figs - 150g, chopped
candied peel - 125g, chopped
dried apricots - 100g, chopped
dark glacé cherries - 75g, halved
brandy - 150ml, plus some for flaming
apples or, better still, quinces - 2, grated
the juice and zest of 2 oranges
eggs - 6
shredded suet - 250g
soft muscovado sugar - 350g
fresh breadcrumbs - 250g
self-raising flour - 175g
mixed spice - a teaspoon
You will need two 1.5 litre plastic pudding basins and lids, buttered, two old sixpences or two-pound coins, scrupulously scrubbed, two circles of greaseproof paper, buttered, large enough to cover the top of each pudding, with a single pleat folded down the centre of each.
Soak the sultanas, raisins or currants, figs, candied peel, apricots and cherries in the brandy overnight. The liquid won't cover the fruit but no matter; just give it a good stir now and again.
Mix the grated apples, orange juice and zest, beaten eggs, suet, sugar, crumbs and flour in a very large mixing bowl, then stir in the soaked fruit and the spice. Divide the mixture between the buttered pudding basins, tucking the coins in as you go. Cover with the greaseproof paper, folded with a pleat in the centre. Pop the lids on and steam for three and a half hours. Allow the puddings to cool, then remove the greaseproof paper, cover tightly with cling film and the plastic lid and store in a cool, dry place till Christmas. To reheat: steam the puddings for a further three and a half hours. Turn out and flame with brandy.
Fridge rice, Spanish style
There is some cooked rice in a cracked earthenware dish in the fridge. It will make a supper for two, just. I fry off some chopped spring onion and a clove of garlic in a shallow pan with a glug or two of olive oil, then chuck in some chopped celery and several slices of cold sausage. Not just big fat chunks of brick-red Spanish chorizo but a couple of pieces of black pudding, too. When all is sizzling and the smell of warm sausage comes up from the pan, I stir in the cooked rice, gently forking the grains apart. We eat the result, which while being utterly delicious looks a bit of mess, with bottles of cold fizzy beer.
Doing the cake
I am extraordinarily fond of making the Christmas cake and look forward to it for weeks. Not even a baking loaf makes the house smell so welcoming. I try to make the cake at the beginning of the month, then feed it every week or so with brandy, so that by Christmas Day it is thoroughly moist, but a few times I have left it to the last minute and it is almost as good. Over the years I have probably been asked for this recipe more than any other. Sometimes I ice it, sometimes I don't. My own cake is the one that appears in Appetite (Fourth Estate, 2000), which is a good large size, capable of feeding 16 or more. Each year I get asked for a scaled-down version for those who don't want to be eating Christmas cake till February. This year my recipe feeds just 12, though somewhat generously.
Christmas cake
butter - 250g
light muscovado sugar - 125g
dark muscovado sugar - 125g
dried fruits - prunes, apricots, figs, candied peel, glacé cherries, 650g in total
large free-range eggs - 3
ground almonds - 65g
shelled hazelnuts - 100g
raisins, sultanas, currants, cranberries - 350g in total
brandy - 3 tablespoons, plus extra to 'feed' the cake
zest and juice of an orange
zest of a lemon
baking powder - half a teaspoon
plain flour - 250g
You will need a deep 20cm cake tin with a removable base, fully lined with a double layer of lightly buttered greaseproof paper or baking parchment, which should come at least 5cm above the top of the tin. Set the oven to 160°C/Gas 3. Beat the butter and sugar till light and fluffy. I needn't tell you this is much easier with an electric mixer, though I have done it by hand. Don't forget to push the mixture down the sides of the bowl from time to time with a spatula. While the butter and sugars are beating to a cappuccino-coloured fluff, cut the dried fruits into small pieces, removing the hard stalks from the figs. Add the eggs to the mixture one at a time - it will curdle but don't worry - then slowly mix in the ground almonds, hazelnuts, all the dried fruit, the brandy and the citrus zest and juice. Now mix the baking powder and flour together and fold them lightly into the mix. Scrape the mixture into the prepared tin, smoothing the top gently, and put it in the oven. Leave it for an hour, then, without opening the oven door, turn the heat down to 150°C/Gas 2 and continue cooking for 1½ hours.
Check whether the cake is done by inserting a skewer - a knitting needle will do - into the centre. It should come out with just a few crumbs attached but no trace of raw cake mixture. Take the cake out of the oven and leave to cool before removing it from the tin. Feed the cake by pouring brandy into it every few days until Christmas. I do it at least once a week. Spike the cake with a knitting needle or skewer and drizzle in a little brandy. Cover tightly and leave in a cake tin till needed. It will keep for several weeks.
Almond paste
To cover this size of cake you will need 750g marzipan. I have always made my own until this year, when I found a brand of organic almond paste in my local healthfood shop. It was fine, if not as yellow as most brands of the commercial stuff, and perfectly pleasant if you like that sort of thing. I brush the cake with apricot jam or marmalade to help the almond paste stick to it. To ice the cake, see 22 December.
Nutmeg
There is the most stunning nutmeg in the shops. Not the usual beige nut but a glossy brown shell with the nut rattling inside it. It takes a pair of crackers to gain entry. I have seen fresh nutmeg, with its lacy shell of mace, growing in the foothills of Sri Lanka but it is rare to see spice of such quality here. We crack one open to grate on to a dish of potato Dauphinoise for supper. For once I put cheese in too, layering grated Gruyère in among the thin slices of potato and cream. With a nutmeg this good in the house, I get the urge to make the slitheriest, most quivering of egg custard tarts, with pastry as fine and crumbly as old parchment. Needless to say, I don't.
