Christmas is not one, but many meals. What is more, it seems to start earlier every year. Let’s begin the celebrations with a collection of recipes suitable for bringing a festive feel to any meal in the run-up to Christmas. Some of them are perfect for the day itself, a huge game and sausage meat pie, for instance, or a butternut and brussels sprout custard for those who don’t want to eat meat. Others are suitable as accompaniments or principal dishes. I have also suggested a big winter salad and an ice cream terrine that tastes of the essence of Christmas.

Potato and feta pancakes

I suggest these shredded vegetable patties as an accompaniment to the pie or custards below, but they will also work as a main course, or as a side order for cold turkey or ham.

Makes 6, serves 2-3
potatoes 250g
carrots 150g
olive oil 6 tbsp
eggs 2
feta 200g
dill 3 tbsp, chopped

Peel the potatoes and carrots and coarsely grate them. If using a food processor, use the coarse grating disc as you would for remoulade. Warm 3 tablespoons of the olive oil in a frying pan, add the grated vegetables and cook for 6-8 minutes until they have started to soften.

Beat the eggs lightly with a fork, just enough to mix yolks and whites then tip in the softened vegetables. Crumble the feta cheese into the mixture then add the chopped dill and black pepper.

Warm another 3 tablespoons of oil in the frying pan, then divide the mixture into 6 patties about the diameter of a digestive biscuit. Press them flat with a palette knife or the bowl of a spoon, then let them fry till pale gold. Turn each one over carefully and brown the other side. Remove with a palette knife or fish slice, drain briefly on kitchen paper then serve.

Green winter salad

Crisp, green and light, this leaf salad could be served after the pie below. I have kept it raw and simple, but you could also add salted almonds, a little goat’s or sheep’s cheese, or maybe some crisply fried bacon or pancetta.

Serves 4-6
brussels sprouts 200g
watercress 100g
little gem lettuce 1
young kale 2 large handfuls
young chard leaves a small bunch
avocado 1
sprouted seeds such as radish, beetroot or amaranth a handful

For the dressing
natural yogurt 6 tbsp
olive oil 6 tbsp
basil leaves 10g

Trim the base of each brussels sprout, remove the leaves layer by layer as far as you can. Cut the hearts in half and put them and the leaves in a large bowl.

Wash the watercress, remove the toughest stems and add the leaves and thin stalks to the sprouts. Halve the little gem lettuce lengthways, then trim the stalk and separate the leaves. Finely shred the kale leaves. Toss together the brussels sprouts, watercress, lettuce and kale and the young chard leaves.

Make the dressing: mix the natural yogurt and olive oil together with a small whisk or fork, then add the basil leaves, finely shredded, and season with salt and ground black pepper. Halve, stone and peel the avocado then cut the flesh into thick slices.

Transfer the leaves to a salad bowl, tuck the slices of avocado gently among the leaves, add any sprouting seeds you may like, then trickle over the dressing and toss gently before serving.

Pork and partridge pie

A sort of festive sausage roll, served as a generously filled pie with pieces of partridge (or, if you prefer, pigeon) breast tucked among the seasoned stuffing. To get a crisp bottom, make the pie on the removable base of a steel tart tin and bake on a preheated baking sheet. The bones from the little birds can be browned and simmered with bay and onion, then used as a stock with their leg meat and some pearl barley or small pasta such as orzo added to make a light but sustaining broth. The pie is good cold, too.

You will need a loose 24cm round tart tin base on which to cook the pie.

Serves 6
partridges 3
bay leaves 3
onion 1 small
red onions 2
carrots 3 medium
celery 2 ribs
olive oil 6 tbsp
butter 20g
smoked streaky bacon 8 rashers
thyme 8 sprigs
rosemary 2 busy sprigs
garlic 2 cloves
herby butcher’s sausages 8
ground allspice ½ tsp
ground cinnamon ½ tsp
ground mace ½ tsp
puff pastry 500g
eggs 2

For the sauce
clementine or small orange 1
dried cranberries 50g
dry marsala 150ml
redcurrant jelly 4 tbsp

Put the partridges into a deep saucepan then pour over enough cold water to cover the birds. Bring to the boil with the bay leaves and the small onion. Lower the heat to a simmer, cover with a lid, and let the partridges cook for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel and finely dice the red onions, finely chop the carrots and cut the celery into small slices. Warm the olive oil and butter in a large, deep pan, stir in the onion, carrot and celery and cook for 5 minutes until the onion is translucent. Roughly chop the bacon and stir into the vegetables. Pull the leaves from the thyme sprigs and the needles from the rosemary. Chop the rosemary finely. Peel and finely crush the garlic then stir, together with the herbs, into the vegetables.

Remove the skins from the sausages then put the sausage meat into a large mixing bowl. Add the ground allspice, cinnamon and mace and season with salt and black pepper.

Remove the birds from their cooking liquor, let them cool briefly then remove the breast meat from the bones. It should come away easily. If not, slice it off the bones with a kitchen knife. Retain the remaining meat, bones and cooking liquor for stock.

Stir the softened onion and bacon mixture into the seasoned sausage meat, mixing thoroughly. I tend to use my hands here.

Cut off one third of the puff pastry and roll it to fit the base of a round 24cm tart tin with a little extra overlapping the edge. You can trim this later. Pile half the sausage and herb stuffing on top of the pastry, leaving 2cm or so of bare pastry round the edge. Smooth the surface level then place the 6 partridge breasts on top then add the remaining mixture, smoothing the top into a dome.

Roll out the second piece of puff pastry to fit generously over the meat. Beat the eggs in a small bowl then brush the edge of the bottom layer of pastry generously. Lower the second piece over the top then trim any overhanging pastry with a knife. Press firmly and pinch the edges to seal. Brush with beaten egg.

Use pastry trimmings to make leaves or holly berries with which to decorate your pie then press them into place. Brush with more beaten egg and rest the pie in the fridge for 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6, placing a baking sheet in the oven to get hot. Carefully put the chilled pie, on its tart-tin base, on top of the hot baking sheet and bake for about 50 minutes till golden. Let the pie rest for 10 minutes before serving.

While the pie bakes, prepare the sauce. Cut the clementine in half and squeeze the juice into a saucepan. Remove and discard the flesh then cut the peel into very fine strips, as thin as you can. Add these to juice, then stir in the cranberries, marsala and jelly. Bring to the boil, immediately lower the heat then serve with the rested pie.

Brussels and butternut custards

You could use this squash bejewelled custard as a filling for a warm tart.

Makes 4
butternut squash 500g (peeled weight)
olive oil 3 tbsp
dried chilli flakes 2 tsp
brussels sprouts 200g
eggs 3
double cream 250ml
rosemary finely chopped, 1 tbsp
parsley finely chopped, 2 tbsp
butter a little for the ramekins

You will need four ramekins or small, ovenproof dishes approximately 9cm x 4-5cm deep.

Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Cut the butternut into discs about 2cm in thickness, then cut each disc into quarters or sixths. Put the butternut pieces into a mixing bowl, pour in the olive oil then add the chilli flakes and a little salt and toss together gently, evenly coating the squash. Put the squash on a baking sheet in a single layer and bake for 30 minutes until pale golden brown and tender.

Meanwhile, cut the brussels in half and cook them for a couple of minutes in deep, boiling, lightly salted water until they are approaching tenderness. Drain and refresh in iced water. Break the eggs into a medium mixing bowl, pour in the cream and combine, then stir in the chopped rosemary and parsley and a little seasoning. Lightly butter the inside of the ramekins and place them on a baking sheet.

Divide the squash and drained brussels between the ramekins, then pour in the herb-flecked custard. Bake for 20-25 minutes till the custard is lightly set at the edges, a little wobbly in the centre.

Maple syrup and fig ice-cream terrine

If you have an ice-cream machine, churn the custard, syrup and yogurt mixture first, then stir in the chopped fig and chocolate at the end. To prevent the custard from curdling, keep the heat low and as it starts to thicken remove from the heat, pour into a chilled bowl over ice or in a sink of cold water and beat firmly and continuously until most of the steam has gone and the custard is smooth.

