Leftovers are funny old things. When I grew up, they would refer to the half-portion of grey-looking cottage pie right at the back of the fridge, or the tatty looking carrots in the veg drawer. Leftover curry or lasagne was the best, really developing in flavour after a good day or two of chilling. As a student, leftover pizza scraped out of the box was often essential to ward off some killer hangovers, getting me to the lecture in the nick of time. Leftovers were just that. There was nothing glamorous about them, they served their exact purpose.
As time has gone on, I’ve often been amused at the elevation of what consists of a leftover. Gazing through twitter, I’ve noticed gleaming plates of ‘leftover’ racks of lamb, prime steaks etc etc. It strikes me as funny how once upon a time leftovers were the thrifty scrapings of dinners, cobbled together to make an extra meal. Now people are commonly starting out with a glut of expensive ingredients. No wonder this country is gripped with a mounting waste crisis.
And I hold my hands up fully at this point, as this recipe is fully based around a leftover truffle that I had sitting in my fridge. That’s right, a leftover truffle. My parents would fall over at the thought. In all fairness, I didn’t need a full, whole truffle for the intended recipe (the last steak and celeriac recipe on this blog), and it’s not as if I could have gone to the deli and bought half of one. So I was indeed left with leftovers, and I was damned if I was going to let it rot and go to waste. I read somewhere that making truffle butter would extend its life for a good few weeks, and that sounded very good to me.
The rest of this recipe was easy peasy. When I think of truffle butter, the only accompaniment to it has to be pasta. And nothing nearly complicated either. People give me a funny look when I talk about pasta filled with mashed potato, but it’s a glorious thing. These little, light pockets do an amazing job of letting the truffle speak for itself. And when it’s in front of you on a plate, it certainly doesn’t seem like leftovers.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the pasta:
200g strong ‘00’ grade flour
2 eggs, plus 1 extra for sealing
A good glug of extra virgin olive oil
A good pinch of salt
For the potato filling:
2 medium-large maris piper potatoes
150g ricotta cheese
3 tbsp finely grated hard pecorino
3 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
A good knob of butter
For the truffle butter:
A small black truffle
100g salted butter
To finish:
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
A grating or two of pecorino
To make the truffle butter, tip the soft, room-temperature butter into a small bowl. Finally grate in the truffle and mix well with a spoon. Lay a sheet of greaseproof paper onto a flat surface and transfer the butter on top. Wrap the butter with the paper so that you are left with a small, sealed parcel. Pop into the fridge until needed (up to a couple of weeks).
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C.
Put the potatoes onto a baking tray and scatter with salt. Bake in the oven for 1 hour, or until the middles are very soft. When cooked, allow to cool slightly, then halve and scoop the flesh out into a bowl. Mash well, then combine with the ricotta, thyme leaves, pecorino, butter and a good amount of salt and pepper. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Cover and allow to cool.
For the pasta dough, measure out the pasta flour in a large bowl and combine with the salt. Use a wooden spoon to make a well in the middle, and break in the eggs. Pour in a good glug of olive oil, then use a fork to whisk the eggs, gradually incorporating the flour until a dough forms. Tip the dough out onto a work surface and knead really well, until it in no longer sticky and has an elastic texture. Wrap with cling film and rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
When the dough is ready, roll it through a pasta machine until it is at the thinnest setting. Lay the sheet of pasta out and cut 2.5” squares. Beat the remaining egg in a small bowl. Add a teaspoon of the cold potato filling to the middle of each square, and brush a little egg around one half of the edge. Take a filled square of dough in your hands and carefully fold it diagonally into a triangle, sealing the edges around the filling, and expelling any air bubbles. Take the two points of the folded side, and bring them together with a slight twist, so that they meet opposite the remaining point. Crimp with your fingers to seal. Repeat, until you have 20-30 cappelletti.
Fill a large saucepan up with well-salted water and bring to the boil.
When the water is at a rolling boil, add the cappelletti and cook for 3 minutes.
Whilst the pasta is cooking, melt the truffle butter gently in a large frying pan. As soon as the cappelletti are ready, use a slotted spoon to transfer them to the butter pan, tossing them gently to make sure they get covered on all sides.