A frugal supper
I am not a great fan of leftover cookery, generally finding that a discreet binning might have been a more fitting end. Leftover risotto is another matter. Squashed into balls and loosely flattened, yesterday's risotto reheats enticingly in butter, forming a crisp golden crust outside while staying soft and creamy within. A cube of Taleggio cheese tucked inside as you shape the balls (just a thought and by no means essential) will ooze out softly as you cut into them. Possibly the best use for leftover anything you will ever come across. This is my standard way of clearing up leftover rice, and I half wonder if yesterday I deliberately made too much just so I could have these little cakes today. While the cakes are frying, I make a crisp salad of Barolo-veined Trevise, sharpened with lemon and more parsley, if only to introduce a welcome crunch to the meal.
Taleggio and parsley cakes
Enough for 2
leftover risotto - 400g
parsley - a small bunch
grated Parmesan - 2 heaped tablespoons
Taleggio - 125g
a little butter and olive oil for frying
Leave the risotto to go cold and stiffen up. If it's yesterday's, then all to the good. Remove the leaves from the parsley and chop roughly (or at least not too finely). Stir them into the rice with the grated Parmesan and a grinding of black pepper.
Cut the Taleggio cheese into cubes, discarding the rind. Take a tablespoon of the rice and press a cube of cheese into it, then press more risotto on top to cover the cheese, squeezing the rice into a rough ball as you go. Set aside and continue with the rest. You will probably make four or five decent-sized balls. Warm a little butter and olive oil in a nonstick frying pan. Flatten the rice balls a little and lay them in the hot fat. Let them colour on one side, then turn and lightly brown the other. Press the rice down with a spatula so you end up with a thick patty. They are ready when a golden crust has formed on both sides and the melting cheese is trying to escape. Slide on to warm plates.
A chicken supper with spices and cream
There are four of us tonight, for curry and beer. What was planned to be a big bowl of curry to bring us out in a sweat has ended up as something much more refined, passive even. This mildly spiced chicken supper, at once fragrant and creamy, is the result, and despite the dozen ingredients is actually simplicity itself. I serve it with brown rice, of which not everyone approves, and some lightly cooked spinach for mopping up the amber sauce.
Sautéed chicken with spices, fennel and cream
Enough for 4
large chicken thighs - 8
groundnut oil - a tablespoon
fennel - 2 medium-sized heads
double cream - 300ml
coriander leaves - a small handful
brown rice, to serve
For the spice paste:
green cardamom pods - 4
ground turmeric - half a teaspoon
ground cumin - a level teaspoon
ground chilli - ¼ teaspoon
garlic - 2 small cloves
grainy French mustard - 1 tablespoon
groundnut oil
Rub the chicken with salt and pepper and fry gently in the groundnut oil till the skin is golden and starting to crisp. Over a low to moderate heat, this will take a good 25 minutes, during which time a savoury golden sediment will attach itself to the pan. After 15 minutes' cooking, cut each head of fennel into six long wedges and add these to the pan, tucking them around the chicken.
While the chicken is cooking, make the spice paste. First crush the cardamom pods, discarding the green husks and crushing the black seeds to a powder with a pestle and mortar. Add the turmeric, cumin, chilli and garlic and continue pounding, mixing in the mustard and a tablespoon or two of oil as you go.
When the fennel is tender and the chicken cooked right through to the bone, lift them out with a draining spoon and set aside. Pour the oil out of the pan (you could keep it for frying potatoes), then add the spice paste to the pan, scraping at any sticky sediment with a wooden spoon and stirring it in. Leave the paste to cook for a minute or two, taking care it doesn't burn (spice pastes catch in a matter of seconds if the heat is too high), then stir in the cream and immediately return the chicken and fennel to the pan. Leave to bubble for a minute or two, then toss in the coriander leaves, chopped if they are large. Serve with the brown rice.
A meal to lift the spirits
10 December
The kitchen is heated by a small and ineffective radiator. Most of the time I don't notice the chill but now, with a wind howling and the threat of frost, I find myself on an unstoppable slide towards winter cooking. I make one last autumnal meal of late artichokes and red mullet before snuggling down to winter food proper.
Foodie anniversaries such as Shrove Tuesday, Burns Night and even the first day of the wild salmon season tend to get little attention in my house. Yet odd days like today, which I have a hunch is to be the very last day of autumn, deserve a little recognition.
Marinated feta and artichoke salad
Enough for 4
feta cheese - 400g
dried mint
dried oregano
fresh mint - a few bushy sprigs, roughly chopped
olive oil - 6 tablespoons
grilled artichokes from the deli counter - 8
Break the feta cheese into large, jagged lumps. Add the dried and fresh herbs to the olive oil with a grinding of black pepper. As a rule, I allow about a heaped tablespoon of dried herbs per 200g cheese. Pour the oil over the cheese and leave to marinate for three or four hours. Drain the artichokes of their oil, cut them in half if they are whole and crumble the marinated cheese over them. Serve with warm bread.
Baked red mullet with pine kernel stuffing
Large, juicy flakes of fish are what appeal so much here. I always find you need a large red mullet per person, or two smaller ones. This sounds a lot, I know, but they have quite big bones.
