Fish pie

This is a regular in my house now and was a regular as I grew up. I'd like to say that I make a white sauce in which the fish cooks -- but I don't. It's a slight cheat, but for everyday cooking, this is what I do. If you want to entertain a lot of people and give them something luxurious, thrn make a proper sauce and add smoked haddock and some prawns -- possibly even some scallops. I'll refer you to Nigel Slater --try Appetite (my favourite). But try this as a quick and very economical tea, just as it came from my mother's kitchen.

Now, I was taught to make this with coley. It's delicious and, I notice being marketed in our local fish and chip shop now that we know we should not be eating cod. Or maybe pollock? Try to find a fishmonger and tell him what you are making. Either way, you want some good white fish. I'd prefer fresh fish, but you might like to try out the 'value' frozen white fish fillets that folks seem to overlook in the freezer cabinets of your local supermarket. It's often coley or pollock --sometimes a mixture of more than one fish. Give it a try. But, yes, fresh is best of all.

I would want to serve this in big, generous portions, so allow the following.

For your mashed potato topping, 1.5 kg of potatoes, You want floury ones, otherwise this will not work.
In total, you need about 3 kg of fish. Filleted and checked over for bones and skin. Keep it in large pieces; don't mince it.
A big handful of fresh parsley
A big slice of unsalted butter. But keep the packet to hand.
500ml milk. Yes, full fat is most luxurious, but semi skimmed is what I have at home.

Put the fish in a large oven dish. This looks the part, I think, in a roasting dish. Lay it out evenly across the dish. Cover it with about 500ml of milk (the fish needs to be almost submerged) and a sprinkle of sea salt and black pepper plus the chopped parsley If you like, tuck in a bay leaf and, maybe a finely chopped small onion -- but that's all.

If the fish is being cooked from frozen, put it into the oven at gas 6/200 and allow it to poach for five to ten minutes in the milk. If it's fresh, you can skip this step.

Put your potatoes on to cook; they are done when they are soft enough to mash. Then, mash them well and add the slice of butter, a little milk and salt and pepper to taste. The potato should be silky, but not too runny. Put the mashed potato on top of the fish base, smoothing it over carefully and then roughening up the surface with a fork. You could dot it with just a little more butter, then put it into the oven for 45-50 minutes. The top should be browned and the forked-up peaks beginning to catch a little.

I love this as is, but if you want to make a proper sauce, do it with 500ml of milk to approximately four tablespoons of plain flour. You could also add cream to the recipe I've described above (in which case, reduce the quantity of milk you have put in) or cut the milk for the white sauce half and half with cream. Mussels, prawns, smoked haddock, as I've said, even scallops (coral and all) could be added. You could see which you like best -- or maybe which mood you are in today. But a jumble of different things would not please me. Perhaps the white fish and two other additions at most?

I like to serve this pie with lots of frozen peas. I never seem to get the quantity of fresh that I want --although I seem to remember we often did when I was little. Summers were longer then, as you know. You could also serve a mound of runner beans -- but nothing else. The pie should not be at all dry, but should, instead, spread across your plate: not a tidy plate of food at all

Vegetable samosa

In other words, subzi (in Hindi, for example) samosa!
 वेगेताब्ले समोसा
This is a bit of a weekend project. An essential form of childcare for me, as you may have surmised, involves a project with at least two children and a general writing off of the kitchen. Try this. I will say that you need to get the pastry nice and thin; other than that, don't fuss at the offspring: these will taste wonderful even if they have been dropped on the floor.

Makes 20-24.

180g plain white flour
Fat pinch of salt
4 level tbs soft unsalted butter

So, this is for your pastry. Get a child to do it (it'll get their hands clean! I'm joking, of course) and then finish off the rubbing in so that it's like fine breadcrumbs. Actually, I'm sure you know how to make pastry. Just add some water --say 5tbs, but take it bit by bit-- until you have a smooth ball and put it to one side. And an important thing about pastry is that it likes to be kept cool. Then it will behave better.

For the filling, try this for starters. As you get more confident, you could try adding other fillings: keema (minced lamb) some finely chopped chicken or even prawns. But always with potato: that's what makes these so good, I think.

4 medium potatoes, cut into small dice (or cook in larger pieces and then dice them when they are cooked)
1 onion, finely chopped
170g frozen peas
1 finely chopped red or green chilli
salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper
1 dsp cumin seeds; ditto coriander: bash them up a bit first. Use a pestle and mortar.
1tbs finely chopped fresh ginger
1 dsp yellow mustard seeds
1 dsp garam masala

First, cook your potatoes until they are well done, adding the frozen peas just before they get to this point. You could also plonk a bit of frozen spinach in with them when they are cooking. Very good for you. Drain well and mash the potatoes and peas.

