Happy together

Olive oil, garlic, peperoncino, anchovies, tomatoes, capers, black olives, parsley and spaghetti.

Spaghetti alla puttanesca.

There are several stories and myths as to the origins of this happy combination of ingredients commonly known as spaghetti alla puttanesca which literally translated means ‘Whore’s spaghetti.’

Are you sitting uncomfortably?

One story suggests that the dish was invented at the beginning of the 20th century by the proprietor – lets call him Ciro and imagine he is very rotund – of a brothel in the Spanish Quarter of Naples who would make this simple and tasty dish for his clients and his working girls between appointments. A smart flourish to the story is the suggestion that the colours of the sauce, the red of the tomatoes, the vibrant green of the parsley, the grey-green of the capers, the deep violet of the olives and the burgundy of the peperoncino mirrored the vibrant eye-catching colours of the clothes and undergarments of the girls working at the brothel…..

Some say a prostitute called Yvette la Francese originally from Provence created the sauce to ease her homesickness and longing for the Provencal flavours of her home…….olives, capers, anchovies, tomatoes. With a delicious swipe of irony she named it after the oldest profession in the world

Others say the sauce was created just after the second world war on the Island of Ishia – which lies about 50km from the coast of Napoli – by an eccentric and notoriously hospitable painter called Eduardo Colucci. The story suggests that during one of his summer retreats to a tiny and simple cabin that nestled amongst the olive groves at Punta Molino he made an improvised supper for his various and very eclectic group of friends who lounged on the terrace. It was based on his speciality the classic marinara sauce but as it evolved he renamed it puttesesca…… the exact reason is not clear.

But who wants clear, this kind of story is much more interesting with a little ambiguity.

Another story is that the dish was invented in the 1950s by a certain Sandro Petti, co-owner of the famous restaurant and nightspot Rancio Fellone and proud owner of the best brill creamed quiff* on the island of Ishcia . One evening just as the restaurant was about to close Petti found a group of hungry friends sitting at one of his tables. He shrugged his shoulders, it was late, he was low on ingredients and he didn’t have enough to make them a meal. But they raised their hands in despair and cried “mamma mia abbiamo fame* facci una puttanata qualsiasi” or “ mamma mia we are hungry make us any kind of garbage.” Used like this puttanata is a noun meaning garbage or something worthless, even though it derives from the Italian word for whore, puttana. Petti, the story continues, had nothing more than four tomatoes, two olives and some capers; the basic ingredients for the sugo so he used them to make the sauce for the spaghetti.  From that day forth Petti included this dish on his menu as spaghetti alla puttanesca…..

It seems the last story is probably the most likely.

I prefer the first one.

Or maybe the third one, Colucci and his eclectic friends.

I am undecided.

Anyway whatever the origins, it is a most delicious and happy combination of flavours……

Oh, If you like olives, capers, anchovies, pepperoncino, parsley, garlic and spaghetti that is?

Flavours so quintessentially of southern Italy.

We often have this for lunch; because it’s so delicious, because we always have the ingredients in the cupboard and because the sauce, the puttanesca, takes about the same amount of time to make as it takes to bring the pasta water to a fast boil and then to cook the pasta.

It’s like this.

While you bring a large pan of well salted water to the boil for the pasta you put the olive oil, minced garlic and peperoncino into a frying pan over a very gentle flame so the oil warms slowly and the garlic softens (but doesn’t brown) for about 5 – 10 minutes. Then add the anchovies to the pan and keeping the flame really low gently prod and stir them until they dissolve and ‘melt’ into the oil. Now you add the tomatoes to the pan and raise the heat a little so everything reaches a bubbling simmer. Then you add the capers, tomato puree, olives and stir.

By now the pasta water should have reached a fast boil so begin cooking the spaghetti.

Allow the sauce to bubble away and reduce a little and then add the parsley. Once the spaghetti is al dente – this will depend on your spaghetti, we use Garofalo and this takes about 8 minutes – drain it and then tip both the sauce and spaghetti into a warm serving bowl mix gently but firmly and the divide between warm bowls.

This was our lunch, we also had a salad of fennel and orange and some rather nice grapes, musky and sweet.

I know that this kind of pasta with such strong and particular flavours needs to be a very personal thing, the recipe is a loose guide and not a set of rules….you can experiment….if you like anchovies you might like to add more, if you find capers overwhelming, add less or leave them out, how salty are your olives ? how hot is your chilli?…you know better than me.

Spaghetti alla puttanesca

Adapted from Le Ricette Regionale Italiane

Serves 4

• 6 tbsp of good olive oil
• 1 plump clove of garlic, peeled and finely minced
• 1 small fresh or dried peperoncino/ red chilli deseeded and chopped finely
• 8 anchovy fillets (ideally preserved under salt but in oil are fine)
• 350g red, ripe tomatoes. Skinned, deseeded and roughly chopped or 350g of tinned peeled plum tomatoes without the juice.
• 2 tbsp tomato puree
• 100g pitted black olives
• 1 large tbsp capers (ideally preserved under salt but in brine are fine)
• 2 tbsp of roughly chopped parsley
• 400g best quality spaghetti

Bring a large pan of well salted water to the boil for the pasta

If you are using capers preserved under salt soak them in warm water for 2 minutes and then rinse them very carefully. If you are using anchovies preserved under salt soak them in water for 15 minutes and then remove the backbone and rinse them very carefully

Put the olive oil, minced garlic and peperoncino into a frying pan over a very gentle flame and let the garlic soften (but not brown) and the flavours release into the oil – this should take about 10 minutes if the flame is gentle enough.

Peel, deseed and roughly chop the tomatoes.

Add the anchovies to the pan and keeping the flame really low gently prod and stir them until they dissolve into the oil. Now add the tomatoes to the pan and raise the heat a little so the pan reaches a bubbling simmer. Add the capers, tomato puree and the olives and stir.

By now the pasta water should have reached a fast boil so begin cooking the spaghetti.

Allow the sauce to bubble away and reduce a little and then add the parsley, stir.

Once the spaghetti is al dente – this will depend on your spaghetti, we use Garofalo and this takes about 8 minutes – drain it and then tip both the sauce and spaghetti into a warm serving bowl.

Mix gently but firmly and then divide between warm bowls.

* I made this up.

Thick and thin

Slow roast pork, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, apple sauce and bread sauce.

Bread sauce, I know, a little out-of-place, but someone insisted.

It had been a while since I’d made a stoutly English Sunday lunch, roast meat heavy, roast potatoes, two vegetables, gravy, appropriate sauce and trimmings accompanied by plenty of red wine and eaten in good company. Best followed by a proper pudding with cream and permission to sidle sideways from the table into the nearest comfy chair with the Sunday newspaper from where you may slip into a postprandial nap with aforementioned paper over face at any given moment, low-level snoring allowed.

It’s one of my favourite meals, of which there are many, but one of my favourites nonetheless.