The stuffing is good for other things too - whole squid perhaps, or even partridge. Despite the Mediterranean notes, there are some distinctly Yuletide flavours here. A tomato salad would be good with it, but a French bean one would go well too.
Enough for 4
large red mullet - 4, cleaned but with the heads left on
a large shallot
olive oil
a clove of garlic, finely chopped
fresh white breadcrumbs - 50g
black olives, stoned - 15g
pine kernels - 50g
the juice and finely grated zest of a lemon
raisins - 2 tablespoons
chopped parsley - a small handful
rosemary - the leaves from a couple of bushy sprigs, chopped
capers - 2 teaspoons
Heat the oven to 190°C/Gas 5. Rinse the mullet, pat them dry with kitchen paper and lay them snugly in a roasting tin. Peel the shallot and chop it finely, then let it cook slowly with a little olive oil and the garlic in a small pan over a moderate heat until it is soft and translucent. Add the breadcrumbs and let them colour slightly. Chop the olives and add them to the crumbs with the pine kernels, lemon zest, raisins, chopped herbs and capers. Season with salt and pepper.
Stuff as much of the filling into the fish as will go comfortably. Any remaining stuffing can be scattered over the fish. Squeeze over the lemon juice, add a drizzle of olive oil and a grinding of salt, then bake for 20 minutes, till the fish is opaque and comes easily from the bone.
Hot apples, cold ice-cream
In this house, you get starter or dessert, rarely both. It not simply to escape the tyranny of the three-course meal but because I genuinely feel that no one really wants all that food. But even with the rich stuffing, this is a relatively light meal and a pudding of some sort is called for. There is a vote for baked apples, partly because the oven is on anyway. So four majestic apples, split round the middle, emerge from the oven a good hour later. We eat them with vanilla ice-cream because I love the teeth-juddering contrast between the rock-hard ice-cream and the froth of searing-hot apple. Now, of course, we are all too full to move.
11 December
The smell of white rice cooking, clean, nutty and warm, casts a sense of peace over the house. As if snow has fallen. Seasonings change with the day, but tonight it is green cardamom, black cumin seed, a stick of cinnamon and, somewhat unusually, a couple of whole star anise flowers. What was once a distinctly Indian smell is now edged with something faintly Chinese. Fleeting, intriguing, gentle. At the table, I bring to it some steamed Chinese broccoli, complete with its long, tender stalks.
An early Christmas lunch
12 December
Christmas is not just one meal but many, spread throughout the whole month; a series of mini-feasts for people you won't be seeing on the day itself. To do the full Christmas lunch each time would seem awkward, contrived even, but something mildly festive is called for. Hence this Sunday lunch of roast duck with Italian bacon and an iced lemon tart.
The duck recipe here is for two (you will find it a useful recipe for other occasions). To feed four or five, simply roast two ducks. You will need a very large roasting tin, about eight to 10 potatoes, three onions, the same amount of thyme, and you will need to increase the roasting time by about 10 minutes. You will also want an extra half a glass of Marsala in the gravy.
Roast duck with pancetta and potatoes
The point of this recipe is that the potatoes absorb some of the duck fat; you then balance the richness with some peas with lemon and mint. I have been known to offer a watercress and orange salad, too. The fat that you pour from the duck as it cooks shouldn't go to waste - it is one of the most delicious of all cooking mediums. Put it in the fridge to set, then use it for roasting potatoes.
Enough to serve 2 generously
a large duckling, weighing about 2.5kg
potatoes, such as Maris Piper - 6 medium
pancetta - 150g
olive oil, mild, not fruity
onions - 2 medium
thyme - 5 or 6 sprigs
bay leaves - a couple
a wine glass of Marsala
Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6. Remove the giblets from the duck, rinse the bird inside and out and pat it dry with kitchen paper. If you can do this an hour or so before you begin to cook, leaving the duck in a cool place, then all to the good. Peel the potatoes and cut them into finger-thick slices, dropping them into cold water as you go. Cut the pancetta into cubes, then put it into a large roasting tin with a tablespoon of oil. Warm it over a low heat, letting the pancetta flavour the oil but without letting it colour.
Introduce the slices of potato, shaken dry, into the fat and let them cook slowly. While this is going on, peel and cut the onions first in half, then each half into about six pieces. Add them to the potatoes along with the thyme leaves stripped from their stems. Turn everything over gently as it cooks, letting the potatoes and onions colour very slightly. Season with salt and black pepper and a couple of bay leaves, then remove from the heat.
Prick the skin of the duck all over with a fork, then season it inside and out with salt. Lay the duck on top of the potatoes, then put it in the oven and roast for an hour to an hour and a half, until the potatoes are soft and both they and the duck are golden. From time to time, push the spuds, particularly those that are browning too quickly, to one side, and spoon a little of the cooking juices over any that appear dry.
During the cooking, carefully tip off most of the fat that is pouring out of the duck and that has not been absorbed by the potatoes. Test to see that the duck is cooked. There should be no sign of blood in the juices and the skin should be crisp. Remove the potatoes to a warm serving dish.
