When at the fishmongers, it is always best to try and buy something as big as possible. Not only does this dodge the ethical issue of eating unsustainable, baby fish, but often it will result in a better finished dish. This is particularly the case with whole fish such as sole, turbot, bass, bream and salmon. A larger fish will yield a thicker fillet, which will cook more evenly and be much more succulent and satisfying to eat than little bits and pieces scraped from the bones.
Of course, buying large fish is often expensive and impractical if you’re not feeding many. But there are a few ways around this problem. Many types of fish when handled correctly will freeze in individual fillet portions really well, creating a few easy dinners in the month to come. Alternatively, you can try curing or preserving the remaining fish. I’ve been particularly enjoying this in the last few months, and see it as an opportunity to create something completely different out of what would be leftovers. It takes minutes of effort and once cured will keep in the fridge for a good few days. Most fresh fish can be prepared in this way; this year alone I’ve had great results with gurnard, brill, salmon and mackerel.
To turn my cured fish into a finished dish, I always consider the final balance of flavour. Oiliness, saltiness, sweetness, sharpness and texture all needs to be judged properly to get the best out of the fish. For this recipe, I’ve used some of the wonderful sweet summer peas and baby courgettes that are right in season at the moment. It really is worth making the effort to shell each little pea properly, as this will remove any bitterness. To counter the sweetness, I’ve made a punchy lemon puree. This stuff is strong, and you certainly don’t need much of it on the finished plate.
As with the last recipe, the seatrout season has now finished (boo!). But good quality salmon will work perfectly in its place, as would a firm white fish such as monkfish, john dory or brill. Just increase or shorten the curing time depending on the thickness and density of the fillet.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the cured seatrout:
1 thick top end of a seatrout fillet, about 400g, pin-boned
150g sugar
150g salt
A few sprigs of mint
A few sprigs of tarragon
1 lemon, zest only
For the lemon puree:
2 Sicilian lemons, peeled
130g caster sugar
½ a lemon, juice only
5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
For the vegetables:
2 large handfuls of fresh British peas
3 baby courgettes
To finish:
Extra virgin olive oil
A few sprigs of mint
A handful of peashoots
First get the seatrout on to cure. Put the sugar and salt in a food processor with the tarragon, mint and lemon zest and blend well until everything is finely chopped. Tip half of it into a dish large enough to snugly fit the seatrout in. Pop the fish on top, then cover with the remaining half of the cure mixture, making sure all sides are covered. Seal the top with clingfilm and refrigerate for 4-6 hours, until the seatrout has firmed up. Rinse the fish well and pat dry with kitchen roll. Remove the skin, then carefully slice into thin ‘D’ cuts.
While the fish is curing, make the lemon puree. Put the lemons into a saucepan and cover with water. Sprinkle in about 10g of sugar and bring to the boil. Drain the water away, then repeat this process another 7 times, until the lemons are very soft. Transfer the lemons to a food processor and blend into a puree with the lemon juice, some salt and pepper and a teaspoon of the caster sugar. With the motor still running, drizzle in the olive oil until emulsified. Have a taste and adjust if needed, you want it to be quite sharp. Pass through a fine sieve and pour into a plastic bottle. Set aside for plating.
Fill up a saucepan and bring to the boil. While you’re waiting for the water to heat up, pod the peas. Add a little salt to the water and blanche the peas for two minutes, then refresh in a big bowl of cold water. Drain well, then squeeze the shells away from the sweet inner-peas. Dress the peas with a good glug of olive oil and a pinch of seasoning. Trim the baby courgettes and slice into thin rounds, then add to the peas.
To plate up, arrange some slices of the seatrout onto each plate. Dot a little of the lemon puree around the plate, and scatter over the peas and courgette. Finish with some peashoots, mint leaves and a final drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.
Sometimes when out food shopping I see something that is just impossible not to put into the basket. I have a blinkered mentality when buying ingredients for preconceived recipes, and will always be armed with a regimented list. This causes its fair share of problems. Mostly looking like a gormless idiot in the middle of a shop when told that the specific thing that I visited for is out of stock. Little cogs will be whirring away in my head trying to merge the detailed planning with the array of substitutes available. Hence the tendency for spontaneous, and not entirely useful or necessary ingredients. At this point I am in serious danger on picking up any old thing that looks interesting or particularly good. Sure that purple cauliflower, baby artichoke or gooseberries looked lovely in my larder (bowl on the side), but they sure as hell had nothing to do with any cooking I had in mind when leaving the house.