Now fry off the chopped onion in a bit of sunflower oil or ghee (clarified butter) and then add the spices. Don't let them burn. Cook gently for a couple of minutes and then add the potatoes to the frying pan. Mix well and cook for another minute. Taste, taste and see if you are happy. A little lemon or lime juice might be good here.

I have to say that the next bit is where I might disappoint Madhur Jaffrey or Vicky Bhogal. I roll my pastry out and cut it into about 24 squares and, having filled them with about a dessertspoonful of the mixture, I then fold them into triangles, folding the edges together neatly, dampening them down with a little water and trimming them, if necessary, with a sharp knife or my cooking scissors. If you want to be fabulously authentic, may I suggest that you repair to one of the above authors and follow their instructions for folding!

Now, the key points about samosas. Fry them slowly in shallow hot oil, turning once or twice, until they are golden brown and very crisp. Also, if you keep the filling to between a dessertspoon and a tablespoon, they should not explode. Keep the pastry thin and drain them well on kitchen paper after you've fried them and they won't be greasy, either.

I like these with a sharp tamarind and mind fresh chutney. Mix two tablespoons of tamarind paste with six tablespoons of water. It is watery, in case you were wondering. Salt and sugar to taste (although I dispense with the latter) and a big bunch of finely chopped fresh mint. OR, the same of tamarind and thick Greek yoghurt to taste with a good pinch of salt.

Alternatively, I was once served a lovely chutney for these which consisted of good thick yoghurt, tamarind paste and mint jelly from a jar. And a related household tip from my plumber which I cannot resist passing on: this thick green gelatinous stuff is brilliant for smearing on your taps and shower head in hard water areas. It clings, you see. Leave it overnight and your limescale is history. He advises you to go to Lidl for the best value mint jelly. It also has no bits! This is a jolly useful text, isn't it?

Boiled bacon and parsley sauce.

This says home --in at least four family houses-- to me. It's just a boiled hock of ham, cut into thick slices and served with whole carrots, potatoes (floury if you can but, as it's summer, some new little ones would be good, too) and a proper parsely sauce. Sometimes, my mother made this with butter beans rather than potatoes. I will say, though, that plenty of black pepper to grind over the top is a must. As is a splash of vinegar -- and I mean malt vinegar. Cheap as chips.

And yes I know I've called it bacon -- but that's because my family does. If you look back at my July the 4th ham, you'll see some clarification. Instead of the ham hock, you could use a decent piece of gammon which could be cheaper.

Get together a 2kg ham
6-8 medium potatoes (or, say, 12 smaller ones)
12 medium carrots
Your biggest pan!

So, first boil your ham. I'd think a 2kg ham hock should do it, with seconds and hopefully a few leftovers. Put it in a big saucepan filled with cold water. Bring it to the boil and simmer for around an hour and forty minutes. At which time, you would add the potatoes and the carrots to the pan. The potatoes should be in large chunks or whole if they are smaller; the carrots whould be whole, but cut in half or even in three sections, lengthwise, if they are on the big side. Cook the lot for another twenty minutes and during this time make your parsley sauce. You may prefer to cook your potatoes and carrots in two separate pans. I prefer not to for the sake of economy (as in fuel and washing up).

Make a roux in a small saucepan with about a tablespoon of plain flour and 50g of butter. Cook it very gently. Then add the milk --it's a good idea to whisk it-- about 500ml, a little at a time until you have a smooth mixture. Now simmer this very gently for around five minutes, add the chopped parsely and season to taste. Full fat milk is nicest (no surprises there) but semi skimmed is what I have to hand in our house.

Now, when you have made the sauce and the two hour ham cooking time is up, take out your ham, slice it into generous pieces and give everyone some potatoes and carrots. Hand round the parsley sauce. I have never known anyone not to be grateful for a dinner such as this.

Those butter beans. If you want, soak some butter beans overnight or for about 8 hours. I'd give precise measurements, but it seems simpler to suggest allowing two handfuls of dried butterbeans per person. Cook them with the ham for the second hour. They should be soft but not have turned to mush. And I don't think this recipe works with tinned butterbeans, which seem to have been boiled to death and acquired an unpleasant acidic tang into the bargain -- but correct me if you've found some better ones.

The leftover ham would be splendid with a good salad or in sandwiches with pickle. And don't waste that ham stock. I mentioned that with the July 4th ham. Turn it into a split pea soup (there should be twice as much liquid in volume as lentils) or do the same with fresh or frozen green peas, in which case liquidise or hand blend the soup after you have brought it to the boil and simmered for ten minutes.