Turn the oven up to 220°C/Gas 7. Put the duck back in the oven and let it crisp up for five minutes or so, then transfer it to a warm dish. Quickly pour the Marsala into the roasting tin and place it over a moderately high heat (you don't want it to boil away), scraping at any bits stuck to the tin. The idea is to get any pan stickings and sediment to dissolve into the gravy. While the sauce is bubbling, carve the duck and serve it with the potatoes. Check the pan juices for seasoning - they may need a little salt - then spoon them over the duck.
Peas with lemon and mint
I can never think of duck without peas. You could serve plain boiled peas if you like, but these are good too, and have the zing of lemon and mint to balance the richness of the duck. Here, the peas are simmered with very little water, so they partly cook in their own steam.
Enough for 2-3
frozen peas - 225g
olive oil - 2 tablespoons
juice of half a lemon
fresh mint - 3 sprigs Put the peas, a little salt, olive oil and six tablespoons of water into a small pan. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a fast simmer. Cook, uncovered, for about eight minutes. Squeeze the lemon juice over and stir in the mint.
Lemon ice-cream tart with gingernut crust
Enough for 8
butter - 120g
ginger biscuits - 400g
For the filling:
white wine - 150ml
brandy or Marsala - 2 tablespoons
grated zest and juice of 2 lemons
grated zest of an orange
caster sugar - 4 tablespoons
double cream - 500ml
You will need a loose-bottomed tart tin with a diameter of about 21cm. Line the base of the tart tin with a single piece of greaseproof paper. Melt the butter in a small pan. Crush the biscuits in a food processor or bash them in a plastic bag. You want them to be a coarse powder. Stir the biscuits into the butter. Line the base of the tin with the buttered crumbs, pushing some as far up the sides as you can. It doesn't matter if the edges are rough. Put the crumb-lined tin in the freezer. Pour the wine into the bowl of a food mixer. Add the brandy or Marsala and the grated zest of the lemons and the orange. Squeeze the lemons and add the juice (reserve the orange juice for another occasion).
Add the sugar and cream to the wine and zest mixture, then beat slowly until thick. The consistency needs to be soft and thick, so that it lies in soft folds rather than standing in stiff peaks. Scrape the mixture into the crumb-lined tin and freeze for at least four hours. Remove from the freezer 15-20 minutes before you intend to serve it. I find it easier to remove the cake from the tin while it is still frozen, running a palette knife around the edge first.
13 December
I barely eat a thing today; just some of yesterday's roast duck stripped from the carcass and tossed with slices of orange and grapefruit and several sprigs of watercress. As salads go, it is a stunning mixture of fresh, clean, rich and hot. It is enough for me, but there are cries of hunger from elsewhere. They get cheese on toast, with a layer of sharp, chunky tomato chutney under the cheese. Crunch comes in the way of an apple salad, the fruit cut into thin slices and tossed with cider vinegar, walnut oil and fresh sprouted mung beans. Followed by apple and blueberry crumble. I put slivered almonds and a fine grating of nutmeg in the crumble topping, which seems to go down well. No one seemed to notice that both salad and pudding were made with the same fruit.
Fried potatoes and a crisp salad
14 December
Nothing will get me to waste the creamy-white fat from the duck. It is the best stuff going in which to fry potatoes, in which case they will end up crisp, rich and deeply savoury. I fry them in thin slices, cooked until deep, burnished gold, with an ice-crisp salad of frisée, watercress and chicory on the side.
Potatoes with duck fat and garlic
Enough for 4
potatoes - 4 medium
duck fat - 3 tablespoons
thyme leaves - a small palmful
a single clove of garlic, chopped
salt and pepper
Peel the potatoes and slice them as thinly as you can. They should be no thicker than a two-pound coin. Melt the duck fat in a heavy, shallow pan - I use a cast-iron skillet - and add the potato slices, neatly or hugger-mugger, seasoning them with salt, black pepper, thyme leaves and a little chopped garlic as you go. Cook over a moderate heat for 30 to 40 minutes, till golden brown.
A green and white winter salad
You don't need me to tell you how to make a straightforward salad of white chicory, watercress and frisée, or how to dress it with a classic oil and vinegar dressing.
But I feel I should mention that I find the balance best when there are equal amounts of watercress and frisée, with just a few long, thin chicory leaves thrown in for extra crunch.
The Feast starts here
15 December
The Christmas shopping list - there has to be one, no one has a memory that good - is the longest of the year, especially if you have left it to the eleventh hour to stir the pudding. If we are to make sense of The Feast and the umpteen 'lesser' meals that surround it, we need to include some dishes that will carry over from one meal to the next. A vast piece of gammon, say, served with potato cakes and buttered spinach, only to be brought out the next day, cold but in thin slices with a dazzling salsa. Consider also a roast guinea fowl or pheasant, whose bones can be used later for a parsley-flecked broth for ravioli. A whole salmon, a vast pork pie and a rib of beef are all ingredients that will introduce some sanity into the proceedings, both practically and financially. Last year I paid a king's ransom for a piece of ham, boned, rolled and scored by the butcher, which I poached in organic, unfiltered apple juice with an onion, a fat carrot, a stick of celery and four flowers of star anise. I let it cool awhile, peeled away the skin, then spread the joint thickly with a hot-sweet mixture of marmalade, seed mustard, the juice and zest of an orange and some fresh white breadcrumbs.