Serves 6
egg yolks 4
caster sugar 2 tbsp
double cream 450ml
vanilla extract a few drops
maple syrup 240ml
figs 3
dark chocolate 100g
thick, strained yogurt 200g
extra figs and physalis to serve

Put the egg yolks and caster sugar in the bowl of a food mixer and whisk till light and fluffy. Warm the double cream in a saucepan, switching the heat off just before it comes to the boil, then stir in the vanilla. Pour the warm cream onto the eggs and sugar and stir to mix. Rinse the saucepan then pour in the egg and cream mixture and return to a low to moderate heat. Warm the custard, stirring regularly, until it starts to thicken slightly on the spoon then pour into a cold bowl over ice or in a sink of cold water and stir or beat with a whisk to remove some of the heat. Leave to cool a little.

Pour in the maple syrup and combine. Chop the figs into small pieces, crushing them slightly as you go, then chop the dark chocolate into small thin shards with a large knife. Stir the yogurt, chopped figs and chocolate pieces into the custard then tip into a plastic freezer box and freeze for a good 4 hours or overnight. Turn the ice-cream out, then cut into large chunks and pile onto a chilled serving plate, perhaps with a few physalis and more slices of fig.

I moved around a lot as a kid and, oddly, the meal that most signifies home for me was eaten not at my house, but at my nan’s, in Fishponds, Bristol. It brings back feelings of warmth, love and belonging, but it’s extra-significant. I can clearly remember thinking about it when I wasn’t there, calling it to mind, re-experiencing and appreciating it. I analysed it, I considered it, even though I was about six. It was the start of a love affair with food that continues to this day.

We went to Nan’s on Saturday, and in the evening I’d change into my prized Bri-Nylon Man from Uncle pyjamas before tea and Doctor Who. I sat on the floor, with my back leaning on the rough uncut moquette of a wing chair, and stared, rapt, at the teak-effect box on which … well, let’s just say one of the earlier Doctors battled unconvincing aliens. I’ve never bought into the fond collective delusion about hiding behind the sofa: the monsters were always crap. That was the point.

Tea came on a tray, on thick china, and comprised a mound of mushed marrowfat peas, three slices of corned beef and a towering berg of handmade chips.

I have to put this into context here. Mum was of a generation that thought serving chips was akin to feeding your child sticks of carby lard-death. Dad, an insurance loss adjuster, spent too much of his life in the kitchens of tiny semis like Nan’s: the handsome, washable vinyl wallpaper seared from the walls by exploding chip pans, polystyrene ceiling tiles melted into smutty stalactites by a dripping-fuelled fireball. Mum and Dad were “modern”, and quietly disapproved. Nan, though, small, fragrant and doughty, had grown up in a chip shop on the rough edge of Bristol and knew that there was no faster way to a small boy’s heart than a lovingly prepared chip.

Corned beef and chips with mushy peas

1 box dried marrowfat peas
White pepper
Maris piper potatoes
Oil for deep frying
1 tin corned beef
Worcestershire sauce

1 Soak the dried marrowfat peas overnight, not forgetting to add the large pellet of “bicarb” that comes in the box. This, apparently, helps to maintain colour and softens the skins, but I suspect it just adds the delicious taste of bicarb. Drain the peas, add fresh water and cook slowly until all structural integrity is lost. Ground white pepper is the only additional flavouring required. You can, apparently, buy marrowfat peas in a tin, but only if you don’t love your grandson very much at all.

2 Hand-cut the potatoes into chips. Nan’s were mathematically regular at around 8mm square, but you can go thicker or thinner to taste.

3 Don’t rinse the chips but lay them out on a clean tea towel to dry. You can speed this process up by putting the chips on a tray in the fridge, but I’m not sure Nan would have had much time for that idea.

4 Heat the oil in your fryer to 140C/ 275F. You can check this with a probe thermometer or by dropping a chip in to see whether it bubbles and floats up. Nan checked the temperature by looking at the oil sternly. I still believe it adjusted itself under her gaze. Fry the chips for around 8 minutes or until they have a blond, bubbly skin. Remove and drain thoroughly.

5 Remove the tin of corned beef from the fridge and ply the “key” provided. It is absolutely vital that the corned beef remains cold. Warm runny fat is unappetising to grandsons.

6 Raise the temperature of the oil to 165C/330F and refry the chips for 4 minutes or until browned and gorgeous.

7 To plate, lay out three 5mm slices of corned beef, fanned out but not touching anything else that might be hot (see #5 above). Stack the chips until they look like they might fall over the edge. Fill any disheartening white space with mushy peas. Ketchup was for other children. Nan’s chips should always be served with Worcestershire sauce. Lea & Perrins was the preference in Bristol but I can entirely understand loyalty to Henderson’s further north.

• Tim Hayward is a food writer, journalist and broadcaster and the owner of the Cambridge bakery Fitzbillies TimHayward.com, fitzbillies.com, @timhayward
  

This morning as I walked into the kitchen I was met by the smell of just-after-Christmas. Despite the cold, the scent from the bowl of mandarins in the middle of the table conjured up my parents’ hallway in late December. The memory was only a flash, but it stopped me in my anti-slide sock tracks. It was all there: a house full of family, the weary tree hitting the ceiling and under it, among the dry needles and great tangle of fairy-light wires, a crate half-full of orange fruit. Is it because food is destined for our stomach that memories stir there?

The word nostalgia is a compound of two Greek words: nóstos (homecoming) and álgos (ache). At 7 o’clock this morning I felt both: an unusual thing for me. I put the oven on for heat and toast, and a pot of coffee, then sat in the nostalgia. As the kitchen warmed, the smell got stronger. Such power from a bowl of fruit! It was then I realised it wasn’t the bowl of fruit at all, but a heap of yesterday’s mandarin peelings in the rubbish bin, which was warming up next to the oven. But this discovery didn’t rubbish everything; it amused me. It put things nicely in persective, and the kitchen still smelled lovely.

We were away for only 12 days, but in that time Rome has descended into a chilly vortex. Our communal heating has failed to clunk back on, which is the reason we are wearing many layers and why the suitcases are still unpacked, lying there like great open mouths, spewing clothes. I haven’t unpacked in the kitchen either, in the sense that I am not really back in a cooking rhythm, despite the fact it is my job to be. I was meant to be writing about poached fish “in crazy water” as the Italians have it, but that will have to wait. For now, we are on running on any reassuring basic that will provide heat: soup, beans with pasta, and, tonight, frittata.

You don’t need telling how to make the fat, open-faced egg dish Italians call frittata. As Pelegrino Artusi says in his introduction to Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Cooking Well, who doesn’t know how to make a frittata? But even the simplest things – or perhaps especially the simplest things – deserve to be well made. A frittata should be tender and well seasoned, the eggs should be beaten lightly, it should be cooked in good fat – olive oil or butter (or both) – and in the shortest time possible. On one side only.

Non girare la frittata – don’t flip the frittata – is a phrase I am familiar with. It is not just cooking advice: in Italy, to flip the frittata means to change your tune, and apparently I am an expert at doing so. Against the advice of some, I also flip my real frittatas. The reasoning behind not flipping, simply inverting on to a plate, is that the fritatta remains tender, like the heart of a good omelette I suppose. My mother-in-law is a firm believer in this theory, although she does appreciate my way of doing things, too. Like most people, she agrees a flip, then brief cooking on the second side, gives a lovely golden coat without compromising tenderness too much. Finishing in the oven is another option that avoids plate acrobatics, and it is neater, but the result is on the sturdy side.

I was stuck in my ways with frittata – pea and potato, gangly wild asparagus my eccentric neighbour finds for me, ricotta and mint – until I read a recipe for pumpkin frittata in Katie Parla’s fine book about Roman food. For a moment I felt like my grandma when we told her our childhood discoveries: “Well I never.” I now know what you already knew: that pumpkin in fritatta is delicious. It is a dish traditional to Roman Sephardic Jews, one often made during Rosh Hashanah, when gourds or pumpkins are eaten to ward off evil and bring a trouble-free year.

You want to cook the pumpkins slowly, letting them collapse into a sweetly savoury mess, which is then encased by eggs. Sage – musty, assertive and virile – loves pumpkin, so it works well here. Whether you flip or not, let the frittata rest briefly, then serve in slices with green salad, some cheese and, for afters, mandarin oranges. Don’t forget to put a curl of peel on a radiator, or by the oven. It makes the kitchen smell lovely.

