Seville Orange Marmalade

Bitterness is viewed harshly in this overly sweet world. To be bitter is to be consumed with an intense animosity, lashed by the rawness of winter winds, suffering the distress of a galling shame. Yet bitter enemies, bitter rancor, bitter hatred create all the finest elements of great art, surely?

The man chooses bitter in winter, the bitter that is an English dark brown beer. Served at room temperature, which is a surprise to some like the young Spanish woman I saw at an airport bar who wanted to return the pint she’d just bought because it was warm and flat. The barman’s refusal made her bitter  (his explanation that is the way it is meant to be drunk left her confused).

In Brindisa the other day I asked whether their oranges were waxed or not, Spanish citrus being a particular highlight late into winter. Not these ones, the guy said, try this as he handed me a chunk of fresh bread with a generous dollop of marmalade. Amazing – bitter fruit, proper thick shreds of peel, intense jam – quite a mouthful. Being so good on bread not toast was such a surprise I told the man about it that night. He makes weekend breakfast that is always toast - marmalade for him and vegemite for me and coffee for us both. I went back to Brindisa and asked to buy a jar of their very fine marmalade. Ah no madam the nice man said, we sell the oranges and give you this and handed me a small slip of paper, which is how this week I came to make something I’d never done before.

Here is the recipe.

Seville Orange Marmalade

Marmalade can be made with all kinds of citrus and was, indeed, initially made in Portugal using quince but Seville oranges are particularly suited because of the high pectin levels in the pith and pips and, of course, their wonderful bitterness 

Makes about 5 kgs - you need a lot of jars

1.5kg Seville oranges - buy big ones, as it will cut the work down a bit

3 litres water

Juice of 2 lemons

3kg granulated sugar - the weight of sugar is always double that of the fruit

I found it easiest to set up a kind of work station before I started to reduce the amount of sticky mess I was guaranteed to make. You need a BIG preserving pan, mine is 25cm deep with a diameter of 30cm which holds vast amounts. Put the pan on the bench to your left. Next to it put your chopping board, knife and citrus juicer. On the right hand side put a large piece of muslim - at least 30 cm square - on top of a large flat plate. You put all the pips - and there's a LOT of them in Seville oranges - as well as the membrane from the juiced oranges into the muslin, then bring the corners together and tie up the bundle with string before you add it to the jam pan. It is the magic bag that means the marmalade will set when it's done.

Scrub all the fruit with warm water and a clean scourer, then cut each orange in half and squeeze out the juice, piling up the juiced orange halves as you go. Juice the two lemons and discard the shells -  use them to soften your elbows first! 

Tip all the juice into the pan. Pull any remaining membrane out of the oranges and add it to the muslin, along with all the pips.  Bring the edges of the muslin together and tie it tightly with kitchen string so nothing can escape into the pot. 

Slice the orange peel thinly to the size you like, making sure it's fairly consistent. Don't be tempted to remove the pith, it contains a lot of pectin to help the marmalade set.

Add the orange slices to the pan with the juice, the muslin bag containing all the pips and membrane, and the 3 litres of water. Put the pan onto a medium heat and bring it to the boil, then reduce the heat so it simmers gently. Let it bubble away for a couple of hours until the peel is soft and the liquid has reduced by about a third.

Take the pan off the heat and use some tongs to take the muslin bag out. Put it on a plate to cool a bit, then squeeze the bag back over the pan of liquid, catching all the  surprisingly thick juice. Discard the sad sack.

Add the sugar to the pan and, still off the heat, stir it until it is all dissolved.

Return the pan to the heat and bring it back to the boil over a fairly high heat. Boil the jam rapidly for about 15-20 minutes, until the setting point is reached. 

Setting point is what it sounds like, and the best way to test is with a sugar thermometer - when the temperature reaches 105C/220F you're good to go. You can also put a plate into the fridge and,  when the mixture has boiled for 15 minutes, spoon a little onto the cold plate and put it back into the fridge for a minute or two. If the jam then sets enough to wrinkle when you push it with your finger, you're good to go.

Take the pan off the heat, skim off any scum, and then all the marmalade to cool for about 15  minutes so that the peel floats rather than sinks.

Whilst it's cooling wash your jars and lids in warm soapy water then dry them on a tray in the oven at about 160C for five minutes.  Leave them on the tray to fill them, you'll have way less mess!

Fill the still warm jars with hot marmalade and put the lids on tightly immediately. Allow to cool before you label them. Eat with pleasure.