On this occasion it was the scallops. I was out struggling to find guinea fowl for a pasta lunch that I wanted to cook for some friends, and in my confused state I took a momentary breather at the fishmongers. Somehow I must have thought that looking at a varied and colourful display of ultimately totally irrelevant fish would clarify my judgement. It didn’t. But while I made my mind up I carried the extra weight of a handful of plump and voluptuous molluscs. Ever since my dad introduced them to me as an occasional childhood treat, I’ve always been a sucker for a scallop. And these were pearlers; firm to the touch, super-sized and carrying that subtle sweet smell of very fresh shellfish.
But what to do with them, that was the question. They certainly weren’t going to somehow cameo in my long thought-out and just about sourced poultry main. In my last post I rambled on about the importance of planning ahead when cooking for numbers, and with that in mind all I wanted to do was create something quick and simple. Paired with black pudding and peas they are a delicious classic, but not massively interesting. Tarragon, apple and lemon add tanginess, and contrast creamy, salty bacon butter to achieve a delicate balance. And all ready to go in a matter of minutes.
These scallops were very large, and on this occasion were perfect as a small couple of forkfuls before a main course. Double the quantities and halve the diners for something more luxurious and substantial.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the scallops:
4 very large scallops, corals detached
1 large knob of butter
For the celeriac:
4 heaped tbsp of fine celeriac julienne
1 heaped tbsp. of fine braeburn apple julinne
1 lemon, juice only
For the bacon butter:
3 tbsp butter
2 rashers of smoked streaky bacon, finely diced
½ a lemon, juice only
To finish:
Tarragon leaves
½ lemon, juice only
4 scallop shells for presentation (optional)
Mix the celeriac and apple julienne with the lemon juice and a little seasoning in a small bowl. Cover and allow to soften and lightly pickle for about 30 minutes.
Heat a small saucepan to a medium-high temperature. Add a little oil and fry the bacon for 4-5 minutes, or until brown and crispy. Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon. Spoon the butter into the same pan and turn the heat up slightly. When the butter turns a light brown colour, remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice and a little pepper. Tip the bacon back into the butter and keep warm.
Pour a generous amount of oil into a non-stick frying pan and set on a high heat. Pat the scallops and corals dry and season well all over. Sear both parts for 1 ½ minutes on each side, adding the butter with about a minute to go and basting everything well.
Spoon a quarter of the celeriac and apple mixture into the bottom of each scallop shell. Place a scallop and coral on top and pour over a little of the bacon butter. Scatter over some tarragon leaves and a squeeze of lemon.
One of the biggest things that I get out of cooking is how much happiness and joy it can inspire in others. The look on someone’s face when you unveil that birthday cake, walk to the table with a heaped platter or present an intricate and intriguing plate can make hours of effort instantly worthwhile. It’s funny how growing up a bit changes you; where I used to yearn for a night in the pub, now what I look forward to the most are a few hours entertaining close friends and family with good food and a bottle or two. We’ve had some great evenings this summer, sitting on the balcony in the balmy summer twilight to the sound of chatter and cutlery contacting china. But as much as I enjoy these occasions, when it comes to washing up I often am left feeling that I should have managed the food a little differently. I find it hard to strike the balance between cooking something good, but something that is also manageable to prepare without leaving poor Katie to hold court on her own. Time and time again I also find myself remembering how much easier everything is to cook last minute without the four glasses of wine just consumed. But sometimes it’s purely that I take the food far too seriously. My mind goes adrift trying to impress and indulge, when really the eating should just be the background conduit, the platform for everything else. Rarely does great food and crap company cement as a memorable evening.