To serve, spoon the filled pasta onto the middle of each plate, and pour over all of the remaining butter. Finish with a few fresh thyme leaves and a little more grated pecorino.
Earlier in the year, with food magazines and newspapers dedicated to detox dieting and clean eating, the humble old celeriac was lifted to dizzy heights, heralded the vegetable of 2016(!). I like to think of the celeriac as a modest, warts and all vegetable that sits muddily on greengrocer’s shelves, without the pomp of radicchio or the swagger of a heritage carrot. It probably felt mildly patronised by such sudden attention, as it’s always been a star. Like the quiet genius that sits in the corner in indie films while the quarterbacks parade and shout. Like Clark Kent. For years it has been there in the perfect remoulade, creamy, comforting gratins and caramelised, roasted chunks. Now the poor root will be subjected to endless spiralising. Someone will probably try and make brownies with him too.
So for this recipe I found a large handsome specimen of a celeriac, complete with bouffant plume of green leaves sprouting out of the top. What a guy. And I was determined to use the whole vegetable. I first had a go at salt-baking celeriac a few years ago, where it proved a rich and flavoursome accompaniment to some roasted pheasant. The whole process requires some patience and dedication, but yields a unique result. It’s also pretty spectacular taking a salt-crusted dome to the table, before smashing it apart and scooping out the ever so tender, steaming flesh.
The celeriac really is the main event here, but whilst on my way home with said celeriac poking out the top of my bag, I stumbled across a butcher selling some outrageously marbled ribeye steak. Celeriac and beef have always been excellent bedfellows, so to reacquaint the two was a no-brainer really.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the ribeye:
1 x thick ribeye steak, approx. 350-400g
For the salt-baked celeriac:
½ a large celeriac
1kg coarse sea salt
2-4 eggs, whites only
3 tbsp fresh picked thyme leaves
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
For the sauce:
2 handfuls of beef trimming, bones
1 onion, finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 large glass of white wine
500ml beef stock
2 large knobs of butter
A few gratings of black truffle
For the braised chestnuts and celeriac:
A handful of chestnuts, shelled and quartered
4-6 thin, wide strips from the remaining celeriac
2 sprigs of thyme
100g dripping
For the celeriac crisps:
10-15 thin shavings from the remaining celeriac
Vegetable oil for deep frying
To finish:
The green leaves from the top of the celeriac
A knob of butter
1 small black truffle
Pre-heat the oven to 180⁰C fan.
Put the celeriac half for salt baking cut-side-down onto an oven dish. Pour the salt into a bowl and mix with the thyme leaves. Stir in enough egg white to form a stiff, pliable paste. Pack the salt evenly over the celeriac until it is fully covered. Slide into the oven and bake for 2.5-3 hours, until very soft in the middle. When cooked, crack open the salt and slice the top off the celeriac. Use a spoon to scoop out the flesh and transfer to a food processor. Season with salt and pepper if needed. Turn on the processor and blend well. With the engine still running, slowly pour in the olive oil, until it is fully emulsified and you are left with a smooth puree. Cover and set aside.
Set a wide, heavy pan to a medium-high heat and add a glug of oil. Season the beef trimmings and bones, then toss into the pan. Fry for 10-15 minutes, making sure all sides are well browned. Add the onion, carrot and garlic and continue to cook until caramelised. Pour in the wine, and use a wooden spoon to scrape up the crust from the bottom of the pan. Reduce the liquid by half, then top up with the stock. Return to the boil and reduce again, until the sauce is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon (this process should take about 20 minutes). Strain the sauce into a small saucepan, then stir in the butter and a few fine gratings of truffle. Set aside until needed later.
Spoon 1/3rd of the dripping for the chestnuts and celeriac into a saucepan and bring to a moderate heat. Add the chestnuts and fry for a few minutes until lightly coloured. Add the celeriac, thyme and a little seasoning and cook for a further minute, then melt in the remaining dripping. Turn the heat down to low and gently simmer for about 30 minutes, until the vegetables are very soft. Keep warm.
