Food Daily

The idea of kids’ food or teenage cooking is not a natural one for me. When I was growing up, I simply wanted to eat what my parents were cooking: there just wasn’t the option (or desire) for a separate and bespoke service. It’s only in recent years that I’ve realised how lucky I was to take this togetherness for granted. For many people, feeding children can be complex – traumatic, even – but I’m yet to be convinced that having a kids’ menu in a restaurant, or routinely offering to cook something different, is the way forward.

It’s the same with cooking. If you grow up regarding it as something that only grown-ups do, it’s no wonder so many teenagers come to “proper” cooking really late in life. I find it amazing that we’ll happily teach our teenagers to drive a car before a lot of them know how to work the oven.

I’m not suggesting that, out of the blue, you ask your 16-year-old to whip up a tandoori paste, rub it over a chicken and make Sunday lunch; but for any curry-loving teenager, the possibility should not be dismissed out of hand. Making things yourself – seeing the ingredients, how they are combined, why the end result looks the way it does – helps demystify the cooking process. If you can read, you can cook. And if you can cook, chances are you’ll be more receptive to trying out a much wider range of foods than teenagers are often given credit for.

Tandoori paste

This takes less than 10 minutes to make, and keeps well in the fridge for at least three weeks. These quantities make about 300g paste, so there’ll more than enough to make all three of today’s recipes. It’s easily doubled (or more), if you want to try it out on other things: on cubes of tofu or paneer, say, or root vegetables for roasting. The paste also works well as a curry base: just mix some with plain yoghurt and use as a marinade for cubes of meat or fish before they are grilled.

4 Kashmiri dried red chillies
2 tsp cumin seeds
4 tsp coriander seeds
2 tsp black peppercorns
20 cardamom pods
2 small cinnamon sticks
2 tbsp paprika
2 tbsp tomato paste (40g)
½ tsp ground turmeric
2 tsp mustard powder
1 tsp ground nutmeg
6cm piece fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped
2 large garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
2 tsp honey
60ml vegetable oil
Salt

Put the chillies in a small bowl, cover them with boiling water, set aside for five minutes to rehydrate, then drain.

Put the cumin, coriander, peppercorns, cardamom and cinnamon in a small frying pan on a medium heat, and toast for three to four minutes, until the spices start to brown and go aromatic. Grind to a powder (I use a spice grinder), then tip into a small food processor bowl. Add the rehydrated chillies, 90ml cold water, all the remaining ingredients and a quarter-teaspoon of salt, and work for a couple of minutes, until you have a smooth paste. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Tandoori chicken

Homemade tandoori chicken beats a ready meal any day. Serves four.

150g tandoori paste (see previous recipe)
200g Greek yoghurt
2 tsp lemon juice
Salt
1 chicken (2.2kg)
2 tbsp olive oil
5g small coriander sprigs, stems and leaves, roughly chopped

In a large bowl, mix the paste, yoghurt, lemon juice and three-quarters of a teaspoon of salt. Add the chicken and rub it all over with the mixture, until well coated, then set aside to marinate for at least an hour (or overnight in the fridge, if you’re preparing this in advance).

Heat the oven to 200C/390F/gas mark 6. Put the chicken in an oven tray lined with baking paper – you need a smallish one, so it fits snugly – and brush (or rub) all over with oil. Roast the chicken for 25 minutes, then baste, cover with foil and roast for another 45 minutes, basting twice more. Turn up the heat to 210C/410F/gas mark 6½, remove the foil and roast for a final five minutes.

Remove the chicken from the oven and leave to rest at room temperature for five to 10 minutes. Serve with any pan juices and the coriander sprinkled on top.

Grilled tandoori prawns and pineapple salad

These sweet, spicy prawns and pineapple are gorgeous with the crunchy iceberg lettuce. Make sure you scrape all the cooking juices from the baking tray into the salad, so you get all the flavour. Toast the mustard seeds in a small pan on a medium heat, until they just start to pop. Serves four.