I then let it bake to a soft, golden brown glaze. It was a huge success with a mound of braised green-black cavolo nero and a salt-crusted baked potato. Two days later, the generous leftovers appeared in sandwiches with watercress and hot onion pickle, some Burt's potato crisps on the side, and then again in paper-thin slices with a salad of raw fennel, green olives and lemon. The first meal took a while to prepare, the second and third almost made themselves.
Over the next week or so, I shall endeavour to sit down and give an hour or so's thought to the Christmas feast. What we shall eat, what we shall drink, and I might even make a vague shopping list. I know it all sounds a bit 'good housekeeping', but I really cannot face a last-minute panic on Christmas Eve. Been there, done that.
A crisp, hot, sweet salad and some cute little pies
16 December
In winter, salads tend to be a little more substantial, their dressings maybe a little richer. Today, a clean, sweet-tasting antidote to the heavier notes of winter cooking. Dessert is sliced papaya and persimmon.
Enough for 2
caster sugar - 2 tablespoons
white wine vinegar - 100ml
cucumber - half
carrots - 2
spring onions - 6
small, hot red chillies - 2
bean shoots - 2 large handfuls
sesame seeds - 1 tablespoon
coriander leaves - a handful
mint leaves - a handful
For the dressing: light soy sauce - 1 tablespoon
rice vinegar - 2 tablespoons
sesame oil - a few shakes Put the sugar and vinegar into a small pan, bring to the boil and leave to cool.
Peel the cucumber, halve it lengthways and remove the seeds, then cut the flesh into long, matchstick-thick pieces. Put them into a colander in the sink, sprinkle with salt and leave for 20 minutes.
Peel the carrots and cut them into short, matchstick-thick pieces. Shred the spring onions, seed and finely shred the chillies, and mix them with the carrots and the bean shoots. Toss with the cooled sugar and vinegar and leave for 15 minutes.
Toast the sesame seeds in a dry, nonstick pan. Roughly chop the coriander and mint leaves. Lift the vegetables from the sweet vinegar dressing and put them in a clean bowl. Rinse the cucumber and pat it dry with kitchen paper. Mix the ingredients for the soy dressing together, then toss it with the vegetables and herbs, scattering the sesame seeds over at the end.
Walnut and candied peel tartlets
I can't help feeling there is something magical about little tartlets of nuts and spice, the sort of thing they might cook in a fairytale. Fragile though they are, you should be able to get them from their cases without them breaking too much. Serve them warm with ice-cream.
Makes 24
golden syrup - 200g
walnuts - 100g
candied orange and lemon peel -100g
a pinch of mixed spice
butter - 25g
soft amaretti - 4 (or 4 tablespoons cake crumbs) a large egg, lightly beaten
For the pastry:
cold butter - 150g
plain flour - 300g
You will need 24 jam tart or shallow bun tins, 7.5cm in diameter and 1cm deep.
For the pastry, cut the butter into small pieces and rub it into the flour with your fingertips until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. You can add a tiny pinch of salt if you want to. Drizzle in a very small amount of water - I would start with just a teaspoon or two - bringing the mixture together to form a soft, but not sticky, rollable ball. Pat the pastry into a fat sausage the same diameter as your tart tins, cover with cling film and chill for 20 minutes. This will give the pastry time to rest, making it less likely to shrink when it's in the oven.
Set the oven at 190°C/Gas 5. Warm the syrup in a small pan set over a low heat. Add the walnuts, roughly chopped, the finely diced peel, the spice and the butter, then, when the butter has melted, crumble in the amaretti or cake crumbs. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the beaten egg.
Cut the roll of pastry into 24 thin slices, then use them to line the tart tins. Trim the edges with a small knife. Divide the mixture between the tartlet cases - you don't want to overfill them - then bake until golden and bubbling, about 15 to 20 minutes.
The finished tarts are very fragile. Allow them to cool a little before attempting to remove them from their tins. Serve with vanilla ice-cream.
17 December
Chicken thighs tonight, roasted with olive oil, a little butter and roughly chopped lemons. They sing and sizzle as they come from the oven, filling the house with the scent of hot, crisp chicken skin with the sharp edge of citrus. Baked potatoes on the side, rolled in sea salt and served with no butter, just the juices from the roast bird.
Grilled pork steaks with vermouth and fennel
18 December
Putting a chop on the grill, even one seasoned purely with salt and pepper, will give you a simple supper of juicy flesh and deep, savoury pleasure. But we can do better than that. Even the briefest time spent in a marinade of appropriate aromatics - in this case garlic, rosemary and lemon - will add much in terms of flavour. You simply mash the seasonings to a paste with olive oil, then leave the meat in it for an hour or more.
Enough for 2
rosemary - leaves from 2 bushy sprigs
garlic - 2 small cloves
black peppercorns - 6
salt - 1 teaspoon
olive oil - 3 tablespoons
juice of half a lemon
pork steaks - 2
fennel - 2 medium bulbs
butter - a thick slice
white vermouth - a small glass
Strip the rosemary leaves from their stems and chop them finely, then tip them into a mortar. Peel the garlic, chop it roughly and add it to the rosemary, together with the peppercorns and salt. Pound these aromatics in the mortar, mixing in the olive oil slowly, until you have a loose paste, then stir in the lemon juice.
Scrape the marinade into a shallow dish and turn the pork steaks in it until they are well covered. Leave them to marinate in a cool place for a good hour, longer if you have the time.