A simple summer salad

Just right for this time of year

The ingredients of this could vary, but I like it as is and make it plentifully in the summer. Put on six eggs to boil and, when they have cooked for about four minutes, take them out and leave them to cool -- or just refill their cooking pan with cold water and leave them in it.

Take a green lettuce. How about a butterhead or some cos -- or just any proper floppy lettuce from your garden? Wash it and dry it well and put it in a bit wide bowl. Now add a small bunch of radishes, topped and tailed as necessary (although you can eat the green tops, too) and cut into slices. Chop a bunch of spring onions into small pieces. Tap the eggs all around --I tend to bash them on the side of the sink-- so that the shell cracks. Peel it off, rinse and dry the eggs and cut them in half. Fluff up all the ingredients in the bowl and add the eggs. Dress the salad at the last minute with a dressing of three parts extra virgin olive oil to one part white wine vinegar or lemon juice. Season well. You could add some finely chopped fresh herbs, such as parsley or, my favourite, chervil.

That's it. Just a simple summer salad. You could serve it with some cheese and bread -- or with the leftover ham from the next recipe.

Coming back from the brink dinner.

When you've been ill, had your heart broken, been bereaved, you need good food. Sometimes, upset can bring a hearty appetite with it. Either way, we need to tempt you. Thus far, you've survived: can there be something to celebrate? How I hope so.

I tend to roast things when solace is required. You know: home and hearth. And I tend to come back to a roast chicken dinner -- but here is another idea which I will probably manage some time soon. It's what my mother used to cook for her Easter meal and sometimes for midsummer, too. I have a sweet memory of recovering from mumps as a child. Still in my nightdress, she took me out to the garden and there, inside the long feathery arms of the willow tree, were a table, cushions, four cousins and one aunt. And we ate roast turkey with all the trimmings. Me in my nightie, with sweet peas on it, aged eight. I'm not sure how much I ate but sitting there, in the summer warmth, it was seared in my memory. Being loved. Feeling better. Next to the willow was a hazel tree which my father planted on the day I was born. He was, for me --they both were-- of few words. But he was, like Thomas Hardy's hope for himself, "a man who used to notice such things."

Read on. The table in the willow's arms is not obligatory. But even now, I like to build a den. Try it.

Roast turkey
Stuffing
Carrots
Cabbage
Roast potatoes
Gravy

For your turkey, a Kelly bronze is what you are after. Like chicken, though, I won't touch it if it's not free range. Weight would be 5-6 kg. When you first get it home, remember to remove the giblets because you will use them to make gravy. Get the turkey to room temperature first. While this is happening, pop the giblets into a pan with water to cover, give the liver to the cat and bring to the boil (the giblets and water, not the cat) and leave to summer very gently. This will form the basis for your turkey gravy.

When the chill of the fridge has lessened, rinse the inside of the bird with cold water and then blot the bird dry (with a kitchen towel, she hastens to add: but you knew that!). Brush some melted butter over the turkey breast or just squish some pieces onto it, here and there.

Now, as with chicken, I cook the turkey upside down first. As with chicken, the fattest bits are in the back and, cooked this way, the fat bastes the meat, percolates down through it and keeps it all succulent. Now cook it at gas 6/200 for about forty minutes and then turn the heat down to 4/180 (I cannot honestly say that my mother or I would always have done this, though). I expect that the turkey will take about two and a half hours. For the last half hour to forty minutes, turn it right side up. That way, you get good meat and proper, sticky skin. The bird is done when the juices run clear. I test where the thigh meats the body. Use a meat thermometer if you lack confidence.

While the turkey is cooking, peel and parboil some potatoes. I'm thinking, as usual, for four to six with seconds. Allow two to three potatoes each. When they are a little softened, but the centre is still not yielding, drain them and then shake them hard against the sides of the pan. Put to one side.

Prepare some carrots. As I've said before, from the garden or organic. When the government suggested we always peel carrots some years back, I thought "Hmmm: time to switch to organic!" I just give the carrots a good scrub (unless they look a bit scruffy still) and cut them into long, thick strips. Put them in a pan and cover them with water. But don't cook them yet. I allow two medium carrots per person.

Prepare some cabbage. Overdo ye not the water. Having said that, I love all sorts of greens: overcooked, done to death, hospital and school dinner sprouts. The lot. I also like a nice perky savoy, well shredded. Pull off any tatty outer leaves, shred and put in a pan just covered with water. Leave to one side. When you've done that, check that the giblets don't need some extra water.