1kg tiger prawns (ie about 20 prawns; defrosted if frozen), peeled but with the tails intact, and deveined
60g tandoori paste (see first recipe)
1 large garlic clove, peeled and crushed
Salt
2 tbsp groundnut oil
½ medium pineapple, peeled, cored and cut into 1cm-thick rounds
2 tbsp lime juice, plus 1 lime, quartered, to serve
½ large iceberg lettuce, cut into 3cm wedges
10g basil leaves
1 tsp mustard seeds, lightly toasted

Put the prawns, two-thirds of the paste, the garlic, a third of a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon of oil in a bowl, mix to coat and put in the fridge to marinate for an hour.

Heat the oven to 200C/390F/gas mark 6. Put a ridged griddle pan on a high heat and ventilate the kitchen. Once the griddle is very hot, grill the pineapple slices in batches for about a minute each, turning them halfway. Once all the fruit is grilled and cool enough to handle, cut each slice into 10 little triangular wedges and put them in a large bowl.

Put the prawns on the griddle and grill for a minute, turning them once halfway, until blackened on both sides. Add the prawns to the pineapple bowl with the remaining tandoori paste and a tablespoon of oil. Toss to coat, then spread out on a medium oven tray lined with baking paper, and roast for five to seven minutes, until the prawns are just cooked through.

Spoon everything into a large bowl – make sure you get every last scrap and all the juices – then add the lime juice, a quarter-teaspoon of salt, the lettuce, basil and mustard seeds, and toss. Spoon on to a large platter (or into individual bowls) and serve at once with the lime wedges.

Tandoori cauliflower wedges

These are gorgeous: serve just as they are as a side, or maybe with plain yoghurt, or turn them into a starter or light meal in their own right by serving with a bowl of rice. Serves four as a side dish.

1 large cauliflower (1kg), leaves left on, first cut in half vertically through the root (so each half stays intact) and then each half cut vertically into 4 thick wedges
50g ghee
50g tandoori paste (see first recipe)
1 small preserved lemon, seeds discarded, flesh and skin finely chopped
1½ tsp honey
Salt
30g flaked almonds, lightly toasted

Heat the grill to its highest setting.

Put the cauliflower in a large bowl. Put the ghee, paste, lemon, honey and half a teaspoon of salt in a small saucepan and put on a high heat. Stir until the ghee melts, then pour over the cauliflower wedges. Mix well (don’t worry if the wedges break up slightly), then arrange on a large oven tray. Put the tray under the grill about 10cm away from the heat source, and cook, turning regularly, for about 25 minutes, until charred all over and cooked through.

Put the charred cauliflower wedges (and any bits and pieces that have broken off) on a large serving plate, scatter over the flaked almonds and serve hot.

• Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi and Nopi in London.

Presently, Cook and Clara went away to get dressed for their own Christmas party downstairs; and then Nana took Posy to bed. After that, although they had supper of cold turkey and meringues, the day was terribly finished...

Ballet Shoes, Noel Streatfeild

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Where I grew up, in Brisbane, Christmas happens in summer. Santa is depicted in board shorts and flip-flops, we sighed wistfully at any mention of snow in carols, and I generally spent at least a portion of the days itself in the pool. More often than not, we feast on prawns and salad, rather than turkey and roast potatoes. But, despite the heat, we always have a Christmas pudding, dotted with silver sixpence pieces my great-grandmother passed down, with custard and brandy butter. I love it, even while sweating profusely. It’s tradition.

In the days surrounding Christmas, at family lunches and dinners with friends, you’re much more likely to find pavlova on our table. In fact, there’s also likely to be one on the table on Christmas Day, for those who don’t fancy a hot pudding. A huge white mound of meringue and cream, covered with kiwi and passionfruit, is about as Christmassy a sight as I can imagine, traditional in its own, Australian way.

The Christmas that Pauline, Petrova and Posy celebrate in Ballet Shoes comes at the end of a busy year - one full of change. They have new classes, new teachers and a gruelling schedule. But they note that, although the day is perhaps more welcome than in preceding years, it isn’t all that different. I find comfort and reassurance in this; those Christmas traditions we carry out every year. So much of it is the same each time - the canapés from Nigella’s Christmas, the same decorations that are placed carefully back on the tree, the films that are watched over and over.