Slice the fennel thinly and rinse it under running water. Tip it into a small, deep pan with the butter and let it soften over a moderate flame, stirring from time to time, taking care that it does not burn. After five minutes, pour in the vermouth, then cover with a lid and leave to cook for 20 minutes over a low flame, until soft and lightly caramelised.
Warm the grill, then cook the steaks until they are golden brown on each side, the fat lightly charred a little here and there. Serve them on warm plates accompanied by the fennel.
19 December
A supper of faggots, chips and peas. The favourite brand of faggots seems to have disappeared, so we settle for what I can get. They are OK, but when you are used to a certain brand nothing ever seems as good. I am happy to change my own recipes on a whim, but I am not sure that manufacturers should. There is much comfort in familiar tastes.
The icing on the cake
22 December
Sometimes I ice the cake, sometimes I don't. When I do, I beat the whites of two eggs very lightly with a fork, just until bubbles start to appear. Then I sift in 600g golden, unrefined icing sugar in two lots, beating hard with a wooden spoon after the first addition. While I am beating in the second half, I add two teaspoons of lemon juice. I prefer my cake to sport a rough, snowdrift look rather than to have smooth icing, so I simply spread the icing thickly on to the top and sides of the almondpaste-covered cake with a palette knife, then make snow peaks with the end of a spoon. Just like my mother did.
A bit of a pig
23 December
I will do anything to avoid a queue. That includes getting up at an ungodly hour, pleading to get something delivered or, in some cases, simply going without. Tomorrow is the Holy Grail of queues, with that of my local butcher, cheese shop and fishmonger snaking across four or five neighbouring shop fronts. The deli has no orderly queue, just a disorganised scrum. I get up early and go to the special Christmas farmers' market for greens (for which, needless to say, I have to stand in line), then to the butcher's (no queue to speak of, though busier than usual for a weekday) and then to the cheese shops (one French, one British). Everything will be fine in the fridge till the 25th, and I cannot help but feel a little smug at having got so much done already, leaving me the possibility of actually enjoying Christmas Eve instead of standing looking at someone's back.
I return home with a vast piece of pork on the bone, a bag of fat, herb-flecked sausages, rashers of fat bacon, a black pudding, stock, smoked salmon, fish for Christmas Eve supper, three cheeses, a head of celery complete with soil and leaves, and a somewhat impromptu purchase of a goose. I already have a squirrel stash of mineral water, champagne, onions, potatoes, parsnips, oranges, clementines, brandy, pears and passion fruits ripening as I write, Cox's apples, mincemeat, plus all the usual fridge and cupboard stuff such as Parmesan, lemons, olive oil and butter. That leaves only oysters, bread and cream to get tomorrow.
I should explain the goose. My plan for Christmas lunch is oysters and champagne followed by a majestic roast leg of Gloucester Old Spot pork and crackling, pork sausages and black pudding, onion gravy and roast potatoes with glossy red cabbage. We will then have Mrs Appleby's Cheshire cheese and an oozing Vacherin, followed, some time later, by the Christmas pudding with organic cream or brandy butter. The vegetarians will eat parsnip cakes stuffed with spinach and pine kernels. Not the turkey dinner that has always left me cold, but a sumptuous feast of organic meat and farmhouse cheeses. So far, so glorious. However, I have just discovered that I have to go through the same thing again on Boxing Day. So, unable to face cooking and eating an identical meal for what will be my second Christmas lunch, I will instead offer smoked salmon, which keeps in better nick than oysters, roast goose with juniper sauce and an apple and lemon purée, roast potatoes and red cabbage, followed by Wigmore cheese and pears. Then, much later, a sharp lemon and passion fruit roulade, which although rich, has a bite to it that should offset the inevitable richness of the goose. If there is one thing better than Christmas lunch, it's two Christmas lunches.
Oysters and champagne
I don't hold with all the gubbins that is traditionally served with oysters. Nothing quite takes the salty, iodine tang off a good oyster like the shallot vinegar, Tabasco and lemon. OK, I might occasionally use the meanest squeeze of lemon but, as far as bells and whistles go, that's it. I reckon you need six oysters per person, but you could get away with four if there is a really big meal following, such as this one (we still have six).
Roast leg of pork with onion and Marsala gravy
After removing the cooked roast from the roasting tin, I pour the fat off, then warm the gravy in the tin, stirring in the goodness stuck to the tin as I go.
Enough for 6-8, plus lots for eating cold a leg of pork on the bone, 3-4kg in weight sea salt
Weigh the pork. You will need to cook it for 25 minutes per 500g. Get the oven hot. You want to start the pork at 220°C/Gas 7. Check that the butcher has scored the rind. It should have a deep hatching of knife-cuts going across, rather than with, the bone. Each cut should go right down into the fat, but not so far that you get to the flesh underneath.
Season thoroughly with salt, rubbing the flakes into the cut sides of the flesh and into the fat - it will help it crackle. If the salt refuses to adhere, then rub a little oil over the meat first. Put the pork into a roasting tin and leave it in the oven to roast for 30 minutes, then lower the heat to 190°C/Gas 5 and continue roasting for 25 minutes per 500g. You don't really need to baste it, I rarely do, especially if I am trying to get good crackling. The fat itself will keep the meat succulent. When you think the meat is due to be ready, check its juices by inserting a skewer into the thickest part. They should come out clear or honey coloured, not pink. Remove the pork from the oven and leave it to rest for a good 20-25 minutes so that the juices can settle throughout the meat. Carve into thin slices and serve with the gravy and stuffing below.
