Chicken livers used to really weird me out. As a child, I would pull a squeamish face if I accidentally peeled open the wrong tub in the back of the fridge, revealing grey and pungent pate. Yuk! This liver phobia stretched out for a large chunk of my young adult life. Even when working in a kitchen just after finishing university, making huge vats of delicately set chicken liver parfait was my most hated job. There’s nothing worse than the sight of a mountain of uncleaned livers whilst nursing a dangerous hangover.
Then something changed. One evening out at a restaurant, a plate emerged as part of a set menu. To avoid any social awkwardness I got stuck in, and suddenly became aware than I quite liked the smooth, rich and earthy morsels that had for so long been my nemesis. I guess there’s no real explanation for this shift in taste, other than just growing up and liking different foods. Around that time I also re-embraced mushrooms, discovered that bitter greens weren’t best shoved to one side of the plate, and that a good pinch of salt makes a world of difference to pretty much everything.
With anything as strong and distinctive in flavour as chicken livers, the key is creating a balance with the other ingredients on the plate. Sweetcorn season is in full swing right now, and creates a wonderful sweet contrast. Add a few chicken wings to create a binding sauce and some irresistible crispy skin, and some peppery nasturtiums picked from my front garden, and everything is tied together.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the chicken livers:
300g chicken livers, halved and trimmed of any sinew
1 good knob of butter
1 garlic clove, crushed
1 sprig of thyme
For the baby leeks:
6 baby leeks
For the sweetcorn puree:
2 sweetcorn, kernels cut free from the cobs
2 shallots, finely sliced
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
2 knobs of butter
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
1 tsp wholegrain mustard
For the charred sweetcorn:
1 sweetcorn, kernels cut free from the cob
For the chicken sauce:
4 chicken wings, skin removed and retained
2 shallots, quartered
1 carrot, chopped
1 garlic clove, finely sliced
3 sprigs of thyme
1 large glass of white wine
500ml good chicken stock
For the crispy chicken skin:
The skin from the chicken wings
To finish:
Nasturtium leaves
½ a lemon, juice only
Start by making the chicken sauce. Heat a large saucepan to high temperature, and add a good glug of olive oil. Season the wings and brown well on all sides in the hot pan, then transfer to a side plate. Slide the shallots into the pan and fry for a minute or two on each side, until caramelised. Add the carrot, garlic and thyme and continue to cook for a further minute, stirring frequently. Return the chicken wings to the pan and pour in the wine. Allow the liquid to boil and reduce by half. Pour in the stock, then return to the boil before reducing again, until only a small amount of thickened sauce remains. Strain the sauce through a sieve into a small saucepan and set aside to reheat later.
Fill a saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Sprinkle in a generous amount of salt. When the water is hot, blanch the baby leeks for 2 minutes, then drain and set aside until later.
Bring a saucepan to a medium heat and add half the butter for the sweetcorn puree. When melted, add the shallots, garlic and thyme leaves, and cook gently for 3-4 minutes, until softened. Tip in the sweetcorn kernels and season well. Stir everything together, then cover the saucepan and cook for a further 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Spoon the contents of the pan into a food processor and add the mustard and remaining butter. Blend really well, until a smooth puree is formed. Loosen with a little water if necessary. Taste and season if needed. Pass the puree through a sieve into a bowl, then spoon into a plastic bottle.
Preheat the oven to 190⁰C.
Line a baking sheet with greaseproof paper and rub with a little oil. Stretch the chicken skin onto the tray and season with salt and pepper. Cover with another oiled sheet of greaseproof and top with a second baking sheet. Slide into the oven and roast for 15-20 minutes, or until the skin is golden and crispy. Drain on kitchen paper and set aside.
Cut the kernels from the remaining sweetcorn cob, trying to keep the kernels together in clusters if possible. Using a blowtorch, quickly char the outsides.
Put the butter for the chicken livers into a non-stick frying pan along with a splash of olive oil. Bring to a high heat. When the pan is hot, season the chicken livers and add to the pan, along with the thyme and the garlic clove. Cook the livers for 1-2 minutes on each side, until still bouncy and pink in the middle. Transfer to a warm plate to rest quickly. Add the blanched leeks to the now empty liver pan and heat through for a minute.
While the livers and leeks are cooking, reheat the sauce.
Dress the nasturtium leaves in a little lemon juice and olive oil.
To plate up, squeeze a decent blob of the sweetcorn puree onto each plate. Arrange the leeks to one side along with the livers and charred sweetcorn. Top with the chicken skin and nasturtium leaves, then finish with a small amount of the chicken sauce.