There are, of course, as many traditions as there are families and individuals who celebrate Christmas. In Ballet Shoes, the Fossil girls enjoy a traditional roast dinner, a game of hide-and-seek, and then cold turkey and meringues for supper. I’ll be eating blinis in my pyjamas, watching It’s a Wonderful Life and Skyping with my family in Australia. I’ll also be cooking lunch for the Cotswolds-based family who take me in at Christmas, including an individual pavlova for my Cotswolds brother Tom, who hates “hidden raisins” in desserts. It’s just like every other year - except for the people whose absence will be felt. This Christmas, I’ll be missing my Cotswolds sister Anna, who is working in Brazil, our cousin Mia, in Sweden with her family, and my sister Lucy, who is celebrating with her husband in Seattle. And so I’m going to re-read Ballet Shoes. So far from much of my family, I find the story of these three girls, sisters in everything but blood, an immensely comforting read.

Christmas Pavlova

Serves 4

Ingredients
Pavlova
2 egg whites
110g caster sugar (even better if it is vanilla scented - store your sugar with a couple of split vanilla pods for a few weeks)
1tsp cornflour
1/2tsp cream of tartar
Syrup
1 pomegranate
Up to 50g caster sugar
Topping
1 pomegranate
300ml double cream

Equipment
Greaseproof paper
Pencil
Baking tray
Electric hand whisk or mixer
Spatula
Knife and chopping board
Small saucepan
Potato masher
Fine sieve
Whisk

1. Preheat your oven to 180C. Draw four 10cm circles on a sheet of greaseproof paper, flip it over, and use it to line a baking tray.

2. In a spotlessly clean bowl, beat your egg white to soft peaks. You can do this by hand, but if you have a mixer or electric whisk, now would be the time to employ it. Once at soft peaks, start adding the sugar, a tablespoon at a time. Beat on a high speed for another three minutes until the meringue is smooth, glossy and stiff.

3. Take a pinch of the meringue between your fingers and rub it. If you can still feel the grains of sugar, beat it a bit longer - the undissolved sugar will make your pavlovas weep in the oven. Once the sugar is completely dissolved, sprinkle the cornflour and cream of tartar over the meringue and gently fold it in.

4. Divide the meringue evenly between the four traced circles, and create a slight indent in the middle of each one, where the filling will sit. Transfer the tray to the oven, immediately reduce the temperature to 140C and bake for 50 minutes. When the pavlovas are crisp on top, turn the oven off, leave the door ajar and allow them to cool completely.

5. While the pavlovas are baking, prepare the syrup. Put the seeds of the pomegranate into the saucepan and place over a low heat. Mash them until they release their juice, and then push them through the fine sieve, until you’re left with only pulp and seeds. Weigh this juice, and return it to the saucepan, along with the same weight of sugar. Place back over a low heat, bring to the boil and allow to cool.

6. Release the seeds from the second pomegranate. Whisk the cream to soft peaks. Serve each pavlova with some cream, pomegranate seeds, and a drizzle of the syrup.

On landing in Bangkok last year, restaurant manager Luke and I went straight to Khua Kling Pak Sod, tucked away on Thonglor Soi 5. Usually packed, this restaurant serves what’s described as authentic southern-style Thai food: that means spicy as hell and heavier on the coconut cream than the sour, pungent dishes from further north, which we touched upon last week.

We’re feeling intrepid as we order, which the waiter clearly notices, cocking his head as we choose the dishes.

First to arrive is the namesake khua kling, a dry pork-mince curry that’s fried hard in a hot wok with a type of small red chilli called prik kee noo suan. From a family of chillies that translates as “mouse-shit chillies” or, specifically in this case, “rat’s turd”, they have an, err, knobbled appearance – small and relatively innocent-looking. They could pass for the more typical Thai bird’s-eye varieties, but the small plate of curry in front of us is fiercely hot. For us farangs (foreigners) dumped here via the flavour vacuum that is long-haul air travel, this is a potentially lethal dosage.