Lots of lovely advice here about how to enjoy the whole marmalade making process.

Rocket Salad, Poached Egg, Toasted Pearled Barley, Grilled Seville Orange and Bacon

So

I saw a recipe online for spinach salad, feta, toasted farro, grilled onions and calabrian chillies and I wanted it. Even with a title as long and ridiculous as that, I thought it sounded seriously edible and properly substantial even for a wet night in February. I think it was the idea of toasting the farro presumably to make it rich in flavour and to give some overall warmth to balance the slightly bitter metallic flavour of the spinach. And, you know I don't use feta enough and I am totally thoroughly in love with blackened onions, hot or cold but best of all just below warm.

But

I didn't have any farro, and the lovely posh Italian shop at Mercato Metropolitano only had it as a mix for soup. Didn't have feta either or, for that matter, any spinach. The salad bowl was looking potentially bleak.

However

I did have some pearled barley, and half a bag of wild rocket that needed using, eggs because I always have eggs and an airtight tub of toasted pumpkin seeds. Plus there were a couple of pointy peppers that might add a sweet note and a fab flash of colour. To counterbalance the peppers I decided to grill slices of seville orange for a bitter caramel note. And I  thought of bacon - because everything tastes better with bacon.

And

Of course I had no onions but the shop round the corner had bright bunches of spring onions. It was far too cold/dark/bleak/generallyFebruary to cook outside so I dragged the ridged cast iron pan from the bottom of the drawer and thereby set about making an entirely different dinner.

Barley, Rocket and Grilled Orange Salad

Serves 2 for dinner with enough over for lunches next day

250g pearled barley
1 bay leaf
2 pointy red peppers
1 Seville orange
6 spring onions
3 rashers of bacon
A couple of generous handfuls of rocket
A tablespoon of toasted pumpkin seeds
6 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
2 eggs

Spread the barley out across a flat oven tray and toast in the oven at 180C/350F/Gas 4 for about ten minutes till the grain colours lightly and smells a bit toasty. I have to say I'm not convinced it had any noticeable contribution to the flavour of the barley so feel free to skip this step if it seems like a faff.

Tip the (toasted or not) barley into a saucepan, add water to cover by a couple of inches, drop in the bayleaf and cook over a medium heat until it comes to the boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook the barely until fairly tender but still with a bit of resistance. This will take about 30 minutes - add a generous teaspoon of salt halfway through. Drain and set aside.

While the barley cooks, roast the peppers whole in the oven at 200C/400F/Gas 5 for 20 minutes or so, turning occasionally, until the skins are blackened and blistered. Put them into a small bowl and cover tightly with clingfilm. The steam will loosen the skins further making them easy to peel. When they are cool enough to handle, strip the skin away and discard it along with the seeds. Cut the flesh into finger sized strips and tip into a large salad bowl.

Heat the grill pan over a high flame. Cut slices across the orange, about the thickness of a thick pound coin, including the skin saving as much of the juice as you can in a small bowl. Discard the many seeds. Brush each slice with olive oil and lay them out in the hot pan to sear, turning them after a couple of minutes to caramelise the other side. Put the cooked slices into the salad bowl till they're cool enough to handle, then cut them into 1 centimetre squares and return to the bowl with the peppers.

Cut the base and scraggy tops off the spring onions and cut each one in half from top to bottom, brush the cut sides with olive oil and put them into the hot pan. Griddle till they start to blacken, turn

them over and cook the other side. Drop them into the bowl with  the peppers and orange.

Next cook the bacon rashers in the hot griddle pan till they crisp as much as you like. Leave them to cool in the salad bowl, then cut into 1 centimetre strips and return to the bowl.

Add the cooked, drained barley and the rocket to the salad bowl. Whisk the olive oil and sherry vinegar into the orange juice you saved earlier (you did remember that, didn't you 😌) and season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Toss the salad with the dressing - taste and adjust the

seasoning if necessary.

Poach the eggs till the whites are just set and the yolk remains runny. Serve the salad into 2 bowls and top each with a poached egg and a sprinkle of toasted pumpkin seeds.

Dinner is done.

If you go for leftovers for lunch next day - and I would recommend it - it's very good topped with a sliced boiled egg.

Chocolate Cardamom Pie

 Valentine's Day today and though - yes! - I subscribe to the notion that every day should be a special day for you and your love, it's nice occasionally to add a little extra sparkle just because you can. The v best sparkle I produced this week was definitely this lightly spiced chocolate pie. It is elegantly simple and simply elegant - and thus, perfect.