Ok, I know that it’s one of the hottest days of the year, but I want stew. Diana Henry recently announced on Twitter that she had mostly spent the last few months “cooking for autumn”, and I can totally get behind that. The weather this year has most definitely been playing silly buggers, conditions that my instincts always look to solve with a broth or a soup, some lentils or grains slowly blipping away for hours on a hob. A piece of meat, tender and falling apart, usually gets in on the act too. Settling and comforting food, and this time I don’t intend on waiting until the later months. I draw the line at bulbous, suety dumplings or piles of buttery polenta, but with a few light touches here and there, I believe that a summer stew of sorts is a wonderful and appropriate thing.
Summer sees excellent lamb, and a whole host of brilliant sidekicks to bob around a saucepan with. Spikey artichokes and almost hippy-like, vibrant pink borlotti beans are in their prime, with zingy sorrel giving things a refreshing boost where needed. The cut of meat chosen is the neck fillet, possibly my all-time favourite. Versatile enough to cook pink and charred over a barbeque, or in this case low and slow, and containing all of that flavour so common in the working muscles. I’ll leave my more refined cookery for another time. This is all about chunks of meat soft enough to break with a spoon, melting slabs of fatty pancetta and a rich liquor the result of patient simmering.
One large saucepan and a steaming bowl of happiness. More salads and summer fare next week. But for now I just want stew.
Serves 4-6
Ingredients:
800g-1kg lamb neck fillet, chopped into rough large chunks
150g smoked pancetta, thickly sliced
1 large onion, sliced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
A few sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
1 large glass of dry white wine
1-1.5ltr chicken stock
2 large handfuls of fresh borlotti beans
4-6 small artichokes, tough leaves, stems and chokes removed and hearts quartered
1 bunch of sorrel, roughly torn
1 lemon
Pour a good glug of olive oil into a large, deep saucepan and bring to a medium-high heat. Season the chunks of lamb with salt and pepper and brown in the hot pan on all sides, in 2 or 3 batches if necessary. Transfer the cooked meat to a side plate. Add the pancetta to the now empty pan and cook for a couple of minutes, until the fat starts to render and crisp. Add the onion, garlic, thyme and bay and continue until softened and slightly caramelised. Season well.
Pour in the wine and allow the liquid to reduce by half. Use a wooden spoon to scrape the crust from the bottom of the pan. Return the lamb and top up with enough stock to cover the meat. Bring everything back to the boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer. Cook for 2 hours, or until the lamb pulls apart easily.
Drop the prepared artichokes and beans to the saucepan and continue to cook for a further 30-45 minutes, until the vegetables have softened.
Tear up the sorrel and stir through the stew a couple of minutes before serving. Taste and check for seasoning.
Spoon the stew into bowls, finishing with a squeeze of lemon juice.
Every year, Katie and I throw RoLo Fest, an evening of feasting to celebrate the birthdays of my sister-in-law Lois and her fiancé Rob. I spend the day in the kitchen lovingly putting together a four-course meal, before the evening arrives and we all sit in the (hopefully sunny) garden outside. A bottle or two is popped open and we all tuck in and catch up.
Putting the menu together is both immensely fun yet immensely challenging. As it’s a family meal, I want to be out at the table with everyone else instead of stuck in the kitchen, so practicality and planning is key. Yet I also always want to do my best to spoil everyone rotten with impressive and elaborate food. In the past I’ve served up beef wellington, guinea fowl ravioli and fast-grilled leg of lamb. But on this occasion the centrepiece was an enormous piece of rolled porchetta, tender and herby in the middle with blistered golden crackling around the edge. I was overjoyed with how it turned out, a future recipe for this blog for sure.
Before the pork was served up, I made this pasta dish as a little primi. Rocket often seems to be used as an afterthought, chucked randomly to one side of a dish to add a splash of colour. But I wanted it to be the focus here, and I balanced the deep, bitter flavour with rich and tangy goat’s cheese. The little tortelli were served swimming in a little pool of garlicky melted butter, which is so simple but always a total crowd pleaser.