As I eyeball the nuclear hum that the khua kling emits, Luke dives straight in and scoops up a mouthful: whole chillies, stalks and all. Well, we’re in this together now, I think, following his lead. It’s spicy – sharp and laser-like – but that doesn’t stop us going back for more. That’s the thing with smaller fresh chillies – they burn bright for a short time, then you want more. Combined with the sweetness of palm sugar and rich umami of fermented shrimp, the dish’s heat is balanced. Nonetheless, when a bowl of coconut soup – bai leang tom kati – arrives, we are extremely thankful. It’s a fragrant antidote to the heat but also, we notice, something that tastes all the better for being eaten with a hot dish. The “rat’s turd” awakened our mouths to every single herbal, salty detail in the neighbouring dishes. Chilli heat lifts other flavours around it.

The chillies described here are prized for being hot, but that is just the start of the story. In the world of small, hot chillies, you have green (white-peppery) and red (fruity) bird’s-eyes, which you will be familiar with, while the chillies typical to Laos are lemony and sourly fruity, and the small Yunnanese bell-shaped chillies are extremely hot and floral. Each variety has not only a different level of heat but a different flavour.

As you eat your way around Thailand, you start to notice how the chillies more typical of the region in which you’re travelling affect the style of cooking. The very hot chillies you see in areas that border Laos tend to be used to create lighter, more herbal dishes. A good example is the Laos-style fish laap recipe below.

Dried chillies tend to deliver their heat more slowly. That heat will last much longer in your mouth. While they’re the basis for most curry pastes, I tend to think of dried chillies as principally aromatic. Try toasting dried chilli lightly before using it – you’ll notice how richly perfumed it can be.

The beef salad recipe below relies on dried chilli and is a northern Thai-style laap, made with warming dry spices such as cumin and mahkwean (a relative of Szechuan pepper). The beef should be chopped by hand with a little offal and then very gently fried in oil with the lemongrass and a whole dried chilli. I suggest you serve it loosened with a little stock; this soupy style brings forward the heady, tonic-like quality of toasted spices and offally meat. Quite opposite in style, these two laaps demonstrate the differing uses of chilli between Thai regions.

Laos-style fish laap

Be careful not to overwork the fish or the herbs or it will all be a little sodden. The sweetness comes from the deep-fried lemongrass and shallot rather than sugar, and the result is a restrained but balanced dish where the heat of fresh chilli amplifies the fresh fish and any herbs you are using.

Serves 4
2 stalks lemongrass, inner parts very finely sliced (reserve outer parts to flavour cooking water)
4 garlic cloves, peeled and roughly diced
4 Thai shallots, peeled and roughly diced (or banana shallots if you can’t find the small Thai type)
Vegetable oil
400g large flaky white fish – hake is ideal

For the salad
2 bird’s-eye chillies (red and green), very finely sliced
2 handfuls mint leaves, roughly sliced
1 handful Vietnamese mint or laksa leaves (optional), roughly sliced
2 shallots or a red onion, sliced

For the dressing
4 tbsp fish sauce or pla raa (fermented freshwater fish), if you can find it
4 tbsp fresh lime juice

To garnish
2 fresh makrut lime leaves, finely sliced, any stalks and trimmings reserved for flavourings (optional)
1 stalk lemongrass, outer leaves reserved for flavourings, inner parts very finely sliced

1 Gently fry the lemongrass, garlic and shallot until golden brown in vegetable oil. Discard and start again if bitter – you don’t want to overcook it. Drain on kitchen paper.

2 Get a small pan of water to a rolling boil. Add the lemongrass outer stalks and any trimmings from the makrut lime leaves to the water and gently boil the fish until cooked (2-3 minutes).

3 Set aside the fish and retain 1 tbsp of the boiling liquid.

4 Add the fish and salad ingredients to a large mixing bowl. Combine the fish sauce, reserved cooking liquor and lime juice to make a dressing and add this to the mixing bowl. Toss to coat all the ingredients without breaking up the fish too much.