I didn’t grow up in a particularly traditional family and things were far from straightforward, but we did – through thick and very thin - have a traditional Sunday lunch ‘Sunday Roast‘ nearly every week. A meal as much about family, friends, home, and being together as the food.The food, a reassuring rotation of roasts – beef, lamb, pork, chicken, turkey, duck – accompanied by the appropriate sauce – horseradish, mint, apple, bread, Cumberland, prune – the right vegetables, trimmings and stuffing, gravy and always lots of roast potatoes.

As a child I not only adored the lunch, I adored the ritual and routine of it all. Vegetables being peeled as the late Sunday breakfast things were being cleared away, the piece of meat perched on the counter. Setting the table with the nice plates and Grandma Roddy’s bone handle cutlery. The smell of roasting meat curling through the house and the heady whiff of my grandma’s sherry and my Mum’s Gin and it. The flurry of activity and hands needed in the last 10 minutes to drain vegetables, make gravy, decant sauce, warm plates, shout then howl up the stairs to gather everyone to the table. My Dad carving. My grandpa Roddy worried my Mum had undercooked the vegetables and that he may choke to death on a green bean, the clatter of serving spoons and bumping of elbows as everyone filled and the more pedantic arranged their plates. The silence that descended as everyone took the first few mouthfuls….

Ironically it was probably during my unhappy teenage years and the mess of my early twenties, when I struggled my way through such lunches, eating and contributing very little or simply avoided them, that I most valued Sunday lunch, the ritual, the routine, the solidity of it all.It was a fixed point, constant when I wasn’t.

Sunday lunch and all it stood for – good food warmly given – waited for me to come back. Which I did eventually, by which time our Sunday Lunches were broader and more expansive, we all had partners, extended families and homes of our own. The cooking was shared and the lunch eaten at various tables. Of course tensions sometimes bubbled and simmered away like the gravy, occasionally spitting to the surface like potatoes hitting hot fat in the meat tin, But the meal remained constant and at its heart the proud resolute roast, with potatoes, two vegetable and appropriate sauce and trimmings.

I suppose it makes sense that when I came to Italy a stout English Sunday lunch was one of the first things I really missed. Even amongst all the gloriously good Italian food and I mean gloriously good and the joys of I Pranzi di Domenica I missed it. Because it wasn’t just the food -although I missed that too, particularly rib of beef with horseradish – it was the tradition, ritual, family and friends being together however difficult, my other home in England.

I missed it all…

It’s strange but didn’t occur to me for quite some time that could make us an English Sunday lunch in Rome. I think that’s because said lunches had become all muddled up with nostalgia and my homesickness, the here and there, England and Italy which I’d polarized the idea that my life was like that and now it’s like this.  Anyway, it wasn’t as if I was completely bereft of English Sunday lunches, occasional trips back were tiding me over.

It was only when I realised that I was really putting down roots in Rome, slowly starting to assume very Italian eating habits and becoming part of an Italian family with its own deeply entrenched rituals and routines around food that I made a silent promise to myself to cook us English Sunday Lunch at least once a month.

I haven’t quite kept my promise

But nearly.

Last Sunday it was roast pork, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, apple sauce and bread sauce. This is my second favourite Sunday lunch, just piped at the post by rib of beef with yorkshire pudding.

For this kind of lunch I like either a proper roast leg of pork or a shoulder of pork on the bone both cooked with the skin on for a carapace of amber crackling. This presents a problem here in Italy as meat is butchered differently and skin is more often than not removed. Luckily I have a very obliging butcher who will get me most things even strange English cuts if I ask him in advance. Unfortunately I forgot to ask in advance. Fortunately my butcher had a very nice shoulder of pork with no bone and no skin but a nice, thick layer of fat which could handle a slow roast.

Slow roasted shoulder of pork with potatoes

• 2kg shoulder of pork with skin or a very good layer of fat.
• salt and freshly round black pepper
• 2 onions,peeled and halved
• 6 whole peeled carrots
• 1.5 potatoes peeled and cut into 4 or 6 depending on size
• stick of celery
• bay leaf

Dry the joint. If it has skin score the skin with a sharp knife. Rub the joint with salt and then put if fat/skin side up I put in a hot oven (220°/475f) for 30 minutes.

Cover the joint very snugly with a double layer of foil and put it back in the oven at 170°/325f for 3 hours.

Remove the joint and the foil. Lift the joint aside and pour off most of the meat juices and fat into a small pan leaving just enough to roast the coat the vegetables. Add all the vegetables to the tin. Using a wooden spoon nudge the vegetables around the tin so they are all well coated with fat and meat juices. Put the joint back on top of the vegetables, baste it with a little of the fat and juices you have poured off.

Put the joint back in the oven uncovered for another 45 minutes nudging and turning the potatoes every now and then.

Remove the joint from the oven and lift it onto a carving board and cover it with a layer of foil to rest for 15 minutes. Put the potatoes back in the oven for another 15 minutes.

Using a slotted spoon lift the potatoes and carrots to a warm serving dish.

By now in the little pan the fat should have separated from the meat juices and you should be able to pour the fat off into a little bowl use another day and you are then left with small quantity of intensely flavoured pork juice to use a gravy.

Braised red cabbage

I have a soft spot for this red cabbage, I can be funny and fussy about sweet and sour and too much jammy sweetness in my savory food, but this recipe works beautifully. It is best made a day in advance and gently reheated. I’ve posted about this before, the proper title is Braised red cabbage cooked in the Viennese fashion and you thicken the cabbage with cream and flour at the end of cooking. For a Sunday lunch like this – especially one with bread sauce – I don’t add the cream and flour but you might like to.

Adapted from Nigella Lawson’s book How to Eat.

• A large red cabbage
• a large spanish onion
• 50g butter
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 tablespoons of soft brown muscavado sugar
• a large cooking apple
• 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 100ml red wine
• 200ml water or beef stock

Cut the cabbage into quarters, discard the outer leaves, cut away the hard central core and shred each quarter finely. I prefer to do this by hand but then I have no alternative.

Peel and slice the onion finely. In a large, deep heavy based pan, gently melt the butter and oil over a moderate flame and add the sliced onion. Saute the onion until it is soft and translucent and just starting to colour.

Add the sugar to the onion and stir well. Add the cabbage to the pan and stir well to coat all the cabbage.

Quarter the apple, core but do not peel, chop it into little chunks and add to the pan, stir again.

Add the vinegar to the pan, stir, season with salt and freshly ground black pepper, stir and cover. Cook over the moderate flame for 15 minutes.

Heat the oven to 150°

After 15 mins add the water or stock and red wine and put the pan in the oven to simmer away for for 2 hours.

Taste to check the sweet/ sour balance and add a little more vinegar or sugar – but go easy here

Jane Grigson’s Bread Sauce

Adapted from English food

I adore bread sauce but not quite as much as my little sister Rosie and now rather surprisingly Vincenzo. It’s a bit out-of-place with the Roast pork I know, a better partner for roast chicken or game. But Vincenzo doesn’t eat pork and loves bread sauce with his potatoes and I love him more than our family rules about sauce/meat pairings.