Use a vegetable peeler to shave 10-15 strips from the remaining celeriac. Pour enough vegetable oil into a heavy saucepan until it is an inch deep, then heat up until it reaches 160-170⁰C. Fry the celeriac in batches until it turns golden-brown and crispy. Use a slotted spoon to transfer to some kitchen roll and drain.
Take the steak out of the fridge about an hour before cooking, to let it come to room-temperature.
Heat a heavy frying pan until it is smoking hot. Coat the steak with a little olive oil, and season all sides really well. When the pan is hot, add the steak. Cook without moving for 3-4 minutes on each side for medium-rare, or a few minutes longer if you prefer it better done. Transfer the steak to a plate and allow to rest for 10 minutes.
Let the steak pan cook down a little, then add a knob of butter and the green tops from the celeriac. Cook on a medium heat for a couple of minutes, until softened.
While the steak is resting, reheat the sauce, celeriac puree and dripping-braised chestnuts and celeriac if needed (draining the latter before serving).
To plate up, add a few thick slices of the steak to each plate. Spoon on some of the celeriac puree, and arrange a few of the greens and braised chestnuts and celeriac around the meat. Finish by drizzling over a little of the sauce, then scattering some celeriac crisps and truffle shavings on top.
After a somewhat long break from writing anything on this blog, I’m really happy to get things going again. I managed to get away for a few weeks on a long, much-needed holiday and I’ve had time to work on lots of new recipes, which will appear here in the very near future. To be honest, writing again lifts a real weight off my shoulders. When I started this blog all those years ago, it was really aimed to be a bit of fun, a foodie distraction. I didn’t realise how important to me it would become, to the point that I start to feel guilty if I haven’t written for a couple of weeks.
This recipe is a cracker, a totally delicious plate of food that is comforting and indulgent despite the modest ingredients. It’s a prime example of how inexpensive, overlooked produce combined with a little time and patience can result in something a little special. Pigs trotters will always be pigs trotters, and there’s no getting around the fact that you are working with a very graphic, often hairy, animal foot. Even in Pierre Koffman’s seminal stuffed trotter dish, it’s still very much that. There is no dressing it up, but looking past all of this allows you to utilise what is in essence a uniquely flavoured and textured cut of pork.
Although the focus will always be on the trotters with a dish like this, my main inspiration for this recipe was actually the swede. The poor old swede has really got the bum deal as a truly unfashionable vegetable, yet it is something which I grew up eating and adore. Combined with the pork and sage as the filling for the pasta, it creates a wonderful, slightly sweet balance of flavour which brings the whole thing together.
As with lots of my cooking, some of the elements are a little on the timely side. When I make these recipes at home, I spread them over a couple of days, leaving only the quick bits and pieces to the day of serving. For this recipe, the trotter and sage filling can be made 3-4 days ahead if necessary, and like the best lasagnes and stews, will most probably benefit from a day in the fridge.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the trotter and swede filling:
6 pigs trotters
4 slices of bacon, chopped into small pieces
3 shallots, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 carrot, chopped
10 sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
1 glass of white wine
1-1.5 litres of chicken stock
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1 swede
1 shallot, finely chopped
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
5 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
10 sage leaves, finely chopped
3 tbsp of grated parmesan
For the sauce:
The braising liquid from the pigs trotters
1 good knob of butter
A squeeze of lemon juice
For the pasta:
300g strong ‘00’ grade pasta flour
3 medium eggs, plus 1 spare
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
To finish:
8 baby leeks
Parmesan for grating on top
First braise the pig’s trotters. Place a large, heavy casserole dish onto a medium-high hob and add a good glug of olive oil. Trim the trotters and singe away any hair, then quickly brown in the hot pan. Once coloured on all sides, transfer to a side plate with some tongs. Add the chopped bacon to the now-empty pan and also caramelise for a couple of minutes, before adding the 3 chopped shallots, carrot, garlic, bay leaf and 10 sprigs of thyme. Fry for another few minutes, then pour in the wine. Allow to boil and reduce by half. Return the trotters to the pan and top up with the chicken stock, until everything is just covered. Bring to the boil again, then lower to a gentle simmer. Partially cover the pan with a lid and cook for 3-4 hours, until the flesh on the trotters is very tender.