The gravy
This actually seems to improve if made the day before.
onions - 3 medium
olive oil - 2 tablespoons
plain flour - 2 tablespoons
dry Marsala - 2 glasses
stock or water - 750ml
English mustard powder - a teaspoon
grain mustard - a tablespoon
Peel the onions, slice them in half and then into thick segments. Leave them to cook with the olive oil in a heavy-based pan over a low heat, giving them the occasional stir so they do not burn. You want to end up with onions that are utterly soft, golden and translucent. Tender enough to squash between finger and thumb. You can expect this to take a good 30 minutes.
Stir in the flour and let it cook for a few minutes. Now pour in the Marsala and the stock or water, stirring into a thin sauce. Season with salt and black pepper and the mustard powder and leave to simmer gently for a good 20 minutes, then stir in the grain mustard and continue simmering for a further five. Serve or leave to cool and reheat as necessary.
Cabbage with orange and juniper
Enough for 6 as a side dish
a medium onion
groundnut oil - a tablespoon
a small red cabbage, weighing about 750g
celery stalks - 2
an apple
the juice of an orange
the juice of a lemon
a shot of white wine vinegar juniper berries - 12
Peel the onion and slice it finely, then let it soften in the oil in a heavy casserole set over a medium heat. Shred the cabbage quite finely; the strips need to be about the width of your little finger. Cut the celery thinly. When the onion has softened, turn the heat up a little, then add the celery and cabbage. Stir. Core and chop the apple and add it to the pan.
Mix the citrus juices together, then add a dash of vinegar. Crush the juniper berries and add them to the juices then, just as the cabbage is starting to wilt, stir the mixture into the casserole. There should be much sizzling and spluttering. Season the cabbage lightly with salt and cover tightly with a lid. Turn down to a simmer and cook for 10-15 minutes, until the cabbage is tender. Check the seasoning and serve.
Christmas Day II
We start with smoked salmon, which I serve with lemon and thin slices of dark, sticky pumpernickel bread. Roast goose, juniper sauce and apple and lemon purée I use yesterday's recipe for cabbage with orange and juniper with this.
Enough for 5-6
a goose - approximately 6kg in weight
the onion gravy (above)
juniper berries - 12
redcurrant jelly - 2 tablespoons
You are going to cook the goose at 220°C/ Gas 7 for 25 minutes, then at 180°C/Gas 4 for approximately one and a half hours. Preheat the oven to 220°C/Gas 7. Pull the excess fat from inside the bird. It will come out in big lumps. Prick the bird all over with a fork, salt it inside and out (but no pepper), then wrap aluminium foil over the legs, which have a tendency to dry out. Put the bird breast-side down in a roasting tin and roast for 25 minutes, then turn the oven down to 180°C/Gas 4.
Leave the bird to roast for approximately one and a half to two hours, taking it out half way through the cooking time to tip off the fat that has accumulated in the tin, remove the foil from its legs and turn the bird breast-side up. This is also when I add parboiled potatoes to the pan. I do all this with great care, as the fat is copious and blisteringly hot.
To check the bird is cooked, pierce the thighs with a skewer; if the juices that run out are clear, then the bird is ready. Leave to rest for 10 minutes before carving, slicing the meat on to warm plates.
The juniper sauce
My goose gravy is the onion gravy (above), with 12 lightly crushed juniper berries added with the stock and two tablespoons of redcurrant jelly stirred in at the end, five minutes or so before serving. Once the goose has been removed to a carving board, I carefully pour off all the fat from the tin and pour the sauce into the roasting tin, bubble, scrape the goodness from the tin into the sauce with a spatula, and then stir.
The apple and lemon purée
At any point during the cooking of the goose, peel, core and chop five dessert apples or three Bramleys and let them cook over a moderate heat with a whole chopped lemon and its juice and a dessertspoon of sugar. Once they have fallen to a purée, sweeten to taste and sieve or whizz briefly in a blender. Keep warm, covered with foil, or reheat just before serving.
Roast potatoes
There have to be roast potatoes and I find it easiest to peel and parboil them while the goose is cooking, then tip them into the roasting tin when I take it out of the oven to pour off the gravy and turn the bird over.
Passion fruit roulade
I don't serve this directly after the cheese course, when it would be too much of a good thing, but about an hour or so later.
Enough for 10
large eggs - 6
caster sugar - 100g
lemons - 2
plain flour - 2 heaped tablespoons
icing sugar for dusting
For the filling
lemon or orange curd - 350g
double or whipping cream - 280-300ml
passion fruits, ripe and wrinkled - 12
You will need a baking tray measuring approximately 36 x 30cm, with shallow sides. It doesn't matter if it is just a few centimetres out. Set the oven at 200°C/Gas 6. Line the baking tray with baking parchment, making sure it comes up the sides. Separate the eggs, putting the yolks into a food mixer and the whites into a bowl large enough in which to beat them. Add the sugar to the yolks and whisk until thick, pale and creamy.