• 1 small onion, peeled but left whole and stuck with six cloves
• 500ml rich milk
• 90 – 125g  fresh breadcrumbs from the soft inside of a very good loaf.
• nutmeg
• salt
• white pepper
• 50g  butter
• 2 tbsp thick cream
• cayenne pepper

Put the milk and clove studded onion into a basin balanced over a pan of simmering water on a low flame and bring to a just below boiling point. The idea is to infuse the milk with the flavour of onion and cloves so the longer the milk takes to come to the boil the better. ( about an hour).

Remove the onion and then keeping the basin over the water whisk in 3/4 of the breadcrumbs. Keep whisking gently until the sauce thickens. If it seems a little thin – bread sauce should not spread very much when spooned on to the plate – add more breadcrumbs. If it seems so firm that the spoon stands up in it, add a little more milk,

Season with nutmeg, salt and white pepper.

Stir in the butter and cream and put into a warm serving bowl or jug and then sprinkle a little cayenne pepper on top.

Put the cayenne pepper on the table for those who like their sauce fairly hot.

Nigella Lawson’s Apple sauce

Adapted from How to eat

• 50g butter
• 3 cooking apples (about 1kg) peeled, cored and cut into chunks
• 75g sugar
• 3 cloves
• juice of half a lemon
• good pinch of salt

Put all the ingredients in a heavy based saucepan and then cover the pan and cook over a medium heat for about 15 minutes – lifting the lid every now and then to prod and turn everything – when the apples should have collapsed into a soft, lumpy, heap.

Pass half the apple mixture through a fine sieve and then mix it back with the unsieved mixture.

Taste adding more sugar, lemon juice or salt of necessary. It should be sweet but not sickly so.

If you feel the mixture is too runny you can boil it down a little – like bread sauce, apple sauce shouldn’t spread too much when you spoon it on the plate, it should sit in a well-behaved little pile. If it seems to thick add more butter or lemon juice.

A note about pudding.

Bread and butter pudding made with panettone. To be continued……

Yet again

Soup….

Potato soup this time or zuppa di patate if you like, with very large parmesan toasts.

I know I swore off writing about soup and soup-like-things for a while.

Is two weeks a while?

Actually I’m not really sure what I was thinking anyway, not writing about soup! It wouldn’t feel right around here, it certainly wouldn’t feel as if I was sharing what we put on the table day in day out because very often – for either lunch or supper – we have soup, invariably hearty, often thickened with pasta and always accompanied by bread.

I’d had my eye on this recipe from Elizabeth David’s Italian food for a while before I finally made it. It sounded like just the thing for one of our soup lunches…….if it worked? For I have to admit for all my curiosity and as much as I wanted it to work, I did wonder if the soup might be a little austere – olive oil, a large potato, an onion, bread, water – not that far removed from something out of a novel by Dickens’ thats simmered up in a vast pot then ladled out by Mr Bumble to dirty, misfortunate and undernourished orphans… I also imagined the soup to be very very beige………. beige, frugal, austere, undernourished……..

Am I winning you over here ?

Actually I’m not being fair, the recipe isn’t really that austere, there’s stock or a little bacon, olive oil, nutmeg, parmesan for goodness sake, I overlooked them in favour of my Dickensian exaggeration. A better description would be simple and quite humble, both good things in my book.

Anyway I was curious.

I probably wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been Elizabeth David’s recipe, because as you may have gathered – I can be very tedious about these things – I am quite devoted to both her writing and her recipes. She’s the person who has most inspired, influenced and educated my cooking and my eating habits and I trust her excellent taste.

Like any self-respecting devotee I have all her books – two editions of several – which I refer to as ‘my favourites’  either with the enthusiasm of a  7-year-old child talking about chocolate biscuits or with my earnest fervour usually reserved for paintings by old masters. I am slightly obsessive and possessive, I don’t believe anyone likes her quite as much as I do and I’m very put out if they do……

Following her recipes though….

For some reason I get anxious, the cooking equivalent of being tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of someone significant. Following her recipes matters, like trying to please your favourite teacher or attempting to make a cake just like your grandma did from her ancient illegible recipe…it really matters…. My anxiety is exacerbated because even though Elizabeth David describes things beautifully and with painstaking detail she can just as easily be laconic and impressionistic which can leave me – pedantically following her every word – a little lost.

The first time I make an Elizabeth David recipe is usually a rather emotional experience that sees much muttering to myself…..Take this soup for example, a very basic recipe of 6 sentences. The first sentence reads like this; ‘Cut the potatoes into thin strips, as if you were going to make very small chips.’ Easy…..Oh dear Elizabeth, I have fallen at the first hurdle, what kind of chips ? are we talking French or English fish’n'chip shop chips here, Thin, how thin, skinny, I fear this is fundamental. Next, ‘Chop the onion’. How Elizabeth, how ? diced, in two (you never know) half-moons, fine, rough and chunky, I wouldn’t care if this was anyone else but it’s you Elizabeth. I sometimes even imagine her voice – I’ve read she didn’t suffer fools gladly – ‘Oh for god’s sake just chop them you foolish girl, use your common sense’ she says disapprovingly before pulling on her slim cigarette.  Another one, ‘Brown the onion’ oh bloody hell, the onion, the one I have chopped incorrectly, I know this really matters, it’s a flavour thing which could make or break my soup… soft golden brown, chestnut-brown, dark french onion soup brown which I know from experience is a minefield, caramelized to carbonized before your very eyes.

I could go on, I could talk about other recipes that have left me paralysed with indecision..but won’t, needless to say this pantomime continues until whatever I am making is on the table.

This might all sound rather an unpleasant experience, it isn’t, I like it. I adore cooking from her books. First she captures me with her words and then leads me through each recipe, sometimes with exquisite detail, sometimes with sweeping brevity that encourages me to think and work with the ingredients, to struggle just a little, to mutter and talk to myself in a slightly deranged way and argue myself to various conclusions. In short to make the recipe my own.

So, the soup.

The zuppa di patate con crostini or the potato soup with very large parmesan toasts.

It works.

It’s a lovely soup, the final bowlful is so much more than just a sum of the individual parts. Yes it’s quite frugal, but in a nice way, the flavours are lovely and pure, a soft, gentle potato and onion soup with body but not too much (you are going to add bread afterall, parmesan toasts no less) spiked with bacon, thyme and nutmeg…

Maybe it would help if you read the recipe

Zuppa di patate from Elizabeth David’s Italian food

For four people prepare 10oz (280g)potatoes, 1 medium-sized onion and 8 small slices of bread. You also need 2 pints (1.1litres) broth, 3 tbsp of olive oil, thyme, salt, pepper, grated cheese, nutmeg and 2oz (60g) butter.

Cut the potatoes in thin strips, as if you were going to make very small chips. Chop the onion. Heat the olive oil in the saucepan, brown the onion, then add the potatoes and season them with salt pepper, nutmeg and thyme. Pour over the boiling broth. In 15 minutes the soup will be ready.

To go with it, prepare the following crostini: saturate the slices of bread with melted butter; spread them thickly with grated parmesan and cook them in a moderate oven (180°/350F/gas mark 4) for 10 minutes.