Making filled pasta is dead simple with a little practice, and once the basics have been mastered, the world is oyster with all of the different fillings and shapes that you can make. They’re also perfect for any kind of dinner party scenario, as they can be made and stored hours in advance, ready to be whipped up in a few minutes in front of your guests.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the tortelli:
300g ‘00’ grade pasta flour
3 medium eggs
3 large bunches of rocket, roots trimmed
150g soft goat’s cheese
200g ricotta
4 tbsp pecorino romano, finely grated
1 egg, for brushing
For the sauce:
1 garlic clove, thinly sliced
4 tbsp unsalted butter
1 bunch of rocket
½ a lemon
To finish:
A few gratings of pecorino romano
Start by making the pasta dough. Tip the flour into a large bowl and mix with a generous pinch of fine salt. Make a well in the centre and crack in the eggs, and also pour in a good glug of olive oil. Using a fork, whisk the eggs, incorporating the flour at the same time until a dough is formed. Knead the dough for 5-10 minutes, until elastic in texture and not sticky. Wrap well with cling film and put in the fridge for an hour to rest.
Fill a saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Add a good pinch of salt and the rocket leaves for the pasta filling. Blanche for 1 minute, then strain through a sieve and allow to cool. Squeeze out the excess water from the leaves then transfer to a food processor. Add the ricotta, goat’s cheese, pecorino and season well. Blend until the rocket is finely chopped and the filling is well combined. Tip into a bowl.
Use a pasta machine to roll the pasta dough to its thinnest setting, and lay the resulting long sheet onto a well-floured surface. Place tablespoonfuls of the filling mixture along the middle of the sheet, leaving gaps of about 8cm between each one. Break the remaining egg into a small bowl, and use a pastry brush to lightly coat the pasta around the filling. Carefully fold the long edges in over the filling, creating a seal with the other edge in the middle. Use your fingers to seal the pasta in between each bit of filling, making sure to disperse any air bubbles. Use a sharp knife to separate each square tortelli, and use your fingers to seal the pasta together one last time. Repeat until all of the tortelli have been made, rolling out more pasta if necessary.
Fill a large saucepan up with water and bring to the boil. Add a very good pinch of salt.
Melt the butter in a large frying pan and gently cook the sliced garlic for a minute or two, until lightly golden. Add the remaining bunch of rocket and wilt down.
When the water is boiling, drop in the tortelli and cook for 2 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the cooked pasta to the butter pan. Carefully toss the tortelli to coat with butter, then squeeze over the lemon juice.
To serve, arrange 3-5 tortelli onto each plate, along with some of the wilted rocket leaves. Spoon over a good amount of the butter and garlic. Finish with some additional gratings of pecorino cheese.
Last week I drove down to Brighton on a whistle-stop trip to see my parents. I’ve reached a point in my life where visiting mum and dad is no longer a needy, adolescent excursion to get my laundry done and excavate every scrap of decent cheese out of the fridge. These days I bring my own shampoo and toothpaste, and I adore the hours spent sitting around the worn marble kitchen table of my childhood, chatting away about mum’s recent paintings or the current state of the allotment (always “a total mess”, which is a total lie). Somehow the time is slower and the air that bit fresher just an hour south of The Smoke, almost a mini-holiday with the doors to the garden flung open and the squarks from resident seagulls a gentle background.
My parents have always been wonderful hosts, and on all of these fleeting visits I get spoilt rotten. Upon arrival dad will brandish a perfectly-forked, golden cottage pie. You can bet the house that mum will have made crumble or cake. As I sit there stuffed like a pig, mum will plonk coffee and more wine on the table and remind me that “there’s cheese in the fridge”. Recently I have decided to reverse this trend and cook them lunch instead. Although always simple and quick to prepare, it’s lovely to now be the one making the fuss. Living in London also provides me with an almost endless larder of interesting and seasonal ingredients that are near impossible to source elsewhere. Over Easter we feasted on seared scallops with Sicilian lemons and castelfranco radicchio, followed by fall-apart mutton tossed through pici that we had rolled by hand that morning.
Last week I upped my lunch game. Spring was on the turn and with it emerged a glut of glorious new ingredients. The first asparagus started peeping through the earth, and a large box in my car boot contained a pair of lively, new season native lobsters. To start lunch though, I wanted something stripped-back and easy, that could be plonked down with minimal effort. Burrata has become somewhat of a darling in the modern London restaurant scene, and thankfully through such popularity it is reasonably easy to source these glorious, cream-filled globes. Yet I knew that my parents would never have tried it before, and after years of fridge-raiding, it felt apt to finally provide the cheese.
Over the last few weeks, Gwyneth Paltrow has taken a bit of a bashing in the food media for including a recipe for fried eggs in a recent cookbook. But in much the same way, to serve my burrata I did little more than scoop the soft cheese from their little baskets and popped them straight onto a plate. Although often served with pickles or vegetables, I drew inspiration from the newly-opened Padella restaurant, where it is served simply with a glug of good oil and some seasoning. And that, along with a few slices of good sourdough, was all that was needed.