When the trotters are ready, allow everything to cool slightly before straining the liquid into a smaller saucepan and setting aside for later. Strip the flesh from the trotters and chop very finely with a knife before transferring to a bowl. Discard the now spent vegetables.
While the trotters are cooking, set the oven to 180⁰C (fan).
Peel the swede and chop into rough chunks about an inch in size. Tip onto an oven dish and coat in a little olive oil and seasoning. Slide into the oven and roast for about 45 minutes, until very tender.
Place a small saucepan onto a medium-low heat and add a little oil. Add the remaining shallot, garlic, thyme and sage to the pan along with a little seasoning, and soften gently for 8-10 minutes. When both the swede and shallot/herbs are cooked, transfer them into a food processor and blend well to form a smooth puree. Scrape the mixture into a large bowl and combine with the cooked and shredded trotters and grated parmesan. Taste and season if necessary with salt and pepper or more parmesan. Cover and set aside.
To make the pasta dough, pour the flour into a large bowl and use a wooden spoon to create a well in the middle. Break the eggs into the well and add the olive oil and a large pinch of salt. Use a fork to whisk the eggs, gently incorporating the flour at the same time. When a dough is formed, tip it out onto a board and knead really well for about 10 minutes. Wrap the dough with cling film and allow to rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
When the dough has rested, use a pasta machine to roll it into a sheet at the thinnest setting. Crack the spare egg into a small bowl and whisk well. Using a large circular-cutter about 3” in diameter, cut circles of pasta and top with a small tablespoon of filling in the centre. Lightly brush one edge with the beaten egg, then take the pasta in your hands and fold into a semi-circle, sealing the pasta around the filling and expelling any air bubbles. Repeat until 24 agnolotti have been made. Cover with a clean tea towel and set aside.
To make the sauce, set the saucepan containing the leftover braising liquid onto a high heat. Bring to the boil, and allow to reduce by half-two-thirds, until it turns into a thick and concentrated sauce that coats the back of a spoon. Remove from the heat and whisk in both the lemon juice and butter.
For the leeks, place a heavy griddle or frying pan onto a high heat. Toss the leeks in a little oil, then place onto the hot pan, cooking for a few minutes on each side until lightly charred and cooked through.
Bring a large saucepan of well-salted water to the boil. When the water is rolling, add the agnolotti and cook for 3 minutes. While the pasta is cooking, pour a ladle or two of sauce into a large frying pan and warm through. When cooked, use a slotted spoon to transfer the pasta into the warm sauce, gently turning to glaze all sides.
To plate up, arrange two leeks onto each plate along with six agnolotti. Spoon over a little more warm sauce and finally grate a generous amount of parmesan on top.
My body is screaming for salad. Greens, vegetables, fruit, it wants them all. After the gluttony of Christmas, all piled high with cheese and butter and meat, something had to give. And today I turned that corner. After waking early to trudge into town to perform that compulsory festive hangover of returns desks and form writing, I decided that a soothing lunch was in order. I hate all of the sheer rubbish written about January diets, detox and ‘cleasing’. I think that it promotes an ultimately unhealthy, unbalanced and most importantly unhappy approach to food. For me eating is all about a balance that should apply to any time of the year, and certainly nothing that is liable to turn my breakfast, lunch or dinner into a passive-aggressive guiltfest. I was happy to eat that mountain of food over Christmas, but greens were definitely on my mind today.
I made a short detour to the wonderful greengrocers up at Newington Green. It’s sad that I hardly shop there having moved further east, but it’s always an absolute dream whenever I get the chance. On this occasion it truly didn’t disappoint. Today the shelves were heaving with great tangles of Italian puntarelle, beautiful, tightly-closed baby artichokes and unwaxed lemons. I didn’t have a particular recipe in my head, but I knew that I wouldn’t go far wrong somewhere along those lines.