This soup, which is good and so easy to cook, can be made with water instead of stock provided a little bacon or ham (about 2oz/60g) is cooked with the onion to give it flavour.

I expect you are wondering what on earth I was going on about, it all looks straightforward enough you are thinking…..she must be quite incapable.

I fear you may be right

Anyway. I have made this soup both ways, first with chicken stock and then with plain boiling water but adding some bacon to the onion. I liked both, but maybe the plain boiling water kept the flavours purer and simpler

The parmesan toasts, These were a revelation – I like her description so much, particularly the use of the word saturate – I am going to type it out again.

Prepare the following crostini: saturate the slices of bread with melted butter; spread them thickly with grated parmesan and cook them in a moderate oven (180°/350F/gas mark 4) for 10 minutes.

They were as nice as they sound, I think I might be making these rather alot.

Just for the record, in case you were wondering, I cut my potatoes into 2″ long 5mm wide sticks, I diced the onion finely and my brown was golden, texture like sun. When the soup was cooked I also mashed some of the soft potato sticks against the side of the pan with a fork to thicken things up.

Pause for breath.

I am not really sure where all this came from today, can you find the recipe in today’s muddle? Do you want to? I fear this whole post is rather like the deranged muttering I do whilst cooking……… Anyway I hope have a good weekend wherever you are.

Not quite wordless Wednesday

Saturday lunch

and Sunday lunch

I spent a nice chunk of last weekend reading and cooking from Richard Olney’s Simple French Food.

On Saturday we had Baked fish (sea bass) with potatoes and red onion. Then on Sunday Grape Harvesters Soup ( which is a simple onion soup really served over bread) followed by warm slices of potatoes and hard-boiled egg with shallot dressing and some very nice goats cheese.

We also ate a quite impresssive quantity of clementines and roasted chestnuts.

All of the above deserve more words…….they just haven’t come to me yet.

Lunch

Spaghetti with braised cavolo nero and ricotta

I shouldn’t really be here.

Sorry, let me rephrase that, I should be here, meaning I should be sitting on this wonky chair in front of this ancient computer tip typing away with 3 fingers, I just shouldn’t here here as in racheleats here talking to you about my lunch yesterday.

But I am.

Firstly because I need to puncture the tedium and frustration that is the task presently in my incapable hands and secondly because yesterday’s lunch of spaghetti with cavolo nero (Tuscan kale /black cabbage) and ricotta was so good.

This is the kind of of pasta lunch I like, simple, tasty and a clever combination of good ingredients. Spaghetti tossed with ribbons of cavolo nero -which have been braised into soft tenderness in olive oil, butter, garlic and a little water – to which you add a very large spoonful of ricotta and top with plenty of freshly grated parmesan.

I can’t wait to make it for Vincenzo, I can’t wait to make it again.

I have been meaning to make this for nearly a year now, 359 days to be exact, I know because I just checked, Luisa posted this recipe on the 19th November 2008.  I very nearly made it, it must have been late Jan or early Feb, I bought some cavolo nero and ricotta, I even scribbled – and I mean scribbled, my handwriting is worse than my doctors – the recipe down in my notebook. But with one thing and another it never got made, I seem to remember making a funny ricotta cake thing and we probably ate the cavolo nero braised.

It was nearly again last friday when I spied a very handsome bundle of the long dark green almost blue- black crinkled leaves of cavolo nero at the market. We had some very nice ricotta in the fridge, plenty of spaghetti, it was perfect……here we go I thought…. finally. Then Vincenzo reminded me we had already taken the pesto from the freezer for lunch – damn that pesto I thought – and that the fridge was full of green things that needed attention – damn those other green things, damn that Vincenzo I thought. Needless to say I didn’t buy the cavolo nero.

Until yesterday morning

I’ve always liked kale – particularly cavolo nero – the robust, swarthy, bitter – sweet cousin of cabbage, the rogue cousin, the pirate of the cabbage world. If Johnny Depp* were a cabbage he would be cavolo nero whilst Jude Law would be an easier, accessable, sweeter but frankly rather boring round, smooth white one.

But even though liked it, I never really got to grips with cooking it before I came to Italy. Cavolo nero is hardy, strong in flavour and texture, don’t forget, it’s a cabbage pirate, it’s tough at times, even the smaller more delicate, sweeter central leaves. Cavolo doesn’t scream when it’s picked, it goes grrrrrr* m’ hearty. It needs cooking carefully and for some time if you really want to appreciate the wonderful texture and deep taste……. Italians know this.

In Tuscany it is paired with beans for the robustly delicious soup Ribollita so-called beacuse it is ribollita (reboiled) and eaten the day after being made which improves the flavour, especially of the cavolo. In the south cavolo nero is braised with oil, garlic, peperoncino, a little water and sometimes pancetta until it is soft.

Which brings us back to the recipe, the spaghetti, tossed with the braised cavolo nero and ricotta and topped with parmesan.

There is nothing complicated about this recipe.

Wash and pick over the cavolo nero, discarding any leaves that are damaged or very very large. Then strip the dark leaves from their tough stems, cut them into ribbons and then wilt them down in plenty of olive oil, a knob of butter with garlic and peperoncino over a happy flame. You then add some water and leave the cavolo nero bubbling and braising away, half-covered over a very modest flame for about half an hour in which time it becomes soft and tender.

While you cook your pasta, you carefully mix the braised cavolo nero and the ricotta together in a large warm bowl. THEN you scoop ladleful of the well salted, starchy pasta water from the pan the pasta is rolling around in – the magic ingredient -to add to the cavolo nero/ricotta mixture to thin it into a looser, creamy paste which will coat the pasta.

Finally, drain and add the pasta to the sauce, toss carefully.

Serve in warm bowls, quickly grate over some parmesan, maybe a grind of black pepper, toss everything together again with your fork and EAT.

It’s really delicious by the way.

Spaghetti with Braised Cavolo Nero and Ricotta

Serves 2 as a main course or 4 as starter

Just slightly adapted but wholly inspired by Luisa

• 1 big bunch of cavolo nero (Tuscan kale.Curly kale works well too)
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• small knob of butter or lard
• 2 cloves garlic, peeled and whole but squashed with the back of a knife
• 1/2 a small fresh or dried peperoncino, chopped finely or if dried crushed
• 150g /2/3 cup fresh ricotta
• 300g dried spaghetti
• Parmigiano-Reggiano

Wash the cavolo nero, strip the leaves from the ribs and then chop the leaves into thick ribbons.

Warm the olive oil, butter and garlic in heavy based frying pan, add the peperoncino and the cavolo nero and some salt. Cook over low heat, uncovered, for about 10 minutes by which point the cavolo nero should be good and wilted

Add a cup of water, partially cover the pot and let it cook for another half hour and the cavolo nero is very soft and tender.

In the meantime, put the ricotta in a serving dish and bring a big pan of well salted water to a fast boil for the pasta. When the cavolo nero is cooked, add it to the ricotta and mix well.