Bitter experience and awkward delays have taught me the most obvious of things, that forward planning and preparation is everything when hosting dinner. Fundamentally I am clumsy and forgetful, and this is a deadly combination when wine is involved. I will and do forget about half of the ingredients painfully sourced out for the main course. Washing up, that bunch of flowers and empty drink bottles will all be sitting on that chopping board I need to use. Everything takes half an hour longer, and I end up looking so flustered at the point of serving that everyone’s appetite has sufficiently waned. Food is cold and my imagined precision plating is replaced with some Jackson Pollock slapdashery. So the least amount of time flapping around in my ever-shrinking kitchen the better.
And this gnocchi dish is perfect for avoiding such calamities, and one of the few occasions that I sat down and thought “I’ve nailed this”. In that wonderful way that is so synonymous with Italian cooking, most of this dish is down to great ingredients prepared simply and put on a plate. Everything can be made ahead of serving, leaving the quick task of poaching the gnocchi, finishing off in the pan and plate assembling all that you need to do. Perfectly easy even when half-cut. You can even serve it in a bowl if you want to further avoid plate tippage when transporting to your guests, who will frankly be gobsmacked that you are back so quickly.
If you are making the gnocchi in advance, the only extra step to take is to blanche them for a minute or so at the time of shaping, before shocking in cold water and draining. Then cover and refrigerate for up to a couple of days before boiling again and eating.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the butternut squash:
1 medium butternut squash, halved lengthways with the seeds removed
1 large Maris Piper or King Edward potato
3 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
1 tbsp smoked sweet paprika
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp dried chilli flakes
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 lemon, zest only
Olive oil
For the gnocchi:
1 egg, beaten
3 tbsp parmesan, finely grated
1 lemon, zest only
Italian ‘00’ grade flour, enough to bind and dust (approx. 200-300g)
For the infused oil:
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 tsp dried chilli flakes
2 sprigs rosemary, finely chopped
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
½ a lemon, juice only
For the sage leaves:
12 large sage leaves
Vegetable oil for frying
To finish:
1-1 ½ large balls of good buffalo mozzarella, torn into 12 pieces
12 slices of lardo
1 lemon, zest only
1 tsp dried chilli flakes (optional)
2 tbsp parmesan, finely grated
Preheat the oven to 190⁰C.
First make the spice mix for the butternut squash. Put the rosemary, oregano, garlic, lemon zest, paprika, chilli and a good amount of seasoning into a small bowl. Pour in enough olive oil to create a paste and combine well. Put the halves of butternut squash on a baking tray and slather with the mixture, then bake, along with the potato, for about 1 – 1 ½ hours until both are soft and tender.
While the vegetables are cooking, make the crispy sage leaves. Pour the vegetable oil into a small, high-sided frying pan until it is about 1cm deep, and put on a high temperature. When hot, fry the sage leaves in small batches for 30 seconds to a minute, or until crisp. Remove and drain on some kitchen roll and set aside.
Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil.
While the squash and potato are still hot, scoop out the middles with a spoon and pass through a sieve into a large bowl. Add the parmesan, lemon zest and beaten egg and fold to combine. Next fold in the flour, a heaped tablespoon at a time, until the mash comes together to form a soft dough that is only just workable. Sprinkle some extra flour onto a work surface and take a small handful of the dough. Carefully roll out into a thin sausage, then cut into 2-3cm cylinders using a sharp knife. Roll each gently in your hands to shape, using a fork or slotted board to shape if you like. Repeat until you have made 32 pieces of gnocchi.
Put a large, non-stick frying pan on a medium-high heat.
Carefully tip the gnocchi into the boiling water and cook until they have popped to the surface, about 3-4 minutes. Do this in two batches if your saucepan is not large enough to comfortably hold all the gnocchi at once.
While the gnocchi is boiling, add the extra virgin olive oil to the frying pan and cook the garlic, rosemary and chilli for one minute. As the gnocchi pop to the surface of the boiling water, transfer them to the frying pan with a slotted spoon. Fry for a minute or two until slightly coloured, seasoning well and squeezing over the lemon juice.
To serve, scatter 8 pieces of gnocchi onto each plate. Dot pieces of the mozzarella, slices of lardo and sage leaves in-between and around, then spoon over some of the oil from the pan. Finish by grating over some lemon zest and parmesan and sprinkling on more chilli flakes and cracked black pepper.