Those ingredients alone would have made a fresh and vibrant salad, but I guess that I’m not quite ready to give up on Christmas just yet. To compromise, I roasted up a plump and fatty duck breast, until the skin was brulee-crisp and the flesh blushing pink. Thin slices formed the base, freshened up with a pile of sharply-dressed onions, artichoke and puntarelle and bound together with a punchy, anchovy-heavy green sauce. It’s simple cookery, but highly satisfying and damn tasty.
I’m determined to be more vegetable-focussed in the coming months, and although I have a steak recipe coming up on the blog shortly, I am hoping that it is a last-hurrah for a little while. Not to say that I won’t be eating and using meat and fish in my cookery, but they certainly will be on level terms with everything else on the plate.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
1 large duck breast
1 red onion, cut into thin wedges
1 glass of dry white wine
1 lemon
For the artichokes:
2 baby artichokes
1 small red onion
1 lemon
For the puntarelle:
A small bunch of puntarelle, trimmed, washed and dried
A squeeze of lemon juice
For the green sauce:
1 bunch of parsley
1/3 of a bunch of mint
5 salted anchovies
1 tsp capers
4 thick slices of ciabatta, crusts removed
1 lemon, zest and juice
1 clove of smoked garlic, grated
Extra virgin olive oil
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C fan.
Remove the duck from the fridge and allow to come to room temperature.
Prepare the baby artichokes. Squeeze the juice from the lemon into a bowl and combine with 1 tbsp of olive oil and a little seasoning. Peel the tough outer leaves from the artichokes, then trim about 2/3rds of an inch away from the top. Use a vegetable peeler to peel the stems. Using a sharp knife, thinly slice the hearts and stems, transferring them straight into the lemony oil. Trim the red onion and thinly slice, then toss with the artichokes. Leave to lightly pickle for about an hour, tossing every now and then so that everything remains coated in the dressing.
To make the green sauce, put all ingredients apart from the oil into a food processor and season well. Blend to finely combine, then with the motor still running, trickle in the olive oil. Pour in enough to bring the ingredients together into a thick sauce that just about holds shape. Taste and season if necessary.
Season the duck breast all over, then place skin-side-down into a cold pan. Bring to a medium-high temperature, gently rendering down the fat until it is crispy and golden brown, about 10 minutes. Seal the other side quickly for a few seconds, then transfer to an oven tray and roast for 6-8 minutes. Remove the cooked duck from the oven and rest for about 10 minutes, then slice thinly.
While the duck is roasting, add the onion wedges to the now empty pan. Pour in the wine and lemon juice, adding the squeezed lemons also. Turn the heat down to medium; the juices should have deglazed the pan and reduced down. Cook for about 5 minutes, until the onions have softened. Allow the pan to cool slightly, then remove the onions and stir 2 tablespoons of olive oil into the pan juices.
Dress the puntarelle with the slightly-cooled pan dressing and a little seasoning.
To plate up, arrange sliced of the duck onto each plate and add a dollop of the green sauce. Arrange the onions and artichokes on top along with some puntarelle stems. Finally finish with a spoonful of the pan dressing.
When I look back on the food that I have cooked and eaten this year, one ingredient jumps out more than any other. Chickpeas. A strange discovery really, as previously I haven’t had all that much time for the poor pulse. Houmous aside, I’ve always found them a little bland and boring, always terribly under-seasoned with a strange, soft-yet-crunchy texture. The dusty 3-year old tin in the cupboard was never in any danger of being opened. But something changed, the world tipped upside-down, and suddenly they are an integral part of my cooking.
I feel like most food disliked as a child goes through this process. It will always be avoided and ardently hated until that revelation moment, when tasted in adulthood, and it dawns that it really isn’t all that bad, and sometimes, just perhaps, it might even be nice. I went through the same with avocados, and Katie still holds the fact that I now really like them as one of her greatest victories. With chickpeas, the revelation happened around January time. I’d been reading a lot of Ottolenghi recipes, and had noted how he advised cooking them very gently, for long periods of time (sometimes 5 hours), to achieve a brilliant taste and texture. I then cooked a recipe where I experimented with slowly warming chickpeas in oil, almost like a confit, and the results were truly delicious. My mind was blown open to this new ingredient. I nearly ate about 3 tin’s worth.