Grate the zest from both the lemons, taking care not to include the bitter white pith underneath, and squeeze the juice of one of them. Beat the egg whites until they are thick and capable of standing in a soft peak, then fold the juice and zest into the egg yolk and sugar mixture, followed by the sifted flour and then the egg whites. Add the egg whites slowly, firmly but gently, so the air is not knocked out of them as you mix them in. It is crucial not to over-mix. Scoop the mixture into the lined baking tin, smoothing it gently out to the edges. Bake for about 10 minutes, until the top is very lightly coloured and it feels softly set. It should barely colour. Let it cool for a few minutes.
Put a piece of greaseproof paper on a work surface, then turn the roulade out on to it. The cake should be crust side down. I find this easiest to do if you are fairly forthright, just tipping the roulade out of its tin in one swift movement. Carefully peel away the paper and cover the roulade with a clean, moist tea towel. It will be fine like this for an hour or two (I have even left them overnight and they have come to no harm). When you are ready to roll the cake, remove the towel and spread the lemon or orange curd over the surface, then whip the cream until it will stand in soft peaks and spread it over the curd. Cut eight of the passion fruits in half and spread the juice and seeds over the cream. Now take one short end of the greaseproof paper and use it to help you roll up the roulade. If the surface cracks, then all to the good. Dust with icing sugar and cut into thick slices, with the remaining passion fruit juice and seeds squeezed over each slice.
Boxing Day
The best day of the year
I sometimes put in a turkey breast to roast late on Christmas Day, for the Boxing Day sandwiches, which I eat with crisp bacon, spicy chutney and shredded raw vegetables. This year there is no need, there being cold roast pork and goose, both of which make cracking sandwiches if you remember to put enough salt on them. This year there are cries for something hot too, so I end the festivities with a sandwich and a pile of rustling, salty fritters.
I add bacon to my Boxing Day sandwich: green streaky by choice, crisply fried and present in only slightly smaller quantities than the turkey itself. Chutney, an essential rather than a luxury, could be homemade but is more than likely to be one of the eight jars that will no doubt have turned up under the tree. I vote for a recipe hot enough to clear the sinuses, a pickle that blows away the lethargy that goes hand in hand with Yuletide eating. Then lastly, something crunchy such as sticks of raw carrot or pickled cabbage or even slices shaved from a crisp apple. Sometimes I toast the bread, sometimes I don't. But if I do, then I do it lightly, so that the bread is still softly yielding. Butter or mayonnaise is a no-no unless you forfeit the chutney.
That's my sandwich, and it doesn't have to be goose or pork, or even turkey. The stripped meat from duck, chicken, pheasant or partridge will do too, as will thinly sliced roast pork or beef, in which case I will attempt to unscrew the lid from the pickled walnuts or slather over a spoonful of tomato chutney. The rule with any meat sandwich is to have lashings of meat but sliced as thinly as you can. Few things are less digestible than cold meat cut too thick. If beef is what we have, then I sometimes make a mustardy dressing to drizzle over the slices of meat and salad leaves (olive oil, Dijon mustard, sherry vinegar, grated Parmesan, salt, pepper). Watercress is by far the most suitable leaf here, but keeping it in good nick till Boxing Day is the hardest part. I keep mine in the coldest part of the fridge, upside down in a bowl of ice cubes and water.
You can chuck the horseradish sauce. Let me tell you that the best seasoning for a cold, rare beef sandwich is wasabi mayonnaise. You need quite a bland mayo for this, so the bought stuff is perfectly fine. Just stir in as much fiery green wasabi paste as you dare, tasting as you go. Remember that your taste buds will become attuned to the increasing heat, so offer the final tasting bit to anyone who passes. When it has enough of a kick to be of interest, add a squeeze more, then spread it thinly over the beef rather than the bread.
Cheese bubble and squeak
equal quantities by volume of boiled potatoes and greens
a handful or two of crumbled cheese<br< a little chopped thyme
fat or oil for frying
The potatoes will need mashing, but a rough mash is perfectly appropriate here. If you are using cooked greens, they must be lightly cooked and still with a bit of vigour. If not, then cook fresh sprouts, cabbage or broccoli, then drain and roughly chop them. Quantities can be imprecise, but half and half works well. Fold the greens into the mashed potatoes with the cheese, some salt, black pepper and a little chopped thyme if you have some. Squash the mixture together with your hands to form thick patties that will fit into the palm of your hand, with a little flour if you are getting sticky, then fry them in hot, shallow fat or oil till they are crisp on both sides. The best I ever made involved using up a wedge of unexciting supermarket Brie that melted delectably into the potato cakes, putting the cheese successfully out of its cling-filmed misery.
Now is also the time to open those jars of pickles, preserves and tracklements you got in your stocking. Otherwise they will only work their way to the back of the cupboard and sleep quietly past their sell-by date. My rule of thumb with the more unusual jars, such as pickled samphire, carrot and onion relish or perhaps someone's home-made piccalilli is to open them and scatter them around the table to accompany a platter of hot sausages and mash. Even the most bizarre seem to find a fan. It is the most successful way I know to rid myself of yet another jar of someone's pickle harvest.
I have mentioned elsewhere my idea of warming yesterday's cold Christmas pudding in a frying pan in a little butter. I stir the disintegrating slices round in a frying pan with some melted butter till they are as hot as I can get them without risk of burning, then pour over a little cream. It's not a bad way to see off the celebrations.
· Extracted from The Kitchen Diaries by Nigel Slater published by Fourth Estate priced £25. © Nigel Slater 2005. To order a copy for £23 with free UK p&p call the Observer Book Service on 0870 836 0885