Potato and pumpkin frittata

Serves 4
1 white onion
1 large potato (about 400g)
500g pumpkin or butternut squash
Olive oil
1 tbsp sage, finely chopped
Salt and black pepper
8 eggs
Butter

1 Peel and slice the onion, potato and pumpkin. In a medium-size frying pan with a lid, fry the onion in 4 tbsp of the olive oil.

2 After 2 minutes add the potato and pumpkin. Stir until each slice is glistening, then cover the pan, lower the heat and cook for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. If it looks as if it’s sticking, add a little water. By the end of cooking time the vegetables should be really soft and collapsing.

3 Add the sage, salt and pepper and cook for a minute longer, uncovered.

4 Beat the eggs in a large bowl with salt and pepper. Either pour this over the vegetables or – if you are afraid of the egg sticking or you are using an iron pan – scrape the vegetables into the egg bowl, wipe the pan clean, smear with butter, then pour it all back in the pan, stirring until the eggs begin to cook.

5 Let the frittata cook over a low heat. As the edges start to set, use a spatula to ease them away from the pan sides. Once the frittata is golden underneath – mostly set but with a wobbly top, which takes about 10 minutes – you can either serve as is, or, if you want it crisper, either finish the frittata in the oven, or invert twice on to a plate and put it back briefly in the pan to cook the other side.

• Rachel Roddy is a food writer based in Rome, the author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard) and winner of the André Simon food book award

A rival to the classic toddy: the cloves and lemon bring spice and aroma, the seaweed adds salt. Raise a glass to apple growers. Serves one.

50ml water
2 cloves
1 strip lemon peel
1 thumb-sized piece dried kombu (or 1 pinch dried sea spaghetti seaweed)
2 tsp honey
60ml cider brandy (I use Three-Year Old Somerset Cider Brandy)
2 tsp lemon juice

Gently heat water, cloves, peel and seaweed; before it simmers, take off heat and stir in honey. Put brandy in a warmed glass, top with strained infused water and add lemon juice.

• Jack Adair Bevan is a drinks writer, co-founder of the Ethicurean in Bristol and co-creator of the Collector vermouth.

Named after, if perhaps not created for the 19th-century Russian celebrity count, stroganoff rolls off the tongue as richly as the dish itself. First mentioned in print in 1871, the notion of sautéed beef in a piquant, creamy sauce is much older – but the aristocratic Stroganov seems an appropriate patron saint for what is, after all, a very decadent recipe. It has popped up in British cookery books since the early 1930s, but stroganoff’s heyday, both here and across the pond was the postwar period, when its continental provenance made it the staple of the fashionable dinner-party circuit. And then, as with its comrades chicken kiev, and rum baba, it suddenly fell from grace, relegated to dismal buffets and, shame upon shame, occasionally as a topping for jacket potatoes. How the mighty have fallen.

Put aside the chafing hotplates and step away from the spuds, because stroganoff is a true special occasion dish. And, although it looks like a rather fancy stew, it is actually surprisingly quick to cook. Rich enough to keep you warm, retro enough to make you smile, the revival starts here.

Beef

Traditionally, recipes call for the tail end of fillet, which – though it is indeed the cheaper part of this ruinously expensive cut – still doesn’t work out cheaply. You will also need a friendly butcher, because it is not something you generally find in supermarkets. In my opinion, the problem with all fillet is not price alone; devoid of either texture or flavour, it is just so boring to eat. I decide to experiment with different cuts and find that although something sold as a “medallion steak” (from where unspecified) proves chewy and fibrous, sirloin – though not quite as melt-in-the-mouth as fillet – is acceptably juicy and tender if you are careful not to leave it on too long; according to my testers, it tastes more interesting, too.

Elena Molokhovets, who includes the first recipe for “stroganoff” in the 1871 edition of her book, A Gift to Young Housewives, cubes the steak; Jane Grigson cuts it into strips in her Sainsbury’s collection, Dishes from the Mediterranean (reprinted in the recent Best of Jane Grigson); and, in The Prawn Cocktail Years, Lindsey Bareham and Simon Hopkinson suggest thick slivers. I am with them: cut the beef too thinly and it is easy to overcook it, so err on the side of generosity.

That said, it is difficult for the home cook to achieve any kind of significant browning on slices of meat, and, though no doubt this would not have worried the dish’s creators, to my mind, browning equals flavour. As J Kenji López-Alt writes in Serious Eats: “With so much surface area, strips of steak end up exuding a lot of moisture into the pan as they cook. This moisture drastically reduces the efficiency of cooking (It takes about 500 times as much energy to get one gram of water to evaporate as it does to raise the temperature of that water by one degree F!). Unless you’ve got a jet engine installed in your kitchen, it’s nearly impossible to get a good, deep brown sear on a thin strip of beef without completely overcooking it.” In order to rectify this sad situation, like him, I am going to sear the meat before slicing.

A note in Max Clark and Susan Spaull’s Leiths Meat Bible intrigues me. It says: “If using tougher meat than fillet … the beef must be stewed gently … this alternative method can produce very good results.” Boldly. I have a go with braising steak, simmering it gently in stock for over an hour, only to end up disappointed (probably because said steak is irredeemably old bootish). I suspect, with a little more effort, it is certainly possible to make a delicious slow-cooked stroganoff, but it does not seem quite in the spirit of the original.

Molokhovets marinates the beef in salt and allspice for a couple of hours before cooking, which helps with its somewhat muted flavour, although personally I prefer the nutmeg that Nigella Lawson suggests adding to the dish. Full disclosure: I’m a complete nutmeg fanatic; if you are less keen, you can use allspice, or indeed black pepper.

The vegetables

Molokhovets keeps things very simple by making her stroganoff with beef alone, but most modern recipes include onions and often mushrooms, too. Not only do these two flavours work well here – the onions adding sweetness as a counterpoint to the tangy sauce and the mushrooms giving it a savoury depth – but they help to bulk it out so that the beef goes further. It is important to cook the onions right down, as George and Helen Papashvily recommend in the much-loved Time-Life: Russian Cooking, though, like Bareham and Hopkinson, I would sauté the mushrooms separately so they don’t go, well, mushy.

Recipes tend to recommend white button mushrooms for this dish. I try it with chestnut as well, as I tend to think they have a slightly better flavour. But, like the steak, so long as they are cooked in a hot-enough pan, you can use whatever you have to hand.

The sauce

The biggest area of contention with stroganoff is the nature of the sauce. Molokhovets’s version starts with a flour-and-butter roux, loosened with beef stock and just a little dairy, while Grigson uses nothing but sour cream. My testers found the latter approach a little bland and heavy for their tastes (though as Bareham and Hopkinson observe: “The most important part of the dish is its relentless richness and bland, creamy texture”). Yet it is hard to argue with the fact that cream is fundamentally more satisfying to eat than a flour-thickened sauce. To this end, I will be cutting mine with beef stock, as the Leiths Bible also suggests, to give it a bit more oomph, and a little less fat. Simmering it down slightly, as in The Prawn Cocktail Years recipe, also helps with the flavour.

You could use creme fraiche instead, as per Leiths, but note that it is more calorific than sour cream, and does not seem to bring anything extra to the party.

The flavourings

The first ingredient that sprung to mind when beef stroganoff was mentioned (OK, the third thing, after beef and sour cream) was brandy; it just seemed like one of those classic dinner-party dishes that demands a generous slug of booze. In fact, only the Leiths recipe flames the pan with brandy and, fun as that procedure is, it does not seem to add much to the finished dish.

Instead mustard, often omitted from 20th-century stroganoffs, feels like the rightful occupier of that third-most-important ingredient plinth; it is the principal flavouring in Molokhovets’s version, also used by Grigson and the Papashvilys. A good slug not only gives the dish some much-needed heat, but helps to cut through the richness of the sauce. Molokhovets recommends sareptskaja mustard, which is available from Polish grocers, but fiery English mustard works just as well. Bareham and Hopkinson use paprika to add spice instead, but mustard seems truer to the original recipe, or at least earlier versions of it.