Put the pasta into the boiling water and cook until al dente. Spoon some of the  starchy pasta water from the boiling pan into the cavolo nero/ricotta mixture to thin it into a creamy, loose sauce (I used about 4 tbsp of pasta water)

Drain the pasta and toss with the cavolo nero and ricotta.

Grate a very generous amount of parmesan over the pasta and toss well before serving and eating immediately.

* thankyou for the spell check Elena and Tracy

* update. Deborah and Gemma have both pointed out that pirates say arrr not grrr. They are right.

Pears poached in red wine

A couple of weeks ago

I posted about prunes poached in Marsala and spices and I rambled on – again – about how much I like poached, gently stewed and baked fruit, especially quinces, those prunes and pears poached in red wine.

Then I realised it had been rather a too long…..So long in fact that I’d almost forgotten how simple they are to make and how handsome and proud they look with their deep burgundy curves, especially when perched on a white plate in a little pool of thick, sweet syrup.

The pear above was my breakfast on Sunday morning. Lovely leftovers from Halloween supper on Saturday for which I crafted a very wonky pumpkin and we ate poached pears with a blob of marscapone after the main course of slow roasted pork – which was good but not as delicious as the smells rolling from the oven all afternoon had promised or as I had hoped  – and before the little chocolate puddings.

Vincenzo looked disapprovingly at at my deep red breakfast, ‘the alcohol has evaporated‘ I reassured him, he still looked confused and then proceeded to made some toast which meant I ate both pears.

Whilst eating breakfast and marvelling at how delicious the sweet, plump, dense graininess of wine doused pears is and trying not to marvel at the sheer quantity of washing up from the night before that awaited me, I realised that not only were these my first poached pears in ages but also my first pears in ages.

I have all but given up on fresh pears you see, which is rather sad as I know they can be delicious, luscious and sweet…. especially with cheese. It’s just that I’m bored of being disappointed by either rock hard bullets or mealy, mushy specimens, and frustrated that the ‘10 minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat’ Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote of continues to elude me.

I also have a nagging suspicion that many pears today, even those from the nicest trees don’t even have that particular 10 minutes in them, even at their best (which I miss obviously) they are decidedly average.

This recipe is perfect for a cynical pear lover like myself and an excellent way to render even the most average pear delicious, because lets face it, there are alot of average pears around. You don’t have to worry about finding perfect specimens, waiting for the perfect moment while wondering if the wait is in vain anyway and risking another pear death in your fruit bowl.

You just need some firm dessert pears, really firm, the kind that look rather unyielding and missile- like, as if they could take a burglar out – temporarily of course – rather than just splat in his face if he were to surprise you in the kitchen one day. You peel them, leaving them whole but with stalks in tact. You simmer the pears in a whole bottle of red wine – whole bottle of wine, what a lovely group of words – some sugar with a stick of cinnamon until they are translucent, soft and tender.

You let the pears cool in the cooking liquid and once they are cool you lift them from the liquid and set them aside while you reduce the liquid by about half into a thick, dense syrup. You then reunite the pears with the syrup and allow them to sit for at least a day and preferably two or three. You can turn them in the syrup every now and then. While they rest all sorts of nice things happen as they soak up more of the syrup and their colour deepens.

Serve cold with cream, marscapone or thick greek yogurt.

Pears poached in Red wine

Serves 6 or even better 4 so you have two extra for your breakfast

Inspired by Elizabeth David – who I do wish people would make as much fuss about as they do about Julia Child.

• 6 firm medium-sized pears – Bartlett and Williams work well
• A big bowl of cold water with the juice of half a lemon squeezed in.
• 200ml water
• a bottle of young red wine 8 (I like cote-du-rhone or Pinot noir)
• 300g /2 1/2 cups of sugar
• a stick of cinnamon
• 2 cloves
• a strip of lemon peel

Peel the pears leaving them whole with the stalk intact. Drop each pear into the lemon water while you peel the next to prevent discoloring.

Put the wine, water, sugar, cinnamon, cloves and lemon peel into a large heavy based pan and over a gentle flame bring everything to a gentle boil. Keep stirring at the beginning until the sugar is dissolved.

Carefully lower the pears into the simmering water – Some people like to put a circle of baking parchment over the pears and liquid and then weight the pears with a plate so they stay submerged. I don’t as the pears bob around enough to cook evenly.

Cover the pan and allow the pears to simmer for 25 – 40 minutes (which will depend on how firm they were) until they are translucent and tender – but not soggy – when pierced with the point of a knife.

Remove the pan from the heat, leave it covered and let the pears cool in the cooking liquid.

Once the pears are cool lift them from the liquid and set them aside while you reduce the liquid by about half into a thick, dense syrup.

Reunite the pears with the syrup and allow them to sit for at least a day and preferably two or three – turning them every now and then.

A little pot…

...of lemon cream.

I have an enormous soft spot and pathological weakness for sweet, creamy, lemon spiked desserts and puddings, a quivering slice of tart au citron, a bowlful of that most English of desserts lemon Syllabub, a piece of lemon cheesecake, a spoonful or seven of lemon mousse, a little pot of lemon cream. It’s the soft, sweet, creamy nature of these puddings, the ointment of cream, eggs, maybe butter and sugar sharpened and lifted by a lip puckering tartness of the lemon which makes them so magical to me.

My love of all things sweet and lemony started with lemon curd (or lemon cheese as it was called in the north of English) the smooth, translucent, sweet – sharp spread. Or maybe it was the lemon sherbet sweets, the ones that fizzed and popped in your mouth, the ones you bought by the quarter at the local sweet shop that came in a white paper bag twisted at the corners…….

No, the lemon curd came first.

My mum would make it or little jars of it – usually with a jam pot hat, that circle of fabric secured by an elastic band covering the lid – would be brought back from English holidays or purchased from fragrant ladies wearing vast flowery skirts and pearl earings at garden fetes. The lemon curd was then spread extremely thickly on white bread or used to fill tarts which were sometimes topped with meringue, but it was best, as my younger sister Rosie and I quickly discovered,  eaten straight from the jar with a spoon, thick and luscious.

French holidays and the discovery of fine tart au citron gave my affection for such sweet, creamy, lemon spiked things a rather more refined and sophisticated edge, or at least I thought it did, I was at that age. Of course I liked the pastry, delicate and buttery but it was the bright yellow filling of lemons, sugar, butter and egg, the intense satiny lemoniness of it all, the way it trembled and wobbled ever so slightly as you cut a slice that I really loved

Unfortunately I haven’t mastered the art of a decent tart au citron yet, it’s the pastry you see, despite modest progress I still practice heavy avoidance techniques where pastry is concerned. The mere sight of the words… pate…brisee…sucrèe…rich or shortcrust will see me hastily turning the page if at all possible.

I do intend to master the art of a half decent tart au citron/ lemon tart at some point but until I do I am more than content with being able to make the filling…because thats what these little pots of lemon cream are you see…… the filling of a lemon tart…..well a kind of filling, purists may quibble at the recipe – although I very much doubt purists have read this far.