5 Plate and add the garnishes.

Chiang Mai-style beef laap

Serves 4
350g beef (a cheaper steak cut such as skirt or featherblade is ideal)
50g beef kidney
1 garlic clove
Vegetable oil, for frying
1 large whole dry chilli
300ml light beef stock
15g palm sugar (or caster sugar)
30ml fish sauce
30ml fresh lime juice

For the laap powder
1 tsp small red dried chilli, toasted
2 tsp long red dried chilli, toasted
1 tsp cumin, toasted
1 tsp white peppercorn, toasted
1 tsp coriander seed, toasted

For the salad
2 handfuls mint leaves, roughly sliced
1 handful Vietnamese mint or laksa leaves (optional), roughly sliced
4 spring onion bulbs, smashed
2 stalks lemongrass, inner parts very finely sliced (reserve outer parts to flavour oil above)

1 Use a cleaver to chop the beef into rough dice, then chop through the kidney and the garlic clove.

2 Blitz the laap powder ingredients with a spice grinder or crush with a pestle and mortar into a fine powder.

3 Heat a little vegetable oil in a deep frying pan or wok. Add the lemongrass outer leaves and the dry chilli.

4 When the oil is bubbling, remove the lemongrass, gently add the meat and stir to brown it. Add your homemade laap powder to the pan and quickly stir.

5 Add your stock and allow the mixture to reduce by half. Then take it off the heat and lightly season with the palm sugar, fish sauce and lime juice.

6 Combine all the salad ingredients in a mixing bowl, then add to the pan. Quickly stir to warm through before heaping on plates to serve.

• Ben Chapman is a chef and founder of Kiln and Smoking Goat Thai restaurants in London; @Kilnsoho and @SmokingGoatSoho

The recipe

Wipe a couple of large sweet potatoes and put them in the oven to bake. They should take between 45-60 minutes at 200C/gas mark 6.

Trim 250g of brussels sprouts, discarding any discoloured leaves and removing any dry stalks. Cut each sprout into four. Warm 3 tbsp of olive oil and a thin slice of butter in a shallow pan, add the sprouts then cook them over a moderate heat for about 10-15 minutes until they have softened and are light gold in colour. Pour in 200ml double cream, then stir in 1 tbsp each of smooth Dijon and whole grain mustard. Finish with a generous grinding of salt and pepper.

Let the cream simmer for 3 or 4 minutes until it starts to thicken. When the potatoes are done, split them in half and spoon the Brussels and mustard cream sauce over them.

The trick

Nothing complicated here, but when you have poured the cream into the hot pan then watch carefully as it reduces. Let the cream bubble gently over a moderate heat, stir occasionally, regularly checking its consistency. When the sauce is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon it is ready.

The twist

A large celeriac, in place of the sweet potato, will bake sweetly enough if wrapped in buttered foil and cooked at a low temperature. Any of the brassicas will be happy in the cream and mustard sauce. Shredded cavolo nero, black cabbage, could be substituted for the spouts, as could dark green savoy and chopped long-stemmed broccoli.

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

“At Christmas time, the kitchen rejoices with reassuring smells. While a festive cotechino cooks quietly in the oven, I sometimes take a break from the boiling and chopping to sit down by the fire and peel some wrinkly, often gigantic, oranges.

As I throw the peel on to the fire, the scent of orange oil brings back memories of the cakes I made as a child. Many Italian cakes celebrate citrus, but the most splendidly citrussy of them all is pastiera, a glorious pastry pie stuffed with a symphony of soft ricotta, cooked wheat, eggs, orange-blossom water, spices and candied fruits. It’s actually an Easter recipe traditionally, but its ingredients sing of Christmas, and you can find it on Italian tables all year round.

I spent my childhood in a convent school. I was an unruly kid and was often put in the corner to “reflect”, so to speak. On a good day, my favourite nun, Suor Fortunata, would take me to the kitchen to help her cook. She was not only a teacher but took charge of the school refectory, overseeing what was served to the pupils. On Thursdays, the day before the traditional magro – a day of abstinence from all animal products and sweet indulgences – we would regularly be served pastiera. We were a rowdy lot, but just the sight of the pastiera had us goggle-eyed and orderly with anticipation.

Oranges are the essence of this cake. When eating it, I can’t help but be taken back to those childhood days when their bittersweet fragrance wafted through the air. The smell, the taste and the ritual of making pastiera makes me feel at home.