It’s been a while since my last post. Tragically, my twin brother died very suddenly just before Christmas after a very short battle with cancer. All thoughts of cooking flew out the window as my family came together to support each other through the most difficult time imaginable.
I’ve only been back in London a week or so, and it feels good to slowly get back into a normal routine, even though I’m not sure I know what normality feels like anymore. Like many other food centrics, cooking proves therapeutic and healing, and never more so than in the last couple of weeks. Luckily, I’ve had some spare time on my hands recently, so I’ve had afternoons to tuck my head into the butchers, and time to nosy about the green grocers again. I’m finally itching to get back in the kitchen, and with thoughts firmly on my wonderful brother, this was always going to be my first post…
The inspiration for this recipe is the pasta of my youth. It was one of the first things that I was confident in cooking, and would cook it at any given opportunity. When my parents went on holidays I was always in charge of the cooking, and invariably we would eat this dish two or three times over that period. This became my brother’s favourite, and we would gorge on it until we were fit to burst before laying on the sofa groaning in pain. When we stopped living in the same house, he would always phone me to be reminded of the recipe, complaining that he had tried to make it but it hadn’t been “quite right”.
Of course in those days I hadn’t even heard of things like ‘nduja, and it was a good few years until I would learn to make pasta. The sauce would be made with chorizo or bacon, mixed with a tin of chopped tomatoes and then poured over whatever dried pasta we had in the cupboard. This recipe is slightly more refined, but the taste still brings back warm happy memories.
‘Nduja seems to be a very trendy ingredient at the moment in restaurants and food blogs, but despite this it’s still relatively difficult to get hold of. It gave me a great excuse to head to Borough Market where I found a wonderful British made variety. The texture of the soft salami is similar to those I have tried before, but the taste is slightly less spicy and more fragrant with fennel seeds. Delicious. My brother always hated anchovies, but accepted them in this sauce as they just melt away and enhance all of the other flavours.
Although my reasoning for making farfalle in this recipe was in tribute to the random pasta shapes that we used to find at home, the shape is very suitable with the sauce. The large surface area grips the sauce meaning that you get a good taste with every mouthful.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the pasta:
200g ‘00’ grade flour
2 medium eggs
1 tbsp olive oil
Good pinch of salt
For the sauce:
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
½ red chilli, finely chopped
1 tsp smoked sweet paprika
1 tsp fennel seeds
3 sprigs rosemary, finely chopped
4 anchovy fillets, roughly chopped
80g ‘nduja, skinned and chopped roughly
1 glass red wine
15-20 very small ripe cherry tomatoes, quartered
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
To finish:
Parmesan, finely grated
Basil leaves
Extra virgin olive oil
To make the pasta, put the flour, eggs, salt and oil into a food processor and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Tip out onto a clean surface and knead well for about 10 minutes until the dough is smooth and elastic in texture. Wrap with clingfilm and allow to rest in the fridge for at least half an hour.
Remove the dough from the fridge and roll through the thickest setting 6-10 times, folding after each pass. Lightly dust the sheet with flour then pass once down through the settings until you reach the thinnest. Lay the long, thin pasta sheet onto a floured surface. To make the farfalle, cut small rectangles out of the sheet and shape them by gently pushing out the middle and folding in the narrow sides to form a bow tie. Put each one on a lightly floured sheet of greaseproof paper. They can be used straight away, but are best after allowed to dry for a few hours.
Fill a large saucepan with well salted water and bring to the boil.
To make the sauce, heat a little olive oil in a large non-stick frying pan. Cook the shallot, garlic, rosemary, fennel seeds, chilli and paprika over a medium heat for a few minutes until softened. Season a little. Add the ‘nduja and anchovy and continue to fry for another few minutes, stirring until they almost melt into the mixture. Turn the heat up slightly and pour in the red wine and allow to reduce by half. Stir in the quartered tomatoes until slightly softened.
Tip the farfalle into the boiling water and cook for 1-2 minutes. When cooked, use a slotted spoon and transfer the pasta to the frying pan with the sauce, along with 1 tbsp of the cooking water. Stir gently to combine the sauce and pasta and cook for a further minute. Taste and season if necessary.
Transfer the coated pasta to warmed plates and top with basil leaves, grated parmesan, cracked pepper and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.