….the juice and zest of 3 fine lemons, some sugar, a tub of marsapone or some double cream, 6 eggs with very yellow yolks…whisked together gently…allowed a long leisurely rest in the fridge, decanted into little pots and then baked in a gentle oven for 25 minutes.

It’s there, the soft, sweet and  creamy sharpened and lifted by the lip puckering tartness of the lemon. If ambrosial is something which is exceptionally pleasing to taste or smell then thats what these little pots are.

I can’t decide when I like to eat my little pot (s) of lemon cream more..is it about 15 minutes after they have come out of the oven when they are still warm and the center is still runny ? or after about an hour when they are cool and set but still very soft and tender ? or the next day after a night in the fridge when the are deeply set and thick and fudgy  ?….. The joy of making 8 little pots and only having 4 guests is that you don’t have to decide, after all you have 2 pots extra pots just for you.

Nigella recommends leaving the cream, sugar, lemon, eggs mixture resting and steeping in the fridge for 1 or 2 even 3 days before you decant it into little pots and then bake it. I do too…… well 1 day at least and if you have the patience 2, as it really does improve the silky texture and intensify the deep lemon flavour. I have never left if for 3 days, if you try let me know.

Lemon Cream

from How to Eat by Nigella Lawson

yield 8 little pots

• 3 juicy, unwaxed lemons
• 275g caster sugar
• 6 fresh eggs
• 250g marscapone or 300ml double cream

Grate the lemon zest from all 3 lemons into a bowl and then squeeze and add their juice to the bowl.

Add the sugar and eggs to the bowl and whisk until everything is nicely incorporated.

Stir in the cream or marsapone and then cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave it in the fridge until you need it but ideally for 2 days.

When you are ready to bake, set the oven to 150°, boil the kettle and put eight little ramekins or pots into a roasting tin and then share the lemon mixture between all eight.

Por hot, but not boiling water into the roasting dish to come half way up the little pots and then bake for 25 minutes or until they are just set but still with a bit of wobble and runniness about them as they will set more as they cool.

Allow to cool for about 15 minutes before serving and they will sit happily for a few hours. If you are making them a day in advance, keep them in the fridge but take them out a good half hour before you serve them so they are cool not cold.

The big soup

Minestrone.

In Italian to denote largeness you add -one/-ona/-oni to the end of the word. Libro (book) for example becomes librone (big book), casa (house) becomes casona ( big house) and minestra* (a soup) becomes minestrone (big soup.)

Before I swear off writing about soup for a while – I do know there has been rather alot of it around here lately  – I’d like to talk about minestrone, the delicious heavyweight of our trusted soup/zuppa/minestre/broth recipes. A big, hearty, robust, bear roar of a plateful.

Minestrone, as you probably know, is a very substantial mixed vegetable soup which may or may not include beans and probably some pasta or Rice. It is cooked very slowly over a low heat emerging dense with a deep, mellow flavour that recalls no vegetable in particular, but all of them at once. There are, as is natural with a dish of this kind, many many recipes, ideas and thoughts about minestrone, the character of each panful being shaped by its circumstances, the place it is made in, the season, the produce available and of course the cook.

Place – Rome. Season – Autumn, was crisp and ode worthy but now rainy and rather soggy. Produce -  onion, celery, carrots, courgettes, potato, tomatoes, green beans,  savoy cabbage, cannellini beans. Cook – me with Vincenzo supervising.

The big, bold, relaxed ‘everything in the pan‘ aspect of minestrone is true but misleading if you think it means ‘chuck it all in the pan.’ Good minestrone- I have learnt- is made with care, attention and needs time. True, a large part of this time requires a minimum of attention, a stir every now and then, the later addition of the beans while the pan simmers for about 3 hours over a very low flame. The initial steps however do need just under an hour of your cooking attention. This is because the ingredients enter the pot one by one in a set sequence, as each one joins the previous one in the pan it is given an attentive and gentle 5 minute sautè before the next ingredient is added.

This steady march of ingredients into the pot allows the essential underlying flavours to develop which are then imparted to the next vegetable. While one vegetable is cooking you prepare the next, It’s actually a rather nice process if you are not in a rush and have some good chopping music.

When you get to the simmer, the flame should be low and the simmer itself tremulous, the gentlest kind, the kind that has you checking the flame hasn’t gone out because the pan looks so still….. you lift the lid, you look closely, you see the surface is quivering and suddenly ‘plop‘ a burp of a bubble breaks surface of the soup, you are reassured all is well.

I made this particular minestrone on Monday. We had some for supper on Monday night with some bread, it was good, but it was much better on Tuesday when we added some pasta and ate it for lunch with Lisa. I knew it would be, a good nights rest and a gentle reheating improves the flavour.

We like pasta in our minestrone, it is usually small lumache rigate (lumache means “snail,” and this delightful form of this pasta does look rather like a snail shell.) As we usually make a mothership quantity of minestrone which lasts several days – a week even if all nicely sealed in the fridge – I reheat the quantity we need for a particular meal in a smaller pan. While the minestrone is gently reheating I cook some pasta in another pan, about 70g per person until it is very al dente. Once the pasta is cooked and the minestrone is nice and hot I drain and then mix the pasta with the soup and then let everything sit for at least 5 minutes so the pasta can finish cooking and absorb some of the flavours of the minestrone which is in turn cooling to the most desirable temperature.

Minestrone

Adapted (like so many of my recipes) from Marcella Hazans book The essentials of Classic Italian cooking.and the recipe for Minestrone alla romagnola.

Inspired by the many bowls of minestrone I have eaten here in italy

serves 6 very generously.

• 45g butter
• 8 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• 2 medium red onions peeled and finely diced
• 3 medium carrots peeled and finely diced
• 2 sticks of celery,  finely diced
• 350g courgettes diced
• 200g potato peeled and diced
• 150g french beans diced
• 200g shredded savoy cabbage
• 120g tinned or fresh plum tomatoes
• 1.5 litres water
• 400g cooked cannellini beans
• a large parmigiano – reggiano (parmesan) crust
• 4 tablespoons freshly grated parmigiano – reggiano (parmsan) cheese

Gently heat the butter and oil in very large, heavy based pan and then add the onion. Keep the heat at medium low and cook the onion uncovered until it is soft and floppy and just starting to turn golden but no darker – this will take a good 10-15 minutes.

Add the diced carrot, stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice more.

Add the diced celery, stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice more.

Now add the potatoes stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice more.

And now….the french beans stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice.

Now the add the courgettes…..yes you have guessed it….. stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice.

Add the shredded cabbage stir and then gently cook for 5 minutes stirring once or twice.

Now add the tinned tomatoes, stir and then add the water and the parmesan rind, stir again and cover the pan reduce the heat to a tremulous simmer, steady and slow and leave it just so for 2 and a half hours stirring occasionally.

After 2 1/2 hours add the cannellini beans, stir carefully and firmly and then cook for another 30 minutes.

NOTE; if you find the soup is looking too thick before it has finished cooking add a little more water.