Grigson and Papashvilys add sugar to their sauces, but the natural sweetness of the onions should be enough. The same goes for Bareham and Hopkinson’s lemon juice against the tanginess of sour cream, though clearly if you think it needs a little more sharpness, feel free to squeeze a little in. The Prawn Cocktail Years duo also stir in some chopped dill towards the end of cooking, which is always a temptation for me when it comes to foods from Russia and eastern Europe, though my testers came down firmly against it here, complaining that, when combined with the mustard, it reminded them of the sauce served with salmon. That is definitely not the idea.

This particular dish is traditionally served with crunchy straw potatoes (in its homeland), or rice (here), but is also pretty good with noodles or even mash. Chilled vodka optional.

The perfect beef stroganoff

Serves 4
600g sirloin or fillet steak
Salt
Nutmeg or ground allspice (optional)
50g butter
2 large onions, thinly sliced
2 tbsp oil
300g white or chestnut mushrooms, left whole if small, or cut in halves or quarters
250ml sour cream
1 tbsp sarepska or English mustard
150ml beef stock

Sprinkle the steak with salt and nutmeg or allspice if using (you can substitute black pepper if you prefer) and leave for at least an hour at room temperature.

Half an hour before you want to serve, melt half the butter in a wide pan and cook the onions gently until soft and golden and sweet.

Meanwhile, heat the oil in a frying pan until smoking hot, fry the steak for about 1½ minutes on each side until well browned, then set aside.

Scoop the onions from the pan and set aside. Add the remaining butter to the pan and turn the heat up. Sauté the mushrooms until softened then set aside with the onions.

Put the cream and mustard in the mushroom pan and heat gently until it liquifies. Very gradually whisk the stock into the cream. Add the onions and mushrooms back to the pan. Thickly slice the steak and add back to the pan to simmer gently for 10 minutes. Season to taste.

Beef stroganoff: a welcome blast from the past or a heavy, bland reminder of the bad old days of European cookery? Has anyone got a soft spot for the US versions with tinned soup, or tomatoes? And what do you like to serve it with?

Snapshot: Grandpa, the quiet backbone of the family

This photo shows Grandpa, my sister Lottie, Nanny and me in Devon. Lottie is, as usual, unfazed by the fact that a photograph is being taken and is instead fascinated by a spiky flower that she is poking Grandpa with. I’m on the end. Half smiling for the photo while pretending to be a model posing for my latest shoot. In reality, I think I was just fed up with my sister’s inability to sit still for a picture, no matter where she was or what she was doing. Some may call it a talent.

Behind us is Challaborough Bay and, out of shot, sits Burgh Island – where Agatha Christie set some of her novels and where we would find hidden treasure coins in a derelict hut. In the background is the small caravan site where we spent many idyllic childhood summers with our grandparents – a home away from home.

Grandpa is a keen horticulturalist, a man with an all-round suntan who rarely leaves his beautiful back garden. He tells us stories we have heard countless times before, although we can never quite remember the punchline or understand the joke. He still claims that the major scar on his chest from a heart operation happened when he got the skin caught in a zip. His loud, reassuring Black Country laugh, which hasn’t changed in the 17 years I’ve known him, always cheers us up. I still don’t get Grandpa’s Christmas joke about the man with the three-legged turkeys. (Don’t ask.)

Grandpa was 75 two weeks ago. He is the quiet backbone of the family, loved by his wife, children and grandchildren. His cheery spirit and enthusiastic attitude to everything complement his wisdom and life experience. Grandpa has taught me, and continues to teach me, that if you do what makes you happy, you will go far in life. His success and happiness proves this perfectly.

The only rule Nanny and Grandpa imposed on our caravan holidays was “no sweets before breakfast”, and it is one I still follow religiously.

Grandparents are a gift, and we are very lucky.

Georgina Marple

Playlist: The day I met ‘Uncle’ James Taylor

Sweet Baby James by James Taylor

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies / Rock-a-bye sweet baby James / Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose”

When I was a kid, long car trips were accompanied by the sound of James Taylor on the tape player. His distinct voice – sweet but sharp – echoed through our house; I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know the words to songs such as Sweet Baby James.

The songs formed the soundtrack to my childhood, moments of joy but also utter shame – such as the time when I left the album JT on the dining room table in direct sunlight. A bit too young to understand vinyl, I didn’t realise that this spelled doom for a record. It essentially melted, and, head hanging, I had to confess to my mom.

Fortunately, we had plenty of other James Taylor albums – not to mention those of his brother Livingston and his former wife, Carly Simon – to keep us going. Livingston had a song about the Taylor family, and James’s Sweet Baby James was about his nephew who shared his name. There was a sense of family surrounding James Taylor. It was reinforced by the longstanding presence of his voice and the sound of his guitar at home. It felt like he was a not-so-distant relative.

That’s what I intended to say when, at age 19, I met him. He made a surprise appearance on my college campus, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Afterwards, I stood by the stage, hoping to shake his hand – I was willing to risk being annoying; after all, this could be my one chance to talk to him. When he came out and briefly chatted with us, I blurted out, “You sound like my uncle!”, as if I loved his music because it reminded me of some middle-aged man who played guitar at family gatherings.

He looked amused. “Well, give my regards to your uncle.”

That was, of course, not what I meant. I don’t even technically have an uncle. I was just trying to explain how much his music meant to me. It was weeks before I could listen to him again without cringing – I’d embarrassed myself in front of one of my heroes.

In fact, I’m cringing now, recalling it. But I console myself with the knowledge that he must have met some even more awkward fans in his nearly 50-year career. In the meantime, I’ve decided never to try to talk to Carole King. She’s nothing like my aunt.

Matthew Cantor

We love to eat: Wales Coast Path cake

Ingredients (makes two cakes)
225g butter or margarine
280g granulated sugar
250ml water
450g mixed dried fruit (raisins, sultanas, currants)
110g glace cherries, quartered
2 eggs
450g self-raising flour

Set the oven to 150C/gas mark 2. Put the butter, sugar, water, dried fruit and cherries into a large saucepan. Over a low heat, melt the sugar and butter. Cool slightly. Add the beaten eggs and flour, and mix well.

Put into two large, lined loaf tins. Bake for 1 hour 15 minutes, then check with a skewer to see if they are ready. If not, leave for a further 15 minutes.

Since June 2012, my husband, Steve, and I have been walking the Wales Coast Path with a couple of friends. We started in Chester, and after 83 days, over a large number of trips, have just achieved the 800-mile mark, and have about 75 miles to go to reach Chepstow. We started with day trips, which became two- and three-day trips and then week-long trips as we got further from home. It began as a bit of a joke after we read about the opening of the path, and we had no thought of walking the whole way around Wales, but we became hooked.

Our 800 miles of walking have been fuelled by this excellent boiled fruit cake. It has sustained us through an amazing variety of Anglesey landscapes, the endless ups and downs of the beautiful Llŷn peninsula and Pembrokeshire sections, long sandy beaches and boring road stretches, the frustrating estuaries where we walked for two days up and down and ended up in clear sight of where we started across the estuary, the urban landscapes of south Wales with their fascinating industrial heritage and the unexpected beauty of areas we would never have otherwise visited. The fruit loaf is perfect with our coffee as we hit the mid-morning energy slump.

We hope to finish the path next spring and intend to celebrate on a beach with champagne and, no doubt, a slice of Wales Coast Path cake.

Carolyn Weber

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There is a shop near where I live called Leila’s. It’s a very fine shop, carefully curated so that you always end up buying ingredients that go together. They harmonise. Not long ago, craving cool-climate flavours to match the weather, I bought rye bread, creme fraiche, a smoked mackerel and red onions for pickling.

The shop piles wooden crates in its window, bulging with whatever is in season. I like to think I know my seasons pretty well, but somehow Leila is always one step ahead of me. On this visit, she reminded me it was time for wet walnuts.

Wet walnuts are so fresh that they haven’t dried out yet. They are plump and delicious, and I love sitting around the table shelling them in an attempt to prise out the kernel entirely intact. They are also my favourite walnut to bake with: because they are so fresh they are sweet with a hint of spice. No bitterness at all.

The next best thing is to bake with the first dry walnuts of the year, which is just now. Shell your own!