Pastiera

Makes 1 x 23cm cake
20g unsalted butter, plus extra to grease
30g raisins
50ml milk
200g canned cooked wheat (available in good Italian delicatessens or online)
Rind of 1 lemon, cut into chunks
350g ricotta cheese
300g caster sugar
3 eggs, separated
2 tbsp orange blossom water
1 tsp cinnamon powder
50g candied orange peel, chopped
50g walnuts, chopped

For the pastry
1 egg
250g strong white bread flour, plus extra for dusting
100g caster sugar
1 tsp baking powder
80g unsalted butter
30ml limoncello liqueur
Zest of 1 lemon

1 Grease and line a 23cm non-stick springform cake tin with baking paper.

2 Put the raisins in water and soak for 30 minutes. Drain and squeeze dry.

3 Meanwhile, make the pastry. Put the egg, flour, sugar, baking powder, butter, liqueur and lemon zest into a food processor and mix together to form a dough. Roll into a ball, wrap in clingfilm and leave to rest in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

4 Preheat the oven to 190C/375F/gas mark 5. Melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the milk, wheat and lemon rind. Simmer over a low heat for 10 minutes.

5 Beat the ricotta with half the sugar in a bowl. In a second bowl, whisk the yolks with the remaining sugar until fluffy.

6 In a third bowl, beat the egg whites together with the orange blossom water and cinnamon until stiff.

7 Using a wooden spoon, gently mix together the ingredients from all three bowls. Add the wheat mixture and fold in the orange peel, raisins and walnuts.

8 Unwrap the pastry and cut off two thirds. Sandwich the larger piece between two sheets of baking paper and roll it out into a 29cm disc. Place in the base of the cake tin, carefully pushing the pastry 3cm up the sides of the tin. Chill for 10 minutes.

9 Roll out the remaining pastry third between sheets of baking paper as before and cut into 10 strips measuring 23cm x 2cm. Arrange the strips on a sheet of lightly floured greaseproof paper and chill for 5 minutes.

10 Remove the base from the fridge and pour over the wheat cream. Gently place the strips on top in a lattice pattern and bake for 1 hour, until slightly browned and a toothpick inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Leave to cool for at least 30 minutes to allow the filling to become firm before serving.

• Eleonora Galasso is a food writer, blogger and author of As the Romans Do, out now. @EleonoraGalasso
  
• For two nights this February, Guardian Members are invited to The Geffrye Museum of the Home for an exclusive supper club with Eleonora Galasso. Tickets: gu.com/eleonora-galasso
  

My home is not, and never has been, in the UK, but working on my latest book, The British Table, and cooking a lot of the traditional British recipes in it, I realised that the most evocative thing for me was mince and tatties. It’s something I’ve eaten, and cooked, in various ways, my whole life.

My first trip to the UK was in 1966/ 1967. I was living in LA and went to Manchester to meet my English girlfriend’s parents. That was my first taste of England. I broke up with that girlfriend, but made other friends, and kept going back. A lot of the food I encountered around that time was pretty grim, but at some point I came across mince and tatties and it appealed to me. From the time I was a kid, if you’d given me the choice between mince or steak, I’d always have gone for the former.

My mother was a terrible cook. I feel awful saying it, but it’s true. My first memory of ground beef would be her spaghetti bolognese: cooked without much flavouring – she was radically opposed to onions or garlic – a can of corn dumped in, followed by some overcooked spaghetti. It wasn’t bad; it was certainly better than other things she tried to cook. I was 15 years old when I realised that a hunk of roast beef didn’t have to be grey inside – that’s just how she’d always cooked it.

Since I started cooking for myself at 18, some version of this has gone with me from home to home. If you have a few leftover veg, you chop it up very finely and throw it in. The last time I was in London, I had a particularly good mince at the Quality Chop House. I would happily go back there exclusively for that one dish. I wish I could have it for lunch today.

Despite her limitations in the kitchen my mother had three beautiful cast-iron skillets that nested neatly into one other. I inherited them, and I use them still. They were not new when I was a child, and I’m 71 now, so they’re at least 75 years old. They’re flaking away and I wonder if I might not wear right through the bottoms of them.. I use them in the oven, on the hob, the barbecue, the grill. If I’m at home, I use one, if not all three, every day. And one of my daughters will no doubt be using them for the next 50 years. Without question, they are the one thing I would grab if there were a fire. They are perfect to make mince in.