Cardamom is an intriguing spice, relative to ginger and distantly also the banana, it is popular in a variety of cuisines. It has delicate flavours of citrus and smoke with sweet notes of eucalyptus in there as well. The Scandis love it in baking, indeed I was surprised to find it is the mystery delight in the fikka cinnamon buns, the Dutch add it generously to spekulaas biscuits and it adds richness to Turkish coffee. It's a key ingredient in Indian cooking, used in everything from curries to sweetmeats and chai.

Split green cardamom pod

It has a long history too as an aid to erotica. Mentioned in Tales of Arabian Nights as a popular ingredient of love potions, allegedly boosting sexual desire in both men and women, inducing a good mood all round. Enticing Herbs and Seductive Spices suggests Arabs add cardamom to beverages and drink the mixture as an aphrodisiac, They also sprinkle powdered cardamom, ginger and cinnamon over boiled onions and green peas to promote erotic vigour. In India, powdered cardamom boiled with milk is consumed with honey at night to prevent impotence and premature ejaculation. Also known as a cure for bad breath, kissing too is made more pleasurable...

So use it with abandon to spice this luscious pie and serve with a generous dollop of creme fraiche to the one(s) you love. You need to make this a few hours ahead as it needs time to set - something I see as a definite positive as there's no last minute panic. A couple of lessons learned I should share - when you've poured the chocolate into the cooked pie case put it into the fridge without covering it. I decided to cover it with cling film which promptly dropped into the dark liquid and messed the perfectly smooth finish. Also use a fine mesh strainer for the cocoa but get the lumps out before you hold it over the pie if you want a reasonable approximation of a light and even dusting.

Chocolate Cardamom Pie

25cm sweet pastry tart case, cooked - I used Paul Hollywood's recipe, highly recommend
10 green cardamom pods or 1 teaspoon ground cardamom
350ml double cream
200g dark chocolate, 80% cocoa solids or thereabouts, broken into smallish chunks
30g unsalted butter
Cocoa powder for dusting the finished tart

If using whole cardamom pods, split them open and drop the little black seeds into a pestle and mortar. Grind them to a fine powder.

Pour the cream into a heavy based pan, add the ground cardamom and bring to just below boiling point over a gentle heat. Take the cream off the heat and add the broken chocolate and the butter. Stir until everything is melted together and leave it to cool for about five minutes. Pour the chocolate cream into the pie case, put into the fridge and leave to set for a couple of hours.

Before serving lightly dust the top with some cocoa powder then serve with creme fraiche and perhaps a strong coffee.

This recipe is an adaptation of one from The flavour Thesaurus, a book I am currently reading with great pleasure.

Taboon - one kind of flat bread

Have just been in Oz visiting family with the bonus of basking in a little sunshine in the midst of this bleak winter. My parents live in relaxed beachside suburbia on the coast south of Sydney close enough to the surf to hear the waves pounding sand and high enough up to whale watch from the kitchen window whenever the pods migrate. To add to the idyl they are both keen and experienced gardeners and despite (because of?) the salt air they have a beautiful collection of many hued roses at the front and a most magnificent herb garden in a raised bed at the back. As someone who can kill rosemary just by looking at it, I am seriously jealous.

My mother recently planted out half a dozen aubergine seedlings - needless to say they all grow strong and healthy and within a few weeks have set dozens of flowers and the first beautiful glossy fruit is ready. Realising she is about to have a potential glut of what she calls eggplants she requested a sharing of all interesting recipes, whatever the source. Serendipity perhaps but the weekend of my return The Guardian Joudie Kalla's Cook Residency was the story of  rummaniyeh,* a Palestinian dish for aubergine and pomegranate. It earned me double brownie points when I passed it on, having convinced my mother to buy some pomegranate molasses without offering a lot of ideas to use it.

I loved the idea of silky peeled cubes of aubergine melting into the lentil stew, spiked with the visual beauty and sour surprise of pomegranate. The dish tasted as good as it read. I was intrigued to try taboon, too, as the ubiquity of flat breads in the Middle East convinced me they would bring something to the overall dish. I searched about for a recipe and came up with this. I will be honest - I was absolutely seduced by the idea of making my own teeny tiny taboon - the stone ovens traditionally used to cook this bread - I have a garden covered in pebbles.

Taboon - a Palestinian flat bread

1 teaspoon sugar
150ml warm water
15g dried active yeast
250g strong plain white flour
75g strong plain wholemeal wheat flour
Big pinch salt

Dissolve the sugar in the warm water then add the yeast, stir briefly and leave for about five minutes till it starts to foam.