Now, while I enjoy a classic bake, I am also a fan of re-interpreting the cakes of my childhood. With that in mind, this week I give you a classic French financier (so-called because they are baked in moulds resembling bars of gold) and a luxurious revamping of the Walnut Whip, a British cornershop favourite. I use a walnutty sponge as a base for the marshmallow – of which this recipe makes a little too much. So any that you have left over can be used in a warming cup of hot chocolate while you’re assembling these fiddly little guys.

Coffee, walnut and brown butter financiers with espresso glaze

Makes 12
100g unsalted butter, plus extra
100g walnuts, fresh or dried
100g ground almonds
100g caster sugar
100g icing sugar
50g plain flour
A pinch of salt
4 egg whites
50g espresso or strong coffee

For the glaze
200g golden icing sugar
60g espresso or strong coffee

1 Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4, and grease a financier mould with melted butter.

2 To make the brown butter, melt it in a pan and continue to heat until the milk solids have turned golden. Set aside to cool a little.

3 Grind the walnuts, almonds, caster sugar and icing sugar in a food processor. Add the flour and salt.

4 Add the egg whites and coffee to the dry ingredients, whisking until smooth. Mix in the warm brown butter. Pour evenly into the prepared tins. Bake for 18-20 minutes.

5 To make the glaze, whisk together the golden icing sugar and coffee. Pour over the financiers once they have cooled completely.

Homemade walnut whips (main picture)

Makes 12
For the cake base
50g unsalted butter
50g walnuts, plus extra whole nuts to decorate
50g ground almonds
50g caster sugar
50g icing sugar
25g plain flour
A small pinch of fine salt
2 egg whites
25g espresso or strong coffee

For the marshmallow
1 egg white
50g caster sugar
40ml water
½ tbsp golden syrup
A small pinch of fine salt
½ tbsp vanilla extract

For the milk chocolate ganache
190g milk chocolate
170g cream

1 To make the cakes, follow the method for the financiers recipe. Instead of baking them in financier moulds, use a mini cupcake tray greased with a little melted butter.

2 For the marshmallow, have your electric mixer with the whisk attachment ready. Measure all the ingredients into the metal bowl of the mixer and put over a pan of boiling water (do not let the water touch the bottom of the bowl or it will cook the egg whites).

3 Hand-whisk continuously until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is very warm to the touch. If using a sugar thermometer, whisk continuously for 2 minutes, or until it reads 70-75C – whichever comes first. Transfer the bowl to your electric mixer and whisk quickly until nearly stiff peaks form.

4 Put the mixture in a piping bag with a large round nozzle. Pipe large blobs on to your cooled cakes, or use a spoon.

5 To make the ganache, break the chocolate into small pieces and put in a heatproof bowl. Heat the cream until just bubbling, then pour it over the chocolate. Let it sit for 10 minutes, then stir until smooth. Drizzle over the walnut whips. Top with a walnut. Let them set for 15 minutes before serving.

• Claire Ptak is a pastry chef, author and food stylist and owns Violet Bakery in London. She is the author of the Violet Bakery Cookbook (Square Peg); @violetcakeslondon

The recipe
Place 4 tbsp of cornflour on a plate. Beat two eggs in shallow dish and tip 100g of crisp coarse breadcrumbs on to a plate.

Drain 400g of chickpeas and tip them into the bowl of a food processor. Add a peeled clove of garlic then process to a smooth, soft paste with 6 tbsp of olive oil. Stir in the juice of a small lemon, 1 tbsp of tahini and a handful of dill.

Wipe 250g of courgettes, slice them in half then into short lengths and then into finger-sized batons. Warm enough groundnut or vegetable oil to deep fry the courgettes then roll them first in the cornflour, then the beaten egg and lastly the crisp breadcrumbs. As the oil becomes hot enough, lower the courgettes, a few a time, into the oil and let them fry for 3 or 4 minutes until crisp outside and soft within. Drain on kitchen paper and serve with the dill hummus. Enough for 2.

The trick
If your oil is too hot, the crumbs will cook before the courgette inside is tender. Test the heat of the oil by using a small cube of bread. If it turns golden within 30 seconds the oil is too hot. Your courgettes need a good 3 or 4 minutes to cook.

The twist
Use a tempura batter instead of breadcrumbs (80g flour and 20g cornflour to 175ml ice-cold water). Serve the hot fritters with a garlic mayonnaise or cucumber tzatziki. Make a beetroot hummus instead, using baked and peeled beetroots in place of half of the chickpeas.

Email Nigel at nigel.slater@observer.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @NigelSlater

I was once invited to Syria to try its celebrated cuisine, but I couldn’t go and have regretted it ever since, particularly now, seeing the terrible devastation inflicted on the country. Thankfully, I can do a tiny bit to help: the #CookForSyria campaign, which Yotam wrote about here last month, is releasing a stellar collection of Syrian-inspired recipes from the UK’s top food writers, to raise funds for Unicef. So, this week, here are two recipes in homage to Syria: a rich mushroom pilaf and a tangy, berry-red granita.

Wild mushroom pilaf with chopped parsley and sumac

Turkish chilli is mild, and has a rich, rounded flavour that comes from being toasted in sunshine. It’s well worth seeking out. Serves four.

250g basmati rice
30g dried porcini
50g butter
3 tbsp olive oil
2 large onions, peeled and thinly sliced
1 cinnamon stick, broken in half
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp allspice berries, ground
100g shelled walnuts, roughly chopped
300g mixed wild mushrooms (or sliced portobello mushrooms)
2 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
½ bunch parsley, leaves picked and roughly chopped
1 lemon
To serve
Greek yoghurt
1-2 tsp sumac
1-2 tsp Turkish chilli flakes

Put the rice in a pan, cover with water, stir and drain. Repeat twice more, by which stage the water should run clear. Cover the rice with water a fourth time and leave to soak (this washing is the secret to great pilaf). Put the porcini in a bowl, cover with boiling water, soak for 15 minutes, until soft, then drain.

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a large, deep pan on a medium-low heat and add a tablespoon of oil. Fry the onions, cinnamon and a few big pinches of salt for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onions are soft and sweet; add the allspice and drained porcini after 15 minutes.

Bring a kettle of water to a boil and drain the rice. Turn up the heat under the onions and, once sizzling, stir in the nuts. Cook for a minute or two, until starting to colour, then stir in the rice and another quarter-teaspoon of salt. Add boiling water to cover the rice by 2.5cm, and stir again.

When the water begins to simmer, top the pan with a tight-fitting lid and leave the rice to cook for five minutes. Turn down the heat to low, cook for six minutes more, then take off the heat and leave the rice, still covered, to rest for 10 minutes. Resist any temptation to take a peek.

Meanwhile, heat the remaining two tablespoons of oil in a large frying pan on a medium-high flame, then fry the fresh mushrooms and garlic for about 10 minutes, turning the mushrooms as they colour, until tender (if your pan is on the small side, you may have to do this in batches). Stir in half the parsley and a teaspoon of lemon juice, and season.

Once the rice has rested, fluff it up with a fork and serve with the fried mushrooms on top and wedges of lemon to squeeze over. Have yoghurt, parsley, sumac and Turkish chilli at the table, to spoon or sprinkle over.

Pomegranate granita with salted sesame snaps

This light, zippy granita is given body by the sweet, salty, nutty biscuits. Serves four.

3 large pomegranates (to yield 475g seeds), or 350ml pomegranate juice
1 tsp vanilla extract
50ml Cointreau (optional)
Zest and juice of ½ small orange
25g caster sugar
40ml water

For the biscuits
100g butter
150g soft brown sugar
2 tsp sesame oil
Sea salt
50g ground almonds
175g flaked almonds
25g sesame seeds

Roll the pomegranates firmly on a worktop, to loosen the seeds. Holding the fruit over a bowl to catch the juice, cut each one open and pull out and discard the white, bitter pith. Tear the fruit into three or four pieces and tease out the seeds into the bowl, picking out any pith as you go. Once you have extracted all the seeds (a great job for children, incidentally), reserve a small handful and whizz the rest in a food processor for a few minutes. Strain into a bowl (you should have about 350ml of juice) and add the vanilla extract, Cointreau (if using), orange zest and juice; discard the spent seeds.