Mince and tatties

There’s a famous poem about this definitive Scottish comfort dish by JK Annand that promises that if you: “mash and mix the tatties / Wi mince into the mashin / And sic a tasty denner / Will aye be voted ‘Smashin!’” I like a Scottish street rhyme, collected on electricscotland.com, even better: It warns “You canna shove your granny off a bus (x2) / You canna shove your granny,/ Cause she makes your mince ‘n’ tatties ...” In her book Broths to Bannocks, Catherine Brown notes that: “The best steak, cut from the rump and minced by the butcher, is how many Scottish housewives buy mince.” This is an adaptation of her recipe.

Serves 4
1 tbsp stoneground Scottish oats
2 tbsp corn or rapeseed oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
450g ground beef
1 large carrot, thinly sliced
115g black pudding, skin removed (optional)
Salt and black pepper

1 Toast the oats in a small dry frying pan over medium-high heat, shaking the pan often, until they turn golden brown – about 5 minutes. Set aside.

2 Put the oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring frequently, until it browns – 10‑12 minutes. Push it to one side of the pan, then add the ground beef.

3 Cook the beef, breaking it into small pieces and stirring with a wooden spoon, until it is well browned – 12-15 minutes. Mix in the onions.

4 Add the carrot and the toasted oats, stirring them in well, then add the black pudding (if using), breaking it up so that it mixes in well. Add enough water to just cover the ingredients, then season generously, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for about 15 minutes, or until the carrots are soft. The finished mince should have the consistency of a thick stew. Serve with the mashed potatoes on the side.

Tatties (mashed potatoes)

“Mash” is a common accompaniment around Great Britain for simply cooked meats, sausages (as in the iconic bangers and mash), and sometimes sauced dishes. Some cooks peel and halve or quarter their potatoes, then boil them in salted water before mashing, but in my experience, the potatoes have better flavour and are less watery if you steam them in their jackets.

Serves 4-6
900g (5 or 6 medium) russet potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed
240ml double cream
115g butter, softened
Salt and pepper

1 Put the potatoes into a pot large enough to hold them in a single layer and fill the pot halfway with cold water. Cover the pot and bring the water to a boil over high heat. When the water begins to boil, carefully drain off all but about 1cm of it, then return the pot to the heat, cover, reduce the heat to low, and let the potatoes steam until tender, about 40 minutes. Add a little more water if the pot begins to go dry. Reserve 2 tablespoons of the cooking water, then transfer the potatoes to a bowl, cover them with a clean dish cloth, and set them aside for 15 minutes to cool slightly.

2 Meanwhile, put the cream, butter and reserved cooking water into a small pot and bring the mixture to a simmer over a medium-high heat. Reduce the heat to low and simmer until the potatoes have cooled.

3 Drain and carefully slip the peel off the potatoes, then return them to the large pot and mash them well while slowly pouring in the cream mixture. Generously season the potatoes with salt and pepper, then whisk them vigorously with a large whisk to dissolve any large lumps – the potatoes will not be completely smooth.

The British Table: A New Look at the Traditional Cooking of England, Scotland and Wales by Colman Andrews, is published by Abrams, £30

Snapshot: Watching the sea on the ferry to Denmark

The little girl in the photograph is me. The curtains and my hair “style” give away the fact that it was taken in the 1970s. It’s perhaps not instantly apparent that it’s on board a ship. It was taken by my mother in the spring of 1970 from inside the cabin of the DFDS Seaways ferry that used to sail from Harwich to Esbjerg in Denmark. To me, it encapsulates the sheer excitement of going to see my grandparents.

On the back of the photograph, my mother’s handwriting is recognisably Scandinavian. Destined for a family album, the Danish words meaning “little girl looking out at the big ocean” capture the fact that even though she had lived in England for many years, she would use her native language to record memories.

My grandparents on my mother’s side were Danish and lived in Fredericia in Jutland. We would visit them every year. My father couldn’t join us, but although I missed him, it made it a special adventure for the two of us; a voyage to my Danish half. My grandmother spoke no English and though my grandfather did, I remember him as wonderfully familiar but “other” to my childhood mind.

Our journey had its ritual. We’d set off in one of those old Rovers that had the look of an overly inflated toy. From the outskirts of east London, my anticipation stretched all the way to the first sighting of the ship’s red chimney at Harwich. It was the beginning. We played I spy knowing there was only one thing to spy.