For your stuffing. Now here's a sea change. Our turkey was always stuffed. Because the man from Georgia lives with me (and also because it's easier to time the turkey cooking if the bird is unstuffed), I usually cook it alongside, as he likes it. In his vocabulary, then, it's dressing, not stuffing. Not that I am quite at ease with this state of affairs, I add.

2 large onions finely chopped
125g unsalted butter
1 small handful of sage leaves, finely chopped. Or dried, crumbled. But I do think that dried sage can be a little musty.
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 large egg, beaten
Approximately 120 ml water
500g breadcrumbs. Perhaps have a little more to hand.
A nutmeg to grate into the mixture

Melt the butter, sweat the onions very gently until they are soft and golden, add the sage. In a separate bowl, beat the egg well and add the breadcrumbs. Tip the onions in, add the water (you could add a little of the liquid from the simmering giblets to replace part of the water), season to taste and add a generous grating of fresh nutmeg. I cook this in well buttered dishes for about 40 minutes.

For your roast potatoes. When the turkey is about fifty minutes from done, put a baking dish of hot fat into the oven. Sunflower oil -- up to you. When it's shimmering and very hot, chuck in the potatoes. They will sizzle. Make sure they are coated with the oil (or fat of your choice: my mother used lard and I'm not dead yet). Ten minutes later, put in the stuffing.

The gravy. While that's all cooking, take the giblets from the gravy. Make a roux with a tablespoon or plain flour and a little of the giblet liquor. Now, add the rest of the giblet broth --you will need about 500ml in total-- and cook gently until smooth. Keep to one side.

About five minutes before the turkey has had its allotted cooking time, put the cabbage and carrot on to cook. You can now turn up the oven temperature to blitz the potatoes so that they crisp up. Be careful not to burn the stuffing, though.

When your turkey is done, take it out of the oven and leave it to rest on a plate. Pour off some of the fat from the roasting tin, then put the tin on the hob and scrape and scrape to get at all the good bits which will have stuck to the pan. These are the caramelised meat juices and you musn't waste them! Add the roux, cooking it very gently. Then add the broth from the giblets, making sure there are no lumps. By now, your vegetables should be done. Drain them and add a little water from the carrot pan to the gravy. Bring to the boil, stir well and check for seasoning.
Put your turkey on the table. Take the potatoes out, shake them well to dislodge any that have welded themselves to the dish (the best ones!), put the vegetables in three dishes (I like plain white ones), put the stuffing in a bowl and put the gravy in a jug. All is well. You might like proper English trifle for afters. Read on.

Quiche Lorraine.

Subtitled: how to make something very fine. Luxurious. Comforting. Of something which is so often destroyed.

Elizabeth David once decribed this quiche as a culinary dustbin. She was right. I was reading in a popular magazine last night all about a 'luxury quiche Lorraine' which contained onions, lots of herbs, mushrooms all manner of things. Nice, maybe, but not really a simple and splendid Quiche Lorraine. And, in my view, luxury often derives from simplicity.

I have an important food memory of being served this, in a big slice, somewhere near Strasbourg in Lorraine and Alsace. I was a feisty teenager of 17 taken on holiday, alone, with my parents. And this, as my mother said, shut me up. It was hot from the oven. My first globe artichoke did the same thing on that trip. I thought it was so beautiful, but did not know what to do with it. Now I do, the rest is silence

A proper quiche was also one of the first things I was ever taught to make. It was, along with a cake for the week ahead, my Sunday afternoon project as a child.

250g of shortcrust pastry. I should say make your own, having harped on about simplicity and luxury above. But I don't always.
4 large eggs, beaten well.
40g smoked bacon. Buy the best you can (as in naturally smoked, not smoke flavoured by something scary) and dice it. I snip mine with kitchen scissors, then fry it gently for a few minutes.
450 ml double cream
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1-2 teaspoons of unsalted butter to dot on top.

And nothing else!

Just line a pie or flan dish (20cm) with your pastry. My mother always kept some white beans (haricots, I believe) to use as baking beans. To be sure that your pastry won't collapse, you add the beans to the pastry and then part cook. Five to ten minutes should do it at gas 6/200. If you are confident, though, just prick the pastry gently with a fork before you add the filling.

Now beat the eggs and cream welll together and season with a small pinch of salt and a good grind of pepper. Scatter the bacon pieces evenly across the dish and pour over this liquid. Finish by breaking the butter into little pieces and dotting them here and there on top. Now bake the lot for about 25 minutes. If it looks well set before this -- pierce the middle gently with a skewer-- take it out. Be careful not to over-do it, though.

I would serve this hot, quite unadorned, on a plate. It needs no other accompaniment, but I might like a tomato or green salad afterwards. This was, in fact, a perfect Saturday lunch for me.