Meanwhile, put the sugar and water into a small pan and simmer, stirring, until the sugar dissolves. Stir into the juice, then pour the lot into a shallow, freezer-proof dish and freeze. After an hour, scrape and loosen the solid bits with a fork, and repeat three more times, until the mix has the texture of rough, flaky snow.

Meanwhile, heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4 and line two oven trays with baking paper. Melt the butter, sugar, sesame oil and a good pinch of sea salt in a large pan until combined and bubbling – don’t let it go too dark – then stir in all the nuts and sesame seeds until coated. Working quickly, spoon six large teaspoons of biscuit mixture on each tray, spacing them a little apart, and gently press down with the back of the spoon to flatten. Sprinkle with a little extra salt, bake for 10 minutes, then remove and leave to cool.

To serve, rough up the granita with a couple of forks, spoon into small bowls, scatter on the reserved pomegranate seeds and serve with the biscuits.

And for the rest of the week…

Excess mushrooms make brilliant fast food: fry in butter with garlic and salt for 15 minutes, then add some sherry or white wine, and a good glug of cream, reduce until the sauce is thick and serve on toast. I sprinkle Turkish chilli liberally on all sorts, particularly fried or baked eggs. Leftover pomegranate seeds taste, and look, gorgeous scattered on yoghurt and in salads.

I know a seven-year-old from Brooklyn who has had an “I ❤ KALE” pendant since she was a toddler (because she sincerely always has loved it), which means kale was a thing at least two years before Beyoncé danced in a Kale sweatshirt in 2014. Which is to say that we are laughably late to the party: how is it that we haven’t we done a kale‑themed swap until now?

I’m glad we don’t have to treat it as a hot new craze, though. For me, it is the Bubba Gump shrimp of the cabbage patch: delicious raw, steamed, braised, roasted, baked and dehydrated to a crisp. It is vitamin- and mineral-rich, as nutritionally reliable as it is environmentally and ethically sound, and flavour-wise it can go with most things, the bolder the better.

Bring on the end of kale as a trendy foodstuff, so we can just enjoy it for what it is: an excellent go-to staple always to have in your veg drawer.

Warm kale and nduja salad

The unexpected delight: I’m not particularly into beer or spicy pork, but, damn, this was good. And it really is down to Melissa Cole’s very specific and particular ingredients. Kale loves both salt and spice, as well as something creamy. This brings it everything.

Serves 2
8 sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil, chopped
Juice of ½ lemon
1 red onion, halved lengthways and peeled, root trimmed but left intact
150g nduja (a kind of Italian spreadable pork and pepper salumi)
2 tbsp sunflower seeds, toasted
125g pre-cooked spelt or mixed grains
1 bottle spicy, but not bitter ale (try Burning Sky Saison à la Provision or similar)
50g goat’s milk yoghurt
500g whole-leaf kale

1 Put two serving bowls and a ramekin in the oven to warm.

2 Mix a little of the oil from the sun-dried tomatoes with the lemon juice to taste, then set aside.

3 Put a dry frying pan on the heat. Slice the onion halves into 2cm-thick wedges. When your pan is hot, add the onions and cook until they start to just blacken. Turn them over, cook the other side and set aside.

4 Wipe your frying pan out with a damp piece of kitchen towel and return to the heat. Take walnut-sized lumps of nduja and fry until they get a light crust on them, then add them to the onions.

5 Wipe out the pan again with some kitchen towel. Add your sunflower seeds, toast lightly on both sides, watching like a hawk or they’ll easily burn. When light gold, pop them in the warmed ramekin.

6 Warm your spelt through in a pan, along with a small splash of beer. Stir in the goat’s milk yoghurt, then add another splash of beer and your kale, stir through the spelt, cover and cook for about 3 minutes.

7 In the meantime, take everything out of the oven. When the kale is cooked to your liking, give the mix a good stir and divide between the warmed bowls. Add your nduja, onions and sun-dried tomatoes, dress with the oil and lemon mix, then toss lightly.

8 Check the seasoning and adjust accordingly, sprinkle with sunflower seeds and serve with the rest of your beer on the side.

Kale and wild mushroom lasagne

The veg duo in Jake Barwood’s bake is a winner, but it was a little too dry for my liking, so I’ve tripled the amount of bechamel and ramped up the cheese and mustard quotients too.

Serves 4-6
8 banana shallots
Salt and black pepper
Olive oil
150g butter
150g plain white flour
1 litre semi-skimmed milk
2 tsp wholegrain mustard
300g mature cheddar, grated, plus more to garnish
4 garlic cloves, chopped
750g assorted wild mushrooms
A drop of balsamic vinegar
A sprinkle of fresh thyme
500g kale, stalks removed, roughly chopped
A pack of lasagne sheets
Breadcrumbs, to garnish

1 Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Peel and cut 4 of the shallots in half lengthways, and put them on a baking tray. Season with salt and black pepper, drizzle with olive oil and bake until softened.

2 Meanwhile, heat the butter in a pan and add the flour. Stir with a spatula until golden, then slowly pour in a third of the milk, stirring all the while to create a smooth white sauce. Add a couple of teaspoons of wholegrain mustard and season well with salt and coarsely ground black pepper. Add enough milk to make a thick bechamel, bring almost to the boil, then simmer until smooth. Stir in the cheddar, then remove from the heat and set aside.

3 Dice the leftover shallots and sweat in a frying pan with the garlic over a medium heat. Roughly chop the mushrooms and add them to the pan. Season with salt and black pepper, then add a touch of balsamic vinegar and some fresh thyme. Cook the mushrooms until golden.

4 Meanwhile, put the kale in a large saucepan and cover with boiling water from the kettle. Put a lid on and leave for 2 minutes to soften. Drain the liquid using a colander, then put the kale back in the pan. Mix in two ladles of bechamel to coat the kale.

5 To assemble, spread a third of the remaining bechamel over the bottom of a deep baking tray, then put half of the mushrooms on top, followed by half of the kale. Level the mix out and cover with a layer of lasagne sheets. Add another third of the bechamel, followed by the remaining mushrooms and kale. Cover with a second layer of pasta, then top with the remaining bechamel and smooth it out. Sprinkle with the extra grated cheddar and the breadcrumbs. Put the cooked shallot halves on top, then bake for 40 minutes, or until it has turned crispy on top.

Kale and chickpea soup with chilli, garlic and ginger

DetoutcoeurLimousin’s bowlful is the perfect winter soup. The aromatics conspire with the kale to make it fresh and light, warm and filling.

Serves 4-6
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tsp fennel seeds
1-2 tsp chilli flakes
3-4 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tbsp grated ginger
200g chopped tomatoes (fresh or tinned)
Zest of ½ lemon
500g cooked/tinned chickpeas (drained weight)
250g kale, shredded
50g orzo pasta (or other small pasta shape)
1 litre vegetable/chicken stock
Salt and black pepper

To serve
Lemon zest
Extra virgin olive oil

1 Heat the oil in a large saucepan, add the fennel seeds, chilli flakes, garlic and ginger, then cook gently for a few minutes until fragrant.

2 Add the chopped tomatoes and the zest of half a lemon, then continue to cook for a few minutes, until the tomatoes have softened.

3 Add the chickpeas, kale and orzo pasta, stir, then pour in your preferred stock. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer until the kale and pasta are cooked. Check for seasoning, adding salt and black pepper to taste.

4 To serve, sprinkle with fresh lemon zest and drizzle with olive oil.

Kale, apple and cheddar flapjacks

Anna Thomson recently ordered 10kg of oats instead of her standard 3kg. Since then, she has been experimenting with flapjacks like never before. This savoury batch is excellent. Apple and strong, salty cheese are two things the lacy leaves will always work with.

Makes 16-20
2 handfuls of kale
½ tsp salt
40ml olive oil, plus 1 tbsp for the marinade
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 tbsp honey
1 small onion, diced
225g oats
1 dessert apple, diced
1 carrot, grated
150g strong cheddar, grated
2 eggs
20g chopped walnuts (optional)

1 Tear the kale off the stems and chop. Put in a bowl with ½ tsp salt, 1 tbsp oil, 1 minced garlic clove and the honey. Massage the kale with the marinade and leave for 15 minutes to wilt.