When the minestrone has finished cooking pick out the parmesan rind and remove about 1/5 of the soup into a separate bowl and blast it until smooth and gloopy with the imersion blender before returning it to the big pan and the rest of the soup. Stir in the grated parmesan and taste and season with salt if necessary.

* In Italian the word minestra is often used (sometimes confusingly) to describe most of the vast family of Primi piatti (first courses) with a liquid base and thus eaten with a spoon, the broths and some soups with pasta, rice or grains and sometimes dumplings in them. Soups without these additions tend to be referred to as zuppe. Tortellini in brodo, pasta e ceci, pasta e fagioli are all minestre.

Some comfort

Otherwise known as eggs baked in very creamy mashed potato with very buttery spinach.

If this recipe were an object it could be one of the four blankets draped or more often flung on, over and about our sofa throughout the colder months. We have no heating you see, blankets therefore play very important roles in our lives. Maybe the dark green fleecy one, my favourite, deliciously cosy and familiar, the one ready to be tugged reaasuringly around my shoulders, tucked under knees and toes in preparation for another chapter, episode and or another favorite of mine, a nap…The blue blanket however would be a fish pie, the deep green one pasta e ceci or a mothership minestrone and the funny grey blanket come cape – a plate of sausages and mash.

The blankets have taken up their winter residency on the sofa, I have started pulling on poloneck jumpers and banging on about vitamin C and handcream, large quantities of soup are being made at least twice a week, it’s that time of year, time for eggs baked in very creamy mashed potato with buttery spinach…..

It’s all looking rather neat on the plate, obviously the idea is you mash everything up together, gently of course, into a big potato, butter, spinach, more butter, garlic, egg mess which is altogether more tasty.

An Egg – fried in olive oil until it is frilly at the edges but still runny of yolk- perched on top of some nice mashed potato, maybe with a flick of Tabasco has long been a favourite of mine. It was a great relief to discover Vincenzo shared my affection for such things. I can’t remember exactly when it was I decided to adapt our classic comfort supper by baking the eggs in the mash, I remember the inspiration though, it was a recipe from Fegus Henderson’s ‘Nose to tail Eating’ for baked celeriac with eggs.

Decant the mash into a warm dish….make 4 indents in the surface of the mash into which you break the eggs……Season the eggs and place two small knobs of butter on top. Bake in a hot oven for approximately 5 minutes until the egg whites are firmed up but the yolks still runny. Serve immediately.

Even before I had made it I had an inkling it would become a trusted favourite ….. and I was right.

My soft spot for mashed potato is deeply engrained and blurred by nostalgia. I grew up with very buttery mash. Despite my mum’s affection for Elizabeth David, olive oil (we are talking England in the 1970’s here not that many years previously people were still buying olive oil in little bottles from the chemist) and French Provincial Cooking, we were not deprived of more stoutly English suppers. We were not only raised on ratatouille, dauphinoise and ragus but also hearty English fare, much of it topped or accompanied by a good generous dollop of mash;  smoked fish pie, Shepard’s pie, plump pork sausages, fried eggs, liver and bacon or simply straight. a bowl of plain mash, easy and celestial.

I can get a little evangelical about mashed potato but only because I have been converted. It was a tiny epiphany but an epiphany just the same, the discovery of the potato ricer. Maybe you already have a faithful and trusted way with mash, maybe you too are evangelical, good, you should be, it’s important to be sure of your mash. If on the other hand you are less certain then maybe you should consider a potato ricer, a rather pleasing object especially if you find a classic metal one. A ricer gives mash a lovely even texture, incorporates plenty of air into proceedings it also makes mashing or should I say ricing an easy, rather satisfying and mildly amusing - all those little worms of potato – task. Best of all, you don’t need to peel the potatoes, you just cut them into chunks and cook them with the skin on, which is meant to preserve the flavour. Then as you rice them the skins are removed.

The potatoes. Until I am persuaded otherwise I will keep using local grade A potatoes, red skinned, everyday ones bought from a farmer I trust. They have nice balance between floury and starchy as I find very floury potatoes tend to get rather waterlogged and often using all starchy ones produces a mash which is a little too sticky and gluey for my taste.

I follow Hugh’s advice when it comes to milk and butter……. plenty of it…. Did I mention I met him once, I was a waitress in this great organic pub he was being all organic in, he was really rude to me, I mean REALLY REALLY rude…TWICE, he made me cry. I got over it and despite it I still really like his food, his books, dammit I even buy his books, I have 4 of them and I have only defaced one photo of him in each, innocent stuff, moustache here, silly nose there, Toe weed written across his forehead I figure he deserves it.

The mashing. When I have drained the potatoes into a colander I put the whole milk ( about 200ml for every 1kg/2llb of potatoes) and lump of butter ( about 140g for every 1kg/2llb of potatoes) back in the still warm pan over a very very gentle flame so the milk warms and the butter melts, then I turn off the heat. I then quickly push the potato through the ricer into the pan and beat it energetically with a wooden spoon, I season with salt and pepper and beat again adding a little more milk if necessary. Sometimes I will add a very big spoonful of cream if I have some in the fridge.

The spinach. We are eating lots of spinach at the moment, what with the broken elbow and my impending cold, I seems the sensible thing to do. I am buying the big meaty stuff from the market, deep green and glossy leaved spinach that makes you feel stronger just looking at it..

You wilt the spinach down in a big covered pan. A very thorough draining and then a few minutes being nudged around a frying pan with plenty of butter and some garlic is all this spinach needs.

So there you have it, some comfort on a plate, the culinary equivalent of a fleecy green blanket…..

Eggs baked in very creamy mashed potato with buttery spinach

4 generous servings

• 1 kg  spinach
• 1.3kg  all purpose potatoes
• 160g butter for the potatoes
• 200ml – 250ml whole milk
• salt, freshly ground black pepper and nutmeg
• 4 large eggs
• 75g butter for the spinach
• 2 cloves of garlic peeled and crushed with back of a fork in a little salt

set the oven to 200°c/ 4ooF

Wash and rinse, wash again and pick over the spinach and then scoop it into a big heavy pan with just water you have washed it in clinging to the leaves. Cover the pan and put it over a modest flame. After a few minutes, turn the spinach with a wooden spoon, it will be starting to wilt. Keep and eye on the spinach after about 5 minutes it will have wilted down to about a 1oth of its original volume sitting in a pool of green liquid.

Drain the spinach in a fine holed colander – keep the liquid, you should drink !!!!….think Popeye kids. Set the spinach aside.

Make the mash. Scrub the potatoes and cut them into halves or chunks (without peeling them if you are using a ricer) and boil them a large pan of lightly salted water. When they are soft enough to mash, drain them thoroughly.

Put most of the whole milk and lump of butter back in the still warm pan over a very very gentle flame so the milk warms and the butter melts, then I turn off the heat. Put the rest of the milk and some extra in another small pan and warm it.  Quickly push the potato through the ricer into the big pan and beat it energetically with a wooden spoon. Add more milk from the small pan, beat again and taste, check the consistency is as you like it.