Mix the flours and salt in a large bowl, make a well in the centre and add the yeast liquid. Stir to bring it together, adding a little more warm water if needed to make a pliable dough. Knead the dough on a lightly floured bench for about ten minutes till it is smooth and elastic.

Put the dough into a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a clean cloth and leave somewhere warm for about an hour till the dough has doubled in size. Punch it down, split the dough into four and knead each piece for another minute.

If you want to go the taboon route, heat your oven to its hottest setting. Cover a flat baking tray with pebbles - I washed mine in boiling water first to rid them of their 'gardenness' - and put them into the oven while it heats.

Just with your fingers pull each ball of dough out into a vague approximation of a circle, fairly thin but not too much, you want to end up with nice chewy bread rather than pita style puffs. Put 2 circles of dough straight onto the tray of stones and return to the very hot oven. 

They will cook in a couple of minutes, puffing slightly, picking up a bit of colour. Take the cooked breads out and add the next two. Repeat the process. 

Voila! Done.

The bread was great - the little bit of wholemeal flour added a lovely texture and chewiness. We ate a couple with dinner with the rest in the freezer. They will be perfect with big bowls of soup in the not too distant future.

* A note about the lentil and aubergine recipe - the quantities for the pomegranate molasses are seriously out - there's far too much. I added less than half the 150ml and it made the lentils decidedly sour. A quick google reveals that the 150ml should be pomegranate juice or substitute 2 tablespoons of molasses and the juice of 2 lemons, which I think will make a much better dish.

6 places to eat in Glasgow, one to avoid and one lovely food shop

Bank holiday weekend - why is there a holiday on the last Monday in May? - and the man and I decide on a little trip to Glasgow. By train. Specifically by sleeper. Which given how physically dinky this country  is, what that means is a train that leaves just before midnight that - I think it goes round and round the perimeter of these sceptred isles till just after 6am then chugs into Glasgow Central. It's fun.

Early arrival needs proper breakfast so, after a little googling, I'd found the famous Cafe Gandolfi, close to the station, open from 8, and serving a full Scottish. Gorgeous high ceilinged room, friendly staff and a menu that suggested it takes 30 minutes for a fry up as it was all to be done properly. Looking good. Unfortunately what was eventually served was decidedly underwhelming - a sausage that was warm but a bit cold at one end, bacon so dry it was difficult to chew, a potato scone that was so hard it wasn't possible to cut with the knife, a small sad fried egg and a slice of utterly magnificent Stornaway black pudding. The man had cleverly ordered the black pudding with poached eggs so he ate much better than me!

Met a man in the bar on the train, he recommended the Mussel Inn

After our unimpressive breakfast we had a 2 hour walk around the city, guided by students from the School of Art, looking at a lot of extraordinary architecture loosely connected by Rennie Macintosh and his wife Mary. Really hungry by the time it was finishing, by chance we walked past the Mussel Inn, still serving lunch. Made a mental note of the location and scampered back for brilliant huge bowls of steaming mussels - one with shallots, garlic and cream and one with chilli and coriander, both fabulous. Only mistake was to order a single bowl of chips - the bowl was not large and the chips were amazing. Should have been two...

Dinner was booked a little way out into the burbs to 111 by Nico, a small bistro nestled into an unassuming row of shops with a Spar and laundrette for company. They served wild mushroom soup in an espresso cup as an amuse - like a deep rich hit of the forest, it set the standard high for the meal to come.

loved the ham hough, crisp toastie wrapped shreds of ham served with shreds and small balls of fresh apple and shreds of fennel and just pleasure in every mouthful

the man had smoked mackerel, the oiliness complemented with crisp asparagus and new potatoes, all brought together with an egg in the magic way that eggs have

Mains were only slightly less successful - I had the duck, which came as a few little nuggets of pan fried bits, like yesterdays leftovers, but well served with a trio of green veg all perfectly rendered and sauced. The man was seduced by pork belly, which was a lovely slice of meat but came, oddly, with the listed ricotta and some slices of salami, not sure why. Though the peas and wild garlic were great it didn't quite come together as a dish.

The man, as always, had dessert - coffee creme brûlée with instant coffee. Meh.

A very enjoyable dinner, a definite recommend. 