From that point, I have used and enjoyed chickpeas a huge amount. Cooked and flavoured properly, they add a joyful comfort to pretty much any savoury dish; from bulking out warming stews to garnishing delicate cured fish. One of my favourite restaurant dishes this year was charred, smokey duck hearts balanced across a dollop of pureed chickpeas at the excellent Brawn. It was such a simple, yet complete plate of food, all brought together with, well you’ve guessed it…
Ok, enough of this chickpea love-in.
I do love a good kitchen tip, some small thing learned or discovered that makes a lot of difference. Most recently, this has been the brief salting of white fish prior to cooking. I was always brought up taught to season my fish only at the very last minute, for fear of dry results and a ruined meal. However, after seeing a chef doing it on the telly a few months ago, I gave it a go, and it really works a treat. Thick fillets of fish like cod, haddock or pollock are sometimes prone to holding huge amounts of moisture, giving the flesh a very mushy, flavourless texture. By lightly salting the fillets all over for just 10 minutes, this moisture is released before cooking; the flesh is firmer and deeper in flavour.
Despite looking a little complicated, the dish below is surprisingly simple. The cod and chickpeas are light and refreshing, perfect at this time of year when every other meal seems to include chocolate or cheese.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the cod:
2 cod fillets
1 good knob of butter
For the chickpeas
400g soaked or tinned chickpeas
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 sprig of rosemary
1 lemon, zest and juice
Olive oil
For the razor clams:
10 live razor clams
A splash of dry white wine
For the herb oil:
1 small bunch of parsley
2 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked
200ml extra virgin olive oil
The cooking liquid from the razor clams
1 lemon, juice only
For the sprout flowers:
6 sprout flowers, trimmed
4 slices of coppa
Start making the herb oil the day before serving. Put the parsley and rosemary leaves into a food processor with a pinch of seasoning and the olive oil. Blitz until the herbs are really finely chopped and everything is well combined. Tip the green mixture into a bowl, cover with cling film and refrigerate overnight. The next day, strain the oil through a fine sieve into a clean bowl; the resulting liquid should be a vibrant green.
To cook the chickpeas, drain them well and tip into a saucepan, Add the garlic, rosemary and lemon zest and cover with olive oil. Cook very gently, without allowing to simmer, for about 40 minutes, until the chickpeas are extremely tender. Season well with salt and pepper. Using a slotted spoon, transfer about two-thirds of the chickpeas to a food processor. Add a couple of tablespoons of the cooking oil and the juice from the lemon, then blend well, adding more oil if necessary to achieve a smooth puree. Taste and season if necessary. Keep both whole and pureed chickpeas warm white you finish the dish.
Pour a little olive oil into a frying pan and bring to a medium temperature. Fry the coppa and the sprout flowers together for about 5-6 minutes, until the meat is crispy and the sprout flowers are al-dente. Drain the coppa on some kitchen roll and tear into small pieces.
Take the cod fillets out of the fridge and sprinkle a little salt on all sides. Allow to stand on a plate for 10-15 minutes, then pat dry with kitchen paper.
Heat up a large saucepan until very hot. Tip in the razor clams and pour over the white wine. Cover the pan with a tightly-fitting lid and cook for about 2 minutes, until the razor clams have just opened. Remove the razor clams from the pan and shell the meat, then slice thinly on an angle. Allow the cooking liquid to cool slightly, then add 1-2 tbsp of it to the herb oil, along with a squeeze of lemon juice. Taste and season if needed.
Pour a generous glug of olive oil into a non-stick frying pan and bring to a medium-high heat. Season the cod on all sides, then place skin-side down into the pan. Cook for 4-6 minutes through the skin depending on the thickness of the piece, then carefully turn over. Add the butter to the pan and use a spoon to baste the fish well. Cook on the flesh-side for 1-2 minutes then remove from the pan.
To serve, arrange the cod to one side of the plate and spoon or pipe a good dollop of the chickpea puree alongside. Scatter a couple of tablespoons of the chickpeas and the sprout flowers around. Arrange the razor clam and coppa slices into one half of a razor clam shell and position opposite the cod. Finally finish with a good amount of the herb and razor clam dressing.