Chicken obsession.

I am aware that I mention chicken a lot in my writing. I just think that, for a small guy, your average chicken gives us a great deal. So, while I had cheese on toast (see previous recipe) for tea last night, I'll detail yesterday's chicken adventures. It's July, but this could have happened at any time of year in our house -- give or take the variation of a few seasonal greens from the garden.

First, you roast a large free range chicken. So about a 4 kg bird. I no longer even look at weights or timings; I just roast it breast down for half an hour or so (the oven is on 200), turn it over and cook it until the juices run clear when you pierce its thickest part: that's where the thigh meets the body. It will smell wonderful and its skin will be golden; there will be nuggets of caramelised juices around the chicken in the roasting tin.

Oh -- why roast breast down first? Because the greatest deposits of fat are on the underside, so roasting upside down allows the fat to percolate down through the meat, moistening it.

Lunch was another sublime chicken sandwich

I shredded some hot breast meat with my hands and then piled it inside a warmed tortilla with some butterhead lettuce from my neighbour's garden, a good dollop of sweet chilli pickle and the same of Greek yoghurt. A sprinkling of sea salt. I ate in the garden with the juices dripping down my front. Had to change my clothes.

Dinner for hungry young children.
Not all of this has something to do with chicken -- but perhaps it's a useful digression.

Elijah and Isaac were ravenous when they came home from school. The chicken was still warm and they ate the legs and wings with hunks of cucumber and carrot and -- I'm aware this is hideously middle class- they asked for sea salt (most specifically) to sprinkle on it.

Pudding was what we refer to as never-ending ice cream

Rather than give the children spoonfuls from a big tub, buy them a small tub each. That is, one that is, I suppose, intended to be two helpings for an adult. They get excited about this because they get to have the whole of something and each time they add more sprinkles, chocolate buttons and chocolate sauce.It's novel; it makes them happy; be careful they don't dribble in it. I suspect this breaks hygiene rules, but so far, so good. Back to the chicken.

A chicken salad for summer with seasonal variation!


Tea done, I pulled the rest of (most of) the lumps of white meat from the chicken. About five handfuls. Into a big bowl they went. Then, on a chopping board, I minced half a fresh red chilli, 4 spring onions (all the green, too!), two carrots and one yellow pepper. I added a dessertspoon of Marigold Bouillon powder, which is a trusty staple of mine: I use the reduced salt version. In went the chicken, followed by lots of freshly ground black pepper and the juice of a lemon. To this you add 180g of previously cooked and cooled plain couscous. Mix well. Check for seasoning,.

Voila! This fed one adult for dinner, me as a little snack at 5 p.m. and did lunch today for me, too.

But we're not done yet! Chicken soup.

This time, I was not making stock, but a soup with plenty of meat left on the carcass. Just put what's left of the chicken in a big deep pan, cover with cold water and then add about twice as much again in volume. Add three large potatoes, peeled (or not if they are new), a fat bunch of broccoli,with only the toughest end of the stem removed and four carrots, chunked. Add another green vegetable, if you have it.I also added, for extra succour, a tablespoon of the Marigold bouillon I mentioned above.

Bring the soup to the boil and then simmer for about forty minutes. By this time, the meat will have fallen away from the bone, the vegetables will be soft and the broccoli will have virtually melted into the soup. Today, that's what I'm after. Check for seasoning and, when the soup is cooler, strip away the meat still on the bones and remove all the rest of the chicken bones from the soup. I don't mind with other meat if all the bones are still there; with chicken, I do. I would also remove the skin*, as it does not look or taste so good (if only in texture) when boiled in a soup. In reality, my children will probably have stripped it all off the chicken anyway.

This soup fed a weary traveller at 10 p.m. and will do dinner tonight for two, with possible seconds. Bread and cheese.


*Stretching the Meat

I have seen, in more than a few recipes from the American South, descriptions of how nothing, historically, was wasted. If you had some chicken skins, you would cut them into little pieces and then either roast them in the oven or fry them in a pan. They should be very crispy. Then, for example, just add them to a dish of mashed potatoes. It gives the potatoes a little crunch here and there plus a hit of deep savoury flavour. And that, so you see, is called stretching the meat.You'll either like this, or you won't. If you want to know more about such good sense, though, may I introduce you to Dori Saunders? She's billed as "America's favourite peach farmer" and grew up on one of the oldest African American-owned farms in South Carolina.I especially like Country Cooking. Recipes and Stories from the Family Farm Stand.

And Ladies and Gentlemen, now we have expended the chicken --and I hope nothing was wasted.