In the picture, in my pyjamas and full of up-beyond-bedtime seriousness, I am at my lookout post. My mother was behind me in the narrow cabin bed. I was awaiting one of the rituals of the sea. At midnight, the ship on the return from Denmark would sound its horn when it passed the one leaving England. I was awash with excitement.

Beside me is a troll toy in a bobble hat and appropriately seadog attire. I was never a fan of dolls, but I was inordinately fond of this one.

My grandparents are no longer alive and the Harwich to Esbjerg route ceased in 2014, after 140 years of service.

The photograph is somehow a tribute to all of them.
Keren Levy

Playlist: In the winter of 1963, my small world froze

Life in a Northern Town by the Dream Academy

“He said, ‘In winter 1963 / It felt like the world would freeze / With John F Kennedy / And the Beatles.’”

The winter of 1962-63 was the coldest for 200 years in Britain. Freezing weather began before Christmas and lasted until early March with the snow lying on the ground for weeks, and rivers and lakes were frozen solid.

I was 10 at the time and living with my five siblings in a council house on a sprawling estate. My father had died from pneumonia in October 1962 and by January the following year, my mother, worn out with grief, worry and the numbing cold, succumbed to flu and a chest infection.

She lay for many days under a pile of old coats on the settee, close to the coal fire, the only source of warmth we had in the house. To make matters worse, our water pipes froze solid, so we had no running water. Our neighbour supplied us with a bucket of water each day which had to do for everything.

My older siblings went off to school on the bus each morning and two younger brothers attended their infant classes. I was still at the junior school, which was next door to our house so I could sneak home each lunchtime to make up the fire, boil water for tea and make a sandwich or heat soup for my mum.

After a few days of this routine, I was spotted leaving the school and reported to the teacher. Not knowing the circumstances or reason behind my truancy, she ticked me off very sternly and when she finished I burst into tears. In between sobs, I managed to say:

“Please, Miss, my mum is really poorly and we haven’t got any water. I just went to help her, Miss.”

“Good gracious me, child, why ever didn’t you say something before? Now you are to go home for as long as your mum needs you.”

Turning to the rest of the class, she asked for two strong, sensible boys and told them that before and after school they were to fetch water each day for us from the school.

Thinking about it now, I wonder why I didn’t confide in my teacher before; she was strict but kind-hearted. I think, like many families, we preferred to deal with problems ourselves as much as possible.

To our relief and joy, Mum got better and in early March, temperatures began to rise, the snow and ice rapidly thawed and water flowed out of our taps again.
Felicity Middleton

We love to eat: My nonna’s homemade gnocchi

Ingredients

1kg potatoes
300g flour
1 egg

Boil the potatoes, drain and mash. Add the egg and flour and bring together to make a firm dough. Knead gently until smooth and roll out to about 1cm thick. Cut into strips 1.5cm wide. Cut each strip into pieces of approximately 2.5cm and roll with the tips of your finger. Boil until they float and serve with homemade pasta sauce.

Coming from an Italian family, eating gnocchi was a regular part of my childhood. My sister and I would often help my nonna make them. Even though they were irregular shapes, she’d let them pass quality control. Eating gnocchi reminds me of Saturday lunchtimes with my family – parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins – squished around the dining table enjoying great food and animated conversations.

I remember the first time I took my boyfriend (now husband) to meet my nonna. She was an independent lady in her 90s, who insisted on cooking us lunch – homemade gnocchi. Little dumplings of fluffy pasta coated in homemade sauce, infused with basil and with loads of stringy mozzarella, which is an undetectable quality until you try to separate one of the gnocchi pieces.

He had never had gnocchi before, but obviously liked them as he finished off not one, but two platefuls – much to Nonna’s delight. It felt like somehow I was sharing my childhood memories with him. He looked absolutely stuffed. I didn’t know how to tell him that the gnocchi was just the first course! The shocked look on his face was priceless as two more courses came and went. He proudly passed the “man v food” Italian-style initiation … but spent the afternoon on the sofa in a gnocchi-induced stupor. I knew then that he was the man I would marry.
Tina Jeskins

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