2 Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Heat the remaining oil in a pan. Gently fry the onion for 5 minutes, or until soft. Turn off the heat, add the marinated kale and all the remaining ingredients, reserving 50g of cheese, and mix well. Season to taste.

3 Press into a prepared baking tin, sprinkle with the remaining cheese and bake for 20-30 minutes, or until golden.

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“Why not?” the fat shopkeeper said, reaching behind him again and taking another Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight from the shelf. He laid it on the counter.

Charlie picked it up and tore off the wrapper... and suddenly... from underneath the wrapper... there came a brilliant flash of gold.

Charlie’s heart stood still.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl

---

After a night of only half sleeping, I awoke on Wednesday, to the news I’d been dreading for months. I really don’t know where we go to from Donald Trump’s victory. I know elections are won and lost all the time all around the world, but this one feels different. Like June’s Brexit vote here, a campaign run on division, on fear, and on hatred of any perceived ‘difference’ has triumphed. I don’t quite know how to process that information.

In the past 36 hours, I have had conversations with friends and family who feel the same; we don’t know what to do, or how to move forward. My darling sister, in Seattle, is a post-doc virologist, with a job in a research laboratory. She is surrounded each day by talented colleagues, who, like her, hail from countries all over the world. Yesterday morning, after the election result (and following a much called for breakfast of peanut butter cookies), she walked into work to find everyone in varying degrees of shock. I imagine it’s the same in many offices, schools, hospitals and businesses in the States. I have no idea how she and her colleagues are soldiering on; I found it near impossible to sit down and write about books today. With everything else that is happening, it feels like it’s just so futile.

The thing is, it’s not. We need books – now especially. We need stories that introduce us to worlds, cultures and ideas outside of our own. We need to feel comforted, and challenged, and inspired. We need to return to familiar favourites, and to seek out work by writers we’re yet to discover, to lose ourselves in the stories they have created. In the weeks and months to come, I want to find more tangible things to do, and ways to move forward in a world I don’t recognise. But for now, I’m going to get lost in my books.

Today, as I looked over my bookshelves, I found myself thinking about the chocolate bar that held the Golden Ticket. The one the changed Charlie’s life forever: one tiny, everyday item, so full of hope and magic. It’s a fussy recipe, but if you have a Saturday afternoon to make some chocolate, it’s such a lovely one. Alternatively, the marshmallow and the salted caramel are great on their own – when I first made this, we squeezed the leftovers from the piping bags over ice-cream and straight onto our fingers, to be greedily licked off.

Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight

Makes 12 bars

Ingredients
600g dark chocolate (70%)
Ganache
100g dark chocolate
200ml double cream
Salted Caramel Sauce
110g caster sugar
45g salted butter (chopped into small pieces)
70ml double cream
1.5tsp flaked sea salt
Marshmallow
2 egg whites
100g caster sugar
2tbsp golden syrup
Pinch salt

Equipment
Small heavy-bottomed saucepan
2 large heatproof bowl
Whisk
Large saucepan
Electric hand whisk
3 disposable piping bags
Spatula
Silicone chocolate mould (I bought mine from eBay - each bar is 1.3cm deep, 10cm long and 4.5cm wide)
Chocolate thermometer
Plastic spoon
Palette knife
Chocolate scraper

1. First, make the ganache. Place the chocolate, in small pieces, in a large heatproof bowl. Bring the cream almost to the boil in a saucepan, then pour over the chocolate. Allow to sit for a minute, then stir with a whisk until the chocolate is melted. Allow to cool for a couple of minutes, then cover with cling film and place in the fridge for an hour.

2. To make the fudge sauce, place the caster sugar in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Melt over a low-medium heat until the sugar has dissolved and the caramel has turned a dark, golden colour. Remove from the heat, whisk in the butter and then the cream. The mixture might separate a bit, but just continue to whisk. Pour into a separate bowl to cool. Add the salt, and stir.

3. Put the marshmallow ingredients in a large heatproof bowl over a pan of barely simmering water. Whisk on a high speed for 5-6 minutes until the marshmallow forms strong peaks.

4. Pull the ganache (which should have solidified) out of the fridge and whisk it on a high speed for a couple of minutes until it is light and aerated. Scoop all three fillings into separate disposable piping bags and set them aside.

5. Next, temper 400g of the chocolate for the shells (if you have moulds for 12 bars - if you only have 6 moulds, as I did, temper half now and half later). Place 270g of this chocolate in the heatproof bowl over a pan of barely simmering water, ensuring that the water doesn’t ever touch the bowl directly. Stir the chocolate while it melts, keeping the heat as low as you can. Once the chocolate has melted, pay close attention to it and remove it from the heat once it has reached 52C. Remove the bowl from the heat and wrap the base in a tea towel to keep it warm. Add the remaining 130g of the chocolate and stir it in. Once melted, continue to stir until the temperature of the chocolate reduces to 32C.

6. Use the plastic spoon to transfer small amounts of the chocolate into each mould, and push it around until it covers the base and sides. Add more if you can still see the light through the chocolate when you hold it up to a window, and pay careful attention to the grooves, corners and sides. Set the chocolate aside on the bench (so long as it’s a cool day and you don’t have the heating on too high) until set.

7. Snip the tip off each piping bag, creating a half centimeter hole. Pipe a layer of the ganache into the each chocolate shell, and smooth with a palette knife. Pipe a strip of fudge sauce down the centre and then pipe a layer of marshmallow over the top. Place in the fridge for 20 minutes to solidify a little. While the bars are in the fridge, temper the rest of the chocolate for the base, using the same method as before. Once the chocolate is tempered, spoon it over the marshmallow layer and, using a chocolate scraper or palette knife, scrape across the top once, ensuring the chocolate has gone right to the corners.

8. Return the bars to the fridge for half an hour, then turn them out. The long bars can be quite fiddly, but take it slow. I had the most success when holding the mould upside down over the edge of a table, and slowly peeling the silicone back.

Wrap the bars in foil and store in the fridge if you’re not eating them immediately - they do melt on a warm day! The gorgeous wrappers here were made by my brilliant friend Anna.

There is so much to love about ricotta. First up, its clean, fresh cloud-like milkiness – many of us think of it as a spring-time thing, but in fact, it works brilliantly as a much needed partner for the roots and roasts and punchier flavours we’ll be eating for the next few months. Next, its versatility – in baking and desserts; to fill ravioli or spoon over warm vegetables. Best of all, though, is that it’s made from something that would otherwise be wasted. The ricotta that you buy in the shops is a byproduct of the cheesemaking process. Whey that has been drained off the cheese curds is reheated to make ricotta – hence its Italian name, which means “recooked”.

My recipe involves gently heating whole milk, then adding vinegar to encourage little curds to form, which are then gathered and strained to form the softest and most gentle of the cheeses. I’ve tried lemon juice, but vinegar somehow produces more ricotta. The quantity of vinegar is key, too little and the curds won’t form properly; too much and the end result will taste like a chip shop. Because this recipe is so simple there is nowhere to hide, so use the best milk that you can afford (the best ricotta I’ve tasted was made in Italy using raw, unpasteurised milk, but that’s not as widely available in the UK).

Some recipes need a certain type of ricotta. The type you can buy in most supermarkets can be very soft, more mascarpone-like in texture than the firmer, strained ricotta I got used to working with when I cooked in Italy. That’s why I started making my own and I’d urge you to try too – it’s not as difficult as you might think. If that’s a step too far though, you can make the recipes below with supermarket ricotta. If you do, then leave it in a sieve to drain excess liquid for a few hours, or ideally overnight, so it’s a little firmer. If you’re lucky enough to live near an Italian deli, most sell a good strained ricotta.

As well as a recipe for homemade ricotta, I have included three of my favourite simple ways to eat it. Aside from these almost any pasta would benefit from a little ricotta stirred through it, any pancake or waffle will sit happily next to a spoonful, and most fruits will team up well with a clean white helping drizzled with a little honey.

Homemade ricotta

How long you hang your ricotta for will depend on how you want to use it. To bake your ricotta whole or to use it to fill pasta you want something firm, so no moisture seeps out during cooking. For other recipes, such as the pasta or the whipped ricotta below, you could get away with a less firm texture, so hanging it for just a few hours would suffice.