To Finnieston next day for lunch, more pub than restaurant really, and by 2pm the punters were largely settled with gin and happy chat. The menu is mostly fishy and despite coming across both sides of an A3 sheet the waiter also recites a list of the specific specials, the market fish and soup of the day. Add some complicated additions of sauces and sides for some but not all of the dishes we needed the excellent negroni and scientific gin cocktail to get our heads round it all. I wasn't feeling entirely confident at this point about lunch.

3 with crispy bacon and haggis crumb with whisky mist thinking they'd be local specials but the crumb was more sand and the mist simply evaporates - holiday tragedy. 

They do serve oysters so I ordered 3 plain - which were extremely fine, salty and fresh. The man's scallops with curried parsnip and salty fingers was a definite hit - there's a theme of adding curry notes to a lot of dishes we see round town, and sometimes it works.

Mains were an absolute treat

Salmon fillet with sides of zatar beetroot and just perfect buttered greens had the man grinning with delight. My cod flaked to perfect petals the better to dunk into black olive paste which worked so well with the fennel salad and more chips. Great lunch. Dessert was a luxury version of rice pudding for the man - nothing in the world would convince me to eat it, but hey, he loved it but was defeated by the size. Another recommend, feel like I'm on a roll.

Quick mention for the nearby store, Roots Fruits & Flowers, that sells great food and smells for all the world like an old fashioned health food store. I was expecting something modern and shiny and was delighted with the simplicity we found. Bought lots of treats - bread, smoked salmon, some minute steaks and other bits and pieces to feed us at home for the rest of the weekend, with an enormous Stornaway black pudding  to take home as my holiday memento.

Sunday lunch was at Ox & Finch, a newish gastro pub style restaurant that sees itself as world class but which is really just fine. I don't mind the sharing plates and food delivered whenevs to suit the kitchen - it's the dull explanations that come with it that does my head in. You have been to this kind of place. Started with the seafood cocktail and it was, by any definition, totally amazeballs. Shiny fresh sweet crab and crayfish spiked through with chilli and lime and dotted about with avocado cream it disappeared in a moment. There was griddled asparagus, slightly underdone and a sour back note of old fat, but served with good chunks of tasty sausage and another day another egg. Roasted carrots come with a generous dusting of spice and a scatter of feta chunks. Like it. Slow cooked hogget pulls to easy shreds and comes with bouncy balls of Israeli couscous and middle eastern spicing,

dishes with a debt to Ottolenghi

 The final dish is hangar steak, perfectly tender rosy middle with expertly charred edges the meat is rounded out with a very good blue cheese and, a current favourite of more than just mine, char grilled baby gem lettuce. Oddly on arrival we were told we could have the table till 3,15, giving us an hour and a quarter. Our allowed time up we didn't stay for dessert or coffee or digestif. When we left there was plenty of available tables for the non existent late diners...

Monday was our last day, left our stuff at the station and headed to Hutchesons for another shot at a good fry up, this time in an elegant room. Wow - such a contrast to the first. I was delighted with  properly charred rump steak done medium rare with egg and grilled tomatoes, the fairly ordinary toast is forgivable.  The man LOVED the full Scottish - pudding, sausage, bacon, egg, tomato, home made beans and home fries - which are golden sauté - all of it fresh. With toast. Same price as Gandolfi and a thousand times better.

Enough to get us through a lovely day at the Burrell Collection and a long wander in Pollok Gardens in the spring sunshine and keep us going till the last meal of the trip, fab local Italian at Eusebi Deli. Recognisable to me as the kind of place I ate at as a kid in Wollongong where post war immigrants set up little cafes and community centres serving great pasta and pizza in basically cheerful environments. Loved it.  We shared silky slices of beef carpaccio with a fine dice of tomato and a mighty lump of burrata with a gorgeous aubergine paste with fingers of fresh foccacia - so good the people at the next table needed to know what it was so they could order it next time.

Then we  had pizza of course, with sausage and wild broccoli and malfatti - little ricotta and spinach dumplings, light as air and a treat to eat. The man went for gelato, two scoops of chocolate, enough to finish us off. Serious recommend.

Confit Garlic

Garlic is one of the things that makes my life complete. I eat it practically daily in one form or another, crushed raw into salads and small plate type things, cooked gently into the base of braises and stews, tossed with abandon into roasting trays with meat and all kinds of vegetables, beaten to a paste with salt to stir into fresh mayonnaise, slivers crisped to golden for an unexpected crunch in salads, flipped through noodles and stir fries, mashed into butter and cream cheese for garlic bread. You get the idea - the list goes on....