Season with salt and pepper and a grating of nutmeg and beat again adding a little more milk if necessary.

Decant the mash into a VERY warm oven dish – this is really important as the heat of the dish will help cook the eggs.  Working quickly so the potato stays nice and hot even the mash roughly with the back of the wooden spoon and then make 4 indents in the surface of the mash into which you break the eggs. Season the eggs and put two small knobs of butter on top. Bake in the hot oven for 5 – 10 minutes until the egg whites are firmed up but the yolks are still runny.

While the eggs are baking warm the butter and garlic over a very gentle flame so the butter melts and is infused with the garlic. Add the spinach to the pan and raise the heat. Stir carefully so the spinach is warmed through and well coated with the butter.

Pull the eggs from the oven and serve immediately.

It must be all the spinach and hours under one of the aforementioned blankets beacuse Vincenzo is really really on the mend, the plaster comes off early so he can start physiotherapy. He will not be doing any proper drumming for a while, hard for a drummer but at least the tapping can commence

Roasted carrot and cumin soup with crispy pancetta

It’s wonderful……

…….when just a teaspoonful, a pinch, a soupçon, a flick, a twist, a squeeze, a dash of something nudges a dish from good to good.

Yesterday it was a teaspoonful, two to be precise, of toasted and ground cumin seeds and a little heap of extremely crispy pancetta which nudged the Roasted carrot soup.

I have made this soup twice this week, pans of both good and good

Good by the way can be identified by an umm of about 1 second accompanied by a slight pout and an approving nod of the head. Italians will mutter buona at this point …good however is an ummmmmm of about 3 seconds accompanied by a serious pout, wide eyes, a roll of the head and if you are Italian that anticlockwise circular movement made with the right hand and a decisive buonissimo.

The first time (the good) was last Monday, the day Rome turned up its jacket collar, thrust hands in pockets and resolved to pull out woolen clothes and coats. I didn’t actually buy the carrots with soup in mind, my serious autumnal hankering for a plateful of roasted carrots meant they were destined for the oven. It seemed wasteful and foolish to crank up the oven for a modest portion of something so very tasty, so I peeled plenty and decided to make some soup as well. A roasted carrot soup based on Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s faithful recipe for roasted pumpkin soup

It is a straightforward kind of recipe with which I have taken liberties. Big chunks of carrot and mild onion are doused in plenty of olive oil, sprinkled with coarse salt and given a good old roasting at about 200° for 35 minutes until they are soft, deep in colour and caramelized at the edges. Meanwhile you soften a couple of very finely chopped shallots and garlic in a heavy pan until translucent and floppy then you add a pinch of peperoncino. Once the roasted carrots are ready you add them to the heavy pan, stir and cover everything with chicken or good vegetable stock, bring the pan to a gentle boil and then reduce to a simmer for 20 minutes. Finally you blast the contents of the pan with an immersion blender until it is smooth and creamy, here it is…It was good.

Ok, let me explain why I didn’t post about it on Monday, the nearly bit….. the soup I made on Monday was good and delicious soup which I would happily eat once a week given the appropriate quantity of good bread. Is is full flavoured, the different stages, the softening of the shallots, the roasting of the carrots, the stock, produce a soup with deep layers concentrated flavours. It’s thick with that wonderful creamy, grainy texture root vegetable pureès  are famous for…… In short it is good…. nearly good but not quite. It needed something else, it derserved something else – a nudge if you like and then I could share the recipe with you.

I pulled out some faithful books and made a list, coriander seeds, more peperoncino, pancetta, guanciale, beef stock, root ginger…….it was beginning to look like a rather nice experiment if not a rather overwelming quantity of roasted carrot soup, I also sent a message to one of my cooking big sisters, someone who I wish had a food blog but doesn’t as she doesn’t really know what a blog is. The reply was pretty immediate, an extraordinary thing considering this is someone who uses and checks her phone with such stunning irregularity. It was all in capitals as usual as she still hasn’t learned to remove the caps lock. It said;

TOASTED AND GROUND CUMIN AND BITS OF CRISPY BACON ON TOP. LOVE TO YOU AND YOURS.

Such good and speedy advice from such a marvelous cook deserved to be acted upon immediately, carrots were bought, chicken stock made. cumin and pancetta in – lieu of bacon- at the ready.

Oh for the love of crispy pancetta.

Back to the soup. I made the soup exactly as I had on monday but while the shallot was softening and the carrot roasting, I toasted 2 teaspoons of cumin seeds in a small pan over a gentle flame, only for a couple of minutes until they smelt nutty and warm. Then I ground the toasted seeds to a fine powder in a pestle and mortar and added them to the pan immediately after I added the roasted carrots.

It all smelt very very promising, a pan of deep orange, soupy happiness really but this time with a soft spicy undertone, I was excited. I fried the bacon until crisp and rippled at the edges then I snapped and snipped it into little pieces to heap onto the soup.

The cumin, the bacon, this was the nudge, it was good.

Actually, however delicious the bacon – what isn’t more delicious with bacon on top, I would eat a dishcloth given enough crispy bits – the cumin is the real nudge, gently spicy, earthy, warm cumin bringing out the natural sweetness of the carrots and gently lifting their soft and more neutral flavours. The cumin gives the soup edge, subtle but edge nevertheless and a touch of spicy mystery.

I am not sure how motivated I am with my investigations now I have found such a good nudge for the soup……maybe the pancetta with the shallot…or the ginger……we will see.

Roasted carrot and cumin soup with crispy pancetta

Inspired by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s recipe for roasted pumpkin soup with advice from Meg.

4 very good servings

• 900g good carrots
• 1 medium white onion
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• salt
• 2 shallots, peeled and very finely chopped
• 1 plump clove of garlic, peeled and very finely chopped.
• 50g butter
• 2 teaspoons cumin seeds
• a good pinch of dried peperoncino flakes or dried chilli
• 1 litre chicken or vegetable stock
• 4 thin rashers of pancetta or bacon

Peel and cut the carrots and onions into big chunks put them in a baking tray dribble with olive oil, sprinkle with coarse salt roast about 200° for 35 minutes until they are soft, deep in colour and caramelized at the edges.

Meanwhile you soften a couple of very finely chopped shallots and garlic in a heavy pan until translucent and floppy.

Toast 2 teaspoons of cumin seeds in a small pan over a gentle flame, it only took a couple of minutes until they smelt nutty and warm. I then ground the toasted seeds to a fine powder in a pestle and mortar.

Add the roasted carrots and onion to the heavy pan, stir then add the ground cumin and pinch of peperoncino to the pan, stir. and cover everything with the chicken or vegetable stock.

Bring the pan to a gentle boil and then reduce to a simmer for 20 minutes.

Finally you blast the contents of the pan with an immersion blender until it is smooth and creamy.

Fry the bacon until crisp and rippled at the edges then  snap and snip it into little pieces to heap onto the soup.

Mandarins are here and the drummer is on the mend. Thankyou for all your nice words by the way, I passed them on and they made Vincenzo very happy.