Makes about 300g
2 litres whole milk
A pinch of sea salt
40ml distilled white vinegar

1 Pour the milk into a large pan, add a pinch of sea salt and put over a medium heat. Allow the milk to heat up slowly, stirring from time to time.

2 When it is almost coming to the boil – when steam and small bubbles begin to appear on the surface (if you have a kitchen thermometer it should be 82C-85C) – remove from the heat, add the vinegar and stir gently. You will see curds starting to form. Continue to stir for 1 minute or so.

3 Cover with a clean cloth and allow it to sit for a couple of hours. Once the ricotta has rested, line a colander with a large piece of damp muslin and put this over a larger bowl or pan.

4 Spoon the ricotta into the colander and allow it to drain for an hour or so, or overnight depending on your desired firmness (see note above). To test whether the cheese is ready, gently lift the muslin up by the corners and twist lightly – the liquid should be slightly milky in colour. The ricotta is now ready. Transfer to a container, seal and store in the fridge and use within 3 days.

Whipped herb and lemon ricotta

Quick and super-light, this blend of herbs and ricotta is ideal for dipping. I use baby vegetables, but fingers of good toast or crackers would work too.

Serves 4
450g fresh ricotta
Salt and black pepper
1 garlic clove, crushed or grated
2 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 tbsp mint leaves, finely chopped
Finely grated zest of 1 lemon, plus a good squeeze of lemon juice
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus more to serve

To serve
Baby carrots, beetroots and radishes, cut into sticks

1 Put your ricotta into a bowl with a good pinch of salt and pepper, then beat it with a wooden spoon until light and fluffy. You can do this with an electric mixer if you want it really cloud-like.

2 Now stir in the garlic, herbs, zest and olive oil. Taste for balance and adjust the seasoning, if necessary, adding a squeeze of lemon juice and a little more of whatever you think it needs.

3 Serve in the middle of the table with your choice of veg or toast for dipping.

4 Drizzle with some olive oil and serve.

Honey ricotta with baked figs

This is a faintly sweet take on ricotta that could be served as a dessert or a quick lunch, piled on top of toasted bread with some bitter leaves to counter the very slight sweetness.

Serves 4-6
250g ricotta
1 tbsp of runny honey
Seeds from 1 vanilla pod
1 orange, zested, juice reserved
6 figs
50g almonds

1 Preheat your oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Line a baking tray with a sheet of greaseproof paper.

2 Turn the ricotta out of its packet on to the lined tray, then drizzle it with honey. Grate over the orange zest and scatter the vanilla seeds on top.

3 Halve the figs and arrange them around the ricotta. Squeeze over the juice of ½ the orange and a little more honey then put into the oven to bake for 20 minutes.

4 Meanwhile, roughly chop the almonds. Scatter them over the baking tray and roast for the last 5 minutes.

5 Serve straight from the oven in the middle of the table.

Spaghetti with chard, garlic, chilli and ricotta

One of the fastest pastas I know (the sauce is cooked in the time it takes for the pasta to turn al dente) and for my money one of the nicest.

Serves 4
400g spaghetti
Extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, peeled and finely sliced
1–2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped
1 sprig of fresh rosemary, leaves picked
400g chard, rinsed leaves shredded and stalks finely sliced
Grated zest and juice of 1 large unwaxed lemon (plus an extra lemon for juice, if needed)
Salt and black pepper
150g of ricotta
Parmesan or pecorino (optional)

1 Put a large pan of boiling water on to boil and add a couple of generous pinches of salt. Once the water is at a rolling boil, add your pasta and cook according to the packet instructions or until just al dente.

2 Meanwhile, heat a good drizzle of olive oil in a large frying pan and add the garlic, chilli and rosemary. Fry for a minute or so, until the garlic is starting to colour, then add the chard stalks and sizzle for 1-2 minutes. Add the leaves. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 3–4 minutes, or until the leaves have wilted a little.

3 Drain the pasta, reserving a mugful of cooking water. Add a splash of the pasta water to the greens and mix well. Grate over the zest of the lemon and squeeze over the juice. Take off the heat and taste for seasoning. Crumble over the ricotta and stir it though. Serve topped with a drizzle of olive oil and, if you like, a wispy grating of parmesan or pecorino.

• Anna Jones is a chef, writer and author of A Modern Way to Eat and
  A Modern Way to Cook (Fourth Estate); annajones.co.uk; @we_are_food

But as a new dish was served he was silenced. “Incredible!” he told himself. “It is Blinis Demidoff!” He looked round at his fellow-diners. They were all quietly eating their Blinis Demidoff, without any sign of either surprise or approval, as if they had been doing so every day for thirty years.

Babette’s Feast, Isak Dinesen

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I have been obsessed with Babette’s Feast for years. The film first, thanks to repeated Sunday afternoon viewings, and then the tiny, sparsely-written novella. Though small, it is not slight, exploring themes of religion, sacrifice, friendship and pleasure. After 14 years spent living with two puritanical sisters in a Norwegian village, the titular character, a talented chef and refugee from France, wins 10,000 franc in the French lottery. Instead of using the money to return to Paris, she spends it all on a dinner for 12 of the local villagers, who have subsisted on little but fish and soup throughout their lives. The act of feasting together repairs rifts and infuses the small group with love and warmth for each other. It is, in short, a magical meal.

It has long been my plan to do some version of this feast for my 30th birthday, though significant changes would need to be made. The turtle soup that starts the meal would need to become mock turtle soup - and so I would need to get my hands on a calf’s head. The main dish involves dispatching 12 small birds – ortolans – in a particularly awful (and, rightfully, now illegal) manner, so an alternative would be needed. Happily this dish, the blinis, can be served just as it is in the book. At least once, I’d quite like to do the thing properly, and that means proper caviar and vintage Veuve Clicquot - but that would involve more disposable income than I generally have floating around. In the meantime, good herring roe and crisp, dry prosecco make excellent substitutes.

I have only eaten caviar once before in my life. My mum and Granny visited for Christmas in 2014 from Australia, and were here for New Year’s Eve. That night, after a matinee show, we returned to my little London flat to watch films and sit on my couch, and ate an extraordinarily extravagant meal. Granny had scouted London for a pot of good caviar, and served it with soft boiled eggs, tiny boiled potatoes and the best butter she could find. Mum grilled fillet steaks, and made a rich mushroom sauce. We drank champagne, and toasted the beginning of 2015. It was warming, and memorable, and delicious: a magical meal. This year, so much has changed. I’ve moved out of the flat, left the theatre job, and am now writing about food and books. Sadly, mum and Granny won’t be joining me in December. But there is still much to celebrate, and so this year’s NYE caviar is going to come with these blinis.

Blinis Demidoff

Makes around 30 blinis

Ingredients
60g buckwheat flour
60g strong white bread flour
Pinch salt
Pinch sugar
100ml milk
10g fresh yeast (or 3g easy action yeast)*
75g sour cream
1 egg yolk
2 egg whites
30g butter

To serve
Caviar or fish eggs
50g sour cream

Equipment
2 mixing bowls
Whisk
Small saucepan
Spatula
Frying pan
Tea spoons
Egg flip or palette knife

*I love the flavour of fresh yeast here, and am lucky enough to be able to buy it at the supermarket. If you can’t get your hands on any, easy action yeast will work well too.

1. Whisk the flours, salt and sugar together in the mixing bowl. In the saucepan, warm the milk to blood temperature, then stir in the yeast until it dissolves. Whisk in the sour cream, and the egg yolk.

2. Pour the liquid ingredients into the flour and whisk thoroughly to combine. Cover the bowl with a tea towel and put it in a draught-free place to rise for an hour. It will almost double in size.

3. After an hour, beat the egg whites to stiff peaks, and then fold them into the frothy mixture. Cover the bowl with the tea towel again and leave to rise for another hour. It should be very light and full of bubbles - almost like a foam.

4. After it has risen, warm half a tablespoon of the butter in the frying pan. Without stirring the mixture (you want to retain some of those bubbles), drop teaspoons of the batter into the pan. When the top of a blini is covered with bubbles, flip it over. Cook the blinis in batches until all the batter is used up.

Serve each blini warm or at room temperature with a dollop of sour cream and a little spoonful of roe or caviar. They can be warmed through in the oven, but are best fresh, if you can serve them straight away.