It is used in most cuisines around the world with the exception of subgroups like Jains who don't do garlic or onion, carrot or potato either - which would leave me thoroughly discombobulated. It is surprisingly complex in flavour depending on the cooking methods, just adding to its brilliant versatility.

I thought I'd tried pretty much every permutation until I came across the idea of garlic confit. Mostly I tend to associate confit with duck and leave it at that but it is a much broader and well loved method of preserving that can also be used with fruit and vegetables and, though I've not tried this at home, is apparently just a fabulous way to cook any kind of animal tongue, larks included presumably.

Confit duck warmed in the oven to serve

This makes sense because to confit you submerge the ingredient in oil - or sugar syrup for fruits - and slow cook it making for a very tender result with no appreciable loss of moisture or flavour. It is a really seductive way to prep your duck legs for the winter as the longer they sit untouched on the pantry shelf the more tender the flesh becomes till it really does just melt in your mouth.

The same is true of garlic, I'm pleased to say. I bought a LOT of garlic and cooked it down and have spent the last few weeks adding garlic oil to everything, mashing confit cloves into salad dressings and, undoubtedly my absolute favourite, toasting ciabatta and topping it with confit and salt crystals for the most decadently fabulous garlic bread ever invented. Melt a little cheese on top for variation. Try it - you'll thank me!

Confit Garlic

3 or 4 juicy heads of garlic
Olive oil to cover

Break the garlic into individual cloves, peel them and drop them into a small saucepan. This looks like a pretty daunting task before you start but is remarkably quick once you begin.

A bit of a mess!

Pour over just enough olive oil to cover the cloves and put the pan over a low heat. Bring to a simmer, turn the heat as low as it will go, and cook for 45 minutes.

Take the pan off the heat and, using a slotted spoon transfer the softened garlic cloves to a clean jar then pour over the oil. When the contents are cool, seal the jar and keep it in the fridge.

Use it with everything from a sauce for steamed vegetables to a base layer for pizza and slathered onto warm naan bread as a snack - it's definitely all good.

Six Recipes for Parsnips!

Star vegetable of the week is creamy sweet parsnips, the pale and interesting cousin of the carrot family with a delicate nutty flavour and a lovely smell as they cook. Though Spring is definitely on the way, the market is not yet bursting with new season produce, and it's the brilliance of the last of the winter veg that will see us happily through the 'hungry gap'. I could happily eat asparagus and baby broad beans on a daily basis after the long winter of hearty dishes but so early in the season it would quickly send me broke. Time to look to the stalwarts for just a little bit more.

Parsnips have been around since at least the time of the Romans, a ubiquitous staple long before potatoes and still a firm favourite tucked in alongside a Sunday roast. The name was borrowed into Middle English from the French word pasnaie, which was derived from the Latin pastinaca and pastinaca  goes back to pastinum, which means a small gardening tool for making holes in the ground for planting (possibly parsnips!).

There is a fabulous, if slightly gnomic saying - fine words will butter no parsnips. Obviously - but um, really? Before potatoes were one of the two veg to go with meat there were lots of root vegetables, often mashed and always improved if they were 'buttered up' with lashings of the the golden stuff - flattery, innit! But fine words count for nothing if there's no action to back them up and, speaking as someone who enjoys a little toast to go with her butter, mash without butter is just plain wrong. This source offers an interesting snippet - the English were known for their habit of layering on butter to all manner of foods, much to the disgust of the Japanese who referred to Europeans in general and the English in particular as 'butter-stinkers'. A new term of abuse...

The incredible versatility of the parsnip is a bonus as Spring tentatively replaces the winter. These winter roots are a very unfussy vegetable to use, requiring neither precision timing nor complex prep. Late in the season, as we are now, they are usually fairly big with a woody core that can be cut away if it is too substantial as the rest of the flesh is tender.

When the day dawns gloriously sunny simply peel and grate and eat them raw or try this delightful Lebanese salad with dates and yoghurt. For cooler nights try the more substantial Curried Parsnip and Lentil Salad - parsnips seriously love spice.

  

Parsnips are a thing of joy when steamed and pureed with cream,  or gussied up a little with spring onion and cooked as individual ramekins and a surprisingly delicate ingredient in cakes - a brilliant way to your five a day.

One last idea, from the brilliant Heston Blumenthal, parsnip cereal with parsnip milk. I was lucky to go to dinner at the Fat Duck a few years ago and one of the many magical things we ate was this cereal.

So ppppick up a parsnip today!

A version of this post first appeared in the Local Greens